It begins to rain. Drizzling at first, the precipitation quickly picks up into a full-fledged rainstorm. While I dislike the feeling of ice-cold needles pounding into my coat and skin, I decide to trek onward. Any alternative is better than going back into that horrid shack anyway.
Another feeling I dislike is being unarmed in the wasteland. It's a terrible sensation, realizing you can't exactly defend yourself and all; hell, that goes doubly for me, who can barely walk, what with my barely-healed legs. In a futile attempt to dull the pain, I start humming to the tune of an old song that felt relevant.
That quickly gets irritating, so I refrain from doing that any longer. I stop at a dilapidated shack down the road in order to take inventory. Luckily, my saddlebag wasn't taken while I was out. Inside, however, is just a half-eaten can of Veg 'n Beans and some leftover 9mm bullets that belong to a gun I no longer own. I sigh as I check my caps pouch, finding it depressingly nigh-empty. I decide to enter the shack, hoping that nopony either owns it or is inside.
To my luck, I find it empty. From the looks of the room I entered, it appears to be a foyer or living room of sorts, complete with a rotten wood coffee table and a sunk-in, moldy couch. I enter the next room which turns out to be a kitchen. From what I can tell, the refrigerator still works. I check inside to find some oddly-placed food items, such as a disgusting-looking fried radigator on a stick and--
I freeze as I hear the clicking of a handgun's hammer being drawn back. My head slowly turns to face my assailant, and stare into the eyes of an earth pony raider. His eyes are yellowed and his coat is mottled brown. Bangs of a blood-red mane poke out of his pony-leather pilot's cap, and his barding appears homemade and rugged as well. In his mouth is a .357 revolver that appears more rusty than the metal plates on his barding. He says something along the lines of “Don't you fucking move, or I'll blow your fucking brains out,” but it is hard to hear due to the adrenaline in my body and the fact that he's toting a gun in his mouth. I don't dare to turn around and face him as he approaches, as I'm in no condition to fight. One terrifying step after another, he comes closer and closer, crossing the rickety wooden floor an inch at a time.
Thud... Thud... Thud...
He presses the cold, corroded steel barrel of the revolver to the back of my neck, and I shut my eyes tightly in silent waiting for death. Just as he's about to fire, I hear him gasp, followed by the clang of the revolver dropping to the floor. I open my eyes and turn around to see him following soon after, a misused butcher's cleaver embedded in the back of his skull. As he slumps to the ground, another earth pony is revealed to have been standing behind him. She looks down at the corpse and grimaces, but appears grateful for the death of her captor. Her dirt- and urine-stained maroon coat gives me the impression that she was his slave... perhaps in more ways then one. I wince and reach out a hoof in an offer to remove the shackle around her hind legs. She folds her ears back and shakes her head rapidly. ...I can see why she wouldn't trust a stallion to touch her; she was likely more than just a slave to that raider. Poor mare...
I sigh, taking a seat to let my numb legs rest. Deciding to start some conversation in an attempt to ease the freed slave out of her shock, I ask her for her name. She shrinks back at first, defensively holding a hoof to her chest, but then apparently gives in and lowers her hoof. After clearing her throat a bit, she looks at me and responds in a tired voice, “My name's Hot Shot... was a sniper before I was caught by that asshole.” She points at the twitching corpse of the raider.
There are a few moments of silence, during which I begin to space off. Suddenly, she speaks up. “Speaking of which, aren't you gonna thank me or something? You were about three seconds from dead, kid.” I quickly snap to attention, forgetting the reverie I lost myself in. I flash a cheeky, embarrassed grin.
“Right, sorry... Thanks for saving me. I thought for sure I was going to get shot!” Hot Shot waves a hoof dismissively, a cool smile playing across her face.
“Don't mention it, kiddo. What's your name, anyway?” I suddenly realize I hadn't introduced myself.
“Oh, right. I'm, uh, Dusty Summers,” I reply, wanting to add, “and I have no idea who I am.” This whole 'being-unable-to-remember-anything' state is seriously starting to become aggravating...
She raises an eyebrow and asks if I'm going to loot the bastard. I then shrug and comply, going through the dead raider's belongings. I happen upon his saddlebag, which contains a few spare 9mm bullets and, to my surprise, a beat-up looking 9mm pistol. I graciously levitate it out in front of me, my cyan magic enveloping its damaged form as I examine it. The gun itself is intact, but it hardly looks viable as a weapon in its current state. It's rusty and the slide is held together with tape. While it isn't exactly top-notch, I decide to pocket it for later. Another search over the body reveals a few unopened packets of cake and a Sparkle-Cola. I offer them to Hot Shot, who smiles and accepts them with a nod of thanks before hungrily consuming the haphazard 'meal'.
Reminded of my own hunger, I reach into my saddlebag and levitate out my unfinished can of Veg 'n Beans, emptying the can into my mouth. Discarding the now empty can, I stand with a wince, the pain in my hind legs starting to return. I motion to the body. “If there's anything left, you can have it. Hell, take his barding if you need it.” She acknowledges and I leave the room as she strips the corpse of the nameless raider.
A few minutes later, I hear Hot Shot's hoofsteps entering the room. I raise my head to take a gander at the result of her pilfering. What I see can only be described as genius. The barding itself must have been much too large for her otherwise small and slender frame, so she cut off extra strips from the body armor and fashioned it into makeshift barding for her legs. I find myself blushing at how well the armor... fits her, and she glares at me for a moment before lightening up with a hearty chuckle. “It's fine if you look, just don't stare or I'll slap you.” I nod my head rapidly.
* * * *
We decide to wait out the night in the shack, due to the disorientation it brings as well as the rain. The shack has two floors, the top one having living quarters including two bedrooms, a semi-functioning toilet, and additional slave cages. The latter were, thankfully, empty when we found them. To my surprise, Hot Shot completely ignores me once we get upstairs, choosing instead to go into the first bedroom and lock herself in. I sigh and trot over to the other one, where I come upon a small mattress amongst some wooden rubble. Function over form, I guess, I think to myself before collapsing onto the bed and closing my eyes, attempting to block out the sound of the pouring rain.
* * * *
I find myself in a dream. At least... I hope it is. I'm surrounded by pitch blackness; the only things I can see within it are a few disembodied pony heads floating in the vast space. They stare at me with a look of disapproval, each one of them shaking their heads in contempt. I shrink away from their baleful gazes, feeling smaller and smaller as they bear over me dauntingly. I have no choice but to run away. As I exit the only spot of light in this infinite plane, I feel myself enveloped in solid darkness, as if I'm being frozen to the core. The heads float after me, getting ever closer, until...
My eyes fly open as I spasm on the mattress, feeling a cold sweat develop on my coat. I look down at my body, finding everything intact, if not still wounded. I sigh heavily and get on my hooves, noticing dawn slowly creeping into the sky from the only window in the room. I doubt I could possibly have pleasant sleep after that. I go to leave my bedroom and can't help but notice that Hot Shot's door is open already. Cautiously trotting over toward it, I push it farther open and... discover that she is gone. The room is empty, save for the much higher-quality bed. This must have been the Raider's bedroom.
I scan the room, detecting no other objects of interest, and decide to go downstairs. As I descend the steps, I notice that Hot Shot is not gone, but is lounging on the couch, reading an issue of Milsurp Review and humming a song I don't recognize. I smile and trot over to her, deciding to start a conversation. “You're up early,” I jokingly chide her. She shuts her magazine, stuffing it in her saddlebag. Stretching, the maroon mare slowly stands from the couch and I can't help but glance over her rather alluring figure. Before she catches me, I look away. After a yawn, she replies to my initial statement.
“Yeah... couldn't sleep. Best to be up early anyway. Wasteland waits for nopony and all that, right?” I nod. She really seems to have her wits about her; definitely a good trait to have. “So, where do you think we should head?” she asks, tilting her head as she looks to me.
I shrug. “Hell if I know, I don't even know where I am right now.”
Her violet eyes roll in their sockets as she opens the door to the outside, taking a peek around to help get her bearings. I catch myself staring at her flank unawares, snapping out of my trance. Hot Shot comes back inside, her brows furrowed in thought. “I think we're about... five miles from Old Appleloosa. At least, that's the image I'm getting here.” I nod.
“Well, should we head there?” I ask her. She looks at me like I just asked her if she enjoyed being raped.
“Are you kidding? That place is swarming with slavers! To go there would spell death for us both!”
I feel extremely frustrated. I want to tell Hot Shot about my... amnesia, I guess, would be a 'good' description for it. I just don't know if she'll believe me or not. Would she leave...?
Throwing caution to the wind, I decide to go for it. “Look, Hot Shot... I have to tell you something... I've got amnesia, for Celestia's sake. I can barely remember my own name, much less locations. Yesterday I just happened to wake up in a shack full of dead ponies not remembering where I was or how I got there. I don't exactly have time for you to judge me like this.” During my rant, she visibly shrunk away from me, appearing deeply apologetic with her ears folded back. She voices her apology and a silence makes its way into the room, finding a nice spot to settle right in between us. I am immensely grateful to have that off my chest, but I feel that I may have hurt Hot Shot with my words. To help remedy that, I apologize as well. “I'm sorry for going off on you like that... I've just had a rough night.” She nods in understanding, her muzzle reflecting her solemnity.
* * * *
In silence, we exit the shack with a few bits of food we found inside the refrigerator and head west toward New Appleloosa. This will prove to be a tricky feat, considering the fact that we will have to go around the narrow canyons the trains pass through. We begin our journey by continuing down the very same road I followed until I happened upon the slaver's shack. All is going well; we even (slightly fortunately, slightly unfortunately) find a few dead ponies who didn't look more than a day old. On their corpses we find a tin of gun-oil, which I pick up to help repair my 9mm pistol, and a mostly-intact 10mm pistol that I give to Hot Shot, along with a magazine and a half of ammunition. This reminds me to check my own ammo stores. As it turns out, I've accumulated enough shots to fill two magazines. Good enough for me.
The clouds, coupled with the rainy weather, leaves us with an unpleasant, muggy environment in which to travel. But still we go on in hopes of finding respite at New Appleloosa. Water from last night's rain sloshes around our hooves as we make our way to the canyons. Looking up to the skies, I can tell it's going to rain based upon the darkness and heaviness of the clouds themselves. How can one place rain so damn much? I look back to Hot Shot, who also appears to share my hatred for the current weather. Her expression quickly changes to one of surprise as she rushes toward me, tackling me to the ground behind a wrecked sky carriage. Before I can object, Hot Shot shoves a hoof in my mouth and shakes her head rapidly.
She gestures over to the road in front of us with the other hoof, speaking in hushed tones. “There is a band of fucking raiders right over there. You almost got spotted, you dolt.” Shit. I really need to be more careful. She releases me from her death grip as I stand. I grit my teeth, beginning to feel the fractures in my hind legs due to the medication wearing off. We need to get past these raiders, and fast. I levitate my pistol out of my saddlebag, and Hot Shot has hers at the ready, in a holster on her breast. She goes over the plan formulating in her head with me. “I'm thinking I'll distract them with gunfire while you flank them from the side and take them out. Sound good?” Not being in a place to object, I silently nod, pulling back the slide of my mediocre pistol and preparing to run out of my cover once Hot Shot draws the raiders in.
Hot Shot dashes out of cover, running to another wreckage just a bit farther up the road. She looks back at me, waiting for my signal. I give her a nod, and she nods back, bursting out of cover with her guns blazing.
One of the five raiders goes down in her first volley as she rushes up. Once I hear her swapping magazines, I charge out of cover with a wordless shout, my own pistol aimed at a pink raider mare toting a caravan shotgun. Caught in surprise, she goes down easily, slumping to the ground with two bullet holes in her chest. The rest of the raiders begin focusing on me now, and a grazing shot ricochets along my leather barding. I wince as I hit the deck, ducking behind a pile of concrete and reloading. My legs are seriously feeling the burn now. I look over to where Hot Shot is. Her face is calm and cool; she is utterly focused. I decide not to worry about her and concentrate on my own situation. I'm bound to be found momentarily, so I have to do something and fast. I spring up, firing shots at the first target I can lay my eyes and gun upon.
Turns out, a crazy-eyed white stallion was well within range. He is taken by surprise and is unable to fire his revolver in time as a shot hits him directly in the eye. He releases a bloodcurdling scream, passing out onto the ground in shock and blood loss. Three down. I turn back to Hot Shot just in time to see her tackle the fourth raider to the ground and begin pistol-whipping her in the face. The crude and blunt method of killing is surprising, giving Hot Shot's ironically steady nature. Out of the corner of my eye, I see the fifth raider, an orange stallion carrying an SMG in his mouth, slowly approaching Hot Shot, lining up his shot. “Oh, no you don't,” I say with teeth clenched, sending a volley of shots at him. He hits the floor once four shots hit their mark in his neck and chest.
I sigh and pull out my magazine as I limp over to Hot Shot, now realizing I'd been shot in the right foreleg. Adrenaline does wonders. Only two shots left. At least I figured out that the damn thing fires. I put it back in my saddlebag after replacing the magazine, walking over to my companion. Her belly and chest are coated in blood; something that looked more fitting on the raider she beat to death rather than on her. “Interesting attack back there,” I remark.
She half-grins, half-grimaces at me, replying, “I was out of ammo and didn't want to reload.” I can tell she is in pain by the half-hidden pained expression on her face, and I address it by asking if she is wounded. She frowns, nodding and pointing to her side, where a barely-noticeable stab wound, punctuated with a surprising amount of blood flow, made its mark. “Shit... Here, just sit tight and keep the wound covered. I'll see if any of the raiders had any meds on them.” Hot Shot nods and waits for my return.
Digging through the raiders' belongings is fruitful enough. I find extra ammunition for both of our pistols, as well as the shotgun and SMG from two of the dead raiders. Hot Shot calls dibs on the shotgun, so I think it logical to take the SMG for myself. It's chambered for 9mm rounds, so I empty my pistol magazines and put them into clips for my new gun. After all, it is in much better condition than my shoddy handgun. I also find enough foodstuffs and water bottles to last us the journey and then some. As I approach the last raider, however, I find that she is still breathing. With great effort, she looks up to me and mouths some words. Unable to hear them, I draw myself nearer. In a raspy, barely-audible whisper, she says, “I'm... sorry...P-please... f-finish me...” I back away as my eyes well up. I levitate my SMG out and press the barrel to the side of her head. I close my eyes, letting tears fall to the already-soaked ground as I hear her rasp, “Thank... you...”
I pull the trigger, letting a bullet lodge itself in the defenseless mare. I quietly sob to myself, taking no joy in finally receiving medication off of her body. I trudge back to Hot Shot, not caring whether she sees me crying or not. I withdraw the meds from my saddlebag, including two syringes of Med-X, a partially-expired Stimpak, and a box of Rad-X. I hold out the Stimpak and one of the Med-X needles out to her and she accepts them with a smile and a nod of thanks, injecting both near the site of the stab and visibly relaxing. The bloody wound in her skin slowly shrinks until it is completely gone. I use the other Med-X syringe in order to dull the pain in my hind legs. I exhale harshly, immediately sensing relief.
* * * *
We decide to go ahead and continue on our voyage to New Appleloosa in search of answers. We trot down the road in relative silence, punctuated by small-talk and questions from her and short answers from myself. At least it's much easier to walk, because we've still got a long trek ahead of us.
After stopping to eat a 'lunch' consisting of Fancy Buck Snack Cakes, cans of some odd substance known as 'Cram', and some Sparkle-Cola, Hot Shot and I loom ever closer to the plateaus overlooking the Appleloosa railroad. As we trudge up the hill, we are hit by several stray droplets of rain leaking prematurely from the sky. Gritting my teeth, I press on. Hot Shot doesn't pipe up at all, keeping to herself as we near the flat tops of the plateau. As if on cue, the sky begins pouring buckets of rain all over the place once we finally reach the top.
I hear a groan of contempt behind me. Hot Shot apparently hates rain, and her face shows it. Her otherwise spiky orange mane is now drenched in rainwater, clinging to her soaked coat and barding. I can't help but feel schadenfreude toward the pissed-off mare, and I begin to guffaw at her misery. She glares at me, but then surprisingly lightens up, chuckling a bit of her own accord.
When I go to speak of our next move, I realize I have to adjust my voice to account for the volume, both audibly and physically, of the rain. “Okay, so next we should be able to cross right over the plateau and head down the other side; from there, we should be at New Appleloosa, right?” Hot Shot nods, her original glare of hatred returning as she tries to shake off excess rainwater out of futile spite. It, to her chagrin and my amusement, fails, of course.
Despite the rain, the elevation of the plateau offers a substantial view of the wasteland, which is hauntingly beautiful. The rain has brought with it lowered visibility, but even through it, I can spot the circle of train cars that evidently make up the perimeter of New Appleloosa. From where we stand now, it's nothing more than a few more hours' trot. I beckon for Hot Shot to follow, and we set off at a light pace toward our objective and, hopefully, answers.
Up until this point, I've never thought of why Hot Shot follows me. Why would she decide to just follow some stallion who, by utter chance, stumbled upon the living place of her captor? I didn't even free her; she killed him after somehow freeing herself from her shackles (partially, at least). There's no reason for her to be my companion, except for the possibility that she was looking for somepony to have as a friend. Celestia forbid she want a coltfriend...
I snap out of my trance in time to realize that we are nearing New Appleloosa. The unmistakable stacks of train cars that make up its perimeter, topped with patrolling armed guard ponies, belie the apparently friendly folk within. Hot Shot, whom was behind me since we'd started up the slopes of the canyon, now walked beside me, taking in the sights at the same pace as me. We trot through the gates, and into the homely town of New Appleloosa. The buildings themselves are built from stacked derailed boxcars, much like the outer walls, and are connected via scrap walkways. All in all, it looks more like a large pile of well-placed junk, but I don't say as much to the gray-black stallion approaching me. He extends a hoof to me, which I hesitantly accept, while he begins a deadpan speech that likely has been said a thousand times or more. “Welcome t' New Appleloosa. Enjoy yer stay, 'n' don't kill anypony. Otherwise I'mma have t' kick ya out.” I raise an eyebrow. “Er... thanks, mister...”
Before I get a chance to guess at a name, he responds in his monotonous voice. “Name's Railright. I'm the sheriff 'round here.. and the mayor... basically, all o' it put into one.” I nod in understanding.
“So, mister Railright, what all is there to do here in New Appleloosa?”
“Well, we've got the Turnpike Tavern, which you've prob'ly noticed, and the Absolutely Everything general store, run by Ditzy Doo. Other'n that, you'll figure out as ya go. Anyway, 'ave yerself a good stay.” He tips his hat and leaves without further ado.
I look to Hot Shot and ask her, “Well, where should we start?”
“Considering we're low on supplies again, we should stop by that store Railright mentioned. That one run by Ditzy Doo.”
I nod, and we set off for the box-car marked with 'Ditzy Doo's Absolutely Everything.'
As we near the store, I see a small sign hung onto the door. It reads:
Yes, I do deliveries!
No hooves, nasty stingers? No service.
Ask me about special orders! I won't answer, but I'll get right on it!
Wasteland Survival Guide! Available now! First copy for every family is free!
Hot Shot and I share a chuckle at the sign before we enter the store. Inside, we find a ghoul mare with patches of what was a gray coat clinging to her rotting flesh. Her mane, or what's left of it, is a faded yellow. Her golden eyes seem unfocused and tend to veer in different directions. Hanging from her neck is a small chalkboard with the word “Welcome!” scrawled across it. I wave a hoof at her in greeting as Hot Shot does the same, choosing to remain silent as I approach the ghoul mare. “Are you Ditzy Doo?” I inquire. The ghoul nods, setting down her chalkboard and writing something on it. After finishing, she lifts it in her mouth, showing me what she'd written with her walleyed gaze looking on. That's me! Looking to buy or sell something?
My face lights up. “Yes, actually, I was wondering what you had for sale.” Without missing a beat, Ditzy Doo points a hoof to the sign over the door, reading 'Absolutely Everything!' I should have figured as much.
Hot Shot butts in, “Actually, we were looking for some food and drinks.” I turn and frown at her.
“I was going to say that,” I tell her with a mock pout. She giggles and sticks her tongue out at me.
“You snooze, you lose, kiddo.” With a sigh and a grin, I follow Ditzy around the store as she shows us her stock.
* * * *
About twenty minutes and most of our collective two hundred caps later, Hot Shot and I find ourselves to be nicely stocked in not only food, but also ammunition. Thanking Ditzy Doo for her time, we head out the door back into the main area of New Appleloosa. From there I choose to make my way over to the Turnpike Tavern to hopefully get some answers as to why I was... well, where I was. As we step inside, I immediately notice that this isn't the average filly's tavern. Drunkards, seedy ponies, and disgruntled old stallions were abound in the smoke-filled bar. A dark brown pony in a dusty pre-war uniform and bowtie diligently poured drinks and mixed cocktails with a casual grin, sending glasses down the bar to their grateful recipients. Hot Shot is enthralled by the whole of it, her violet eyes wide with awe.
We push our way through the crowd and manage to make it to the bar proper. We take a seat next to each other. I hail the bartender, who steps over with a swinging gait and bobs his head to the music that we can now hear coming from the radio on the nearby shelf. It's a sax-filled, jazzy tune, and I can't help but feel my own hoof tapping to the beat. “What'll it be?” he asks in a peppy, tenor voice.
“I'll just have scotch on the rocks, thanks. Oh, and a glass of wine for her.” She playfully socks me in the side with a hoof.
“How did you know?” she asks with a mischievous grin on her face.
“Honestly, it was just a guess,” I reply with an honest smile.
When we receive our drinks, I levitate my glass in front of me, swirling the amber liquid a few times in its vessel before knocking back a drink. The alcohol burns in my throat, but the taste is rewarding. I look over to see how Hot Shot is doing with her sizable glass of dark red wine. ...It's already empty, and she looks over at me with a dopey smile and a giggle. I thank the bartender and pay him accordingly.
“Might I ask what your name is?” I inquire to the 'tender.
“People often don't ask, but it's Malt. Why do you wanna know?” he responds, a friendly smile on his face as he wipes down an empty shot glass absentmindedly.
“Well, Malt, I was hoping to find some answers to some questions.”
He nods sagely. “Shoot.”
I begin by asking if he knows the shack I met Hot Shot in. “Yeah, I know the one. Just a ways southwest of Old Appleloosa, right?” When I confirm his suspicion, he continues. “That was the home of a rather... prolific slaver named Flamin' Hoof. He was a twisted sumbitch if you ask me.” Satisfied with the answer, I move on to my next question.
“Do you happen to know of any other little buildings in that area?”
Malt sets down the shot glass, picking up a shaker and pouring two different drinks into it before adding crushed ice, followed by the lid. He then proceeds to shake the mixed beverage vigorously, all the while staring off into nothingness in pensive thought.
Moments later, Malt has a 'Eureka!' moment, setting the shaker down forcefully on the table and uncapping it, beginning his answer as he pours the drink into a decorative glass. “There is another one I know of.” My face lights up at the information. This could be exactly what I'm looking for. “But...” My happiness loses a bit of its edge, but I steel myself for the inevitable finish to this statement. “It'll cost ya.” Damnit... I'm running low on both caps and patience, but this may very well be my only hope at finding what I'm seeking.
“Fine... name your price, Malt.”
He grins. “Drink this, and the information's yours.” He slides the ornate glass of funky-looking alcohol over to me, and I lift it into the air, examining it in the light of the lamps hanging from the ceiling.
“It's... blue?” He just gives an enthusiastic nod. I look over to Hot Shot, who's had two more glasses of wine and is of absolutely no help to me.
I sigh, swallowing hard. I really shouldn't do this... but then again, I have to... Oh, to hell with it. I take a deep breath, bringing the glass to my mouth and sucking down its contents in a matter of moments. As it goes down, I feel the burn, but the drink itself is oddly sweet. I really should have thought this over, I think to myself as I shake my head rapidly, an extremely bitter aftertaste slamming home just after the sweetness abates. “Excellent,” purrs Malt, who scoops the glass from my magical grasp, myself being unable to stop him as my vision blurs. What the hell did he put in that drink? I feel the room start to spin and my senses fade. A dull numb sensation encompasses my back and neck as I see Malt slipping away, the ceiling becoming the main focus of my vision, as far away as it is. I blink a few times, looking up at where I sat moments ago; Hot Shot is incapacitated due to copious amounts of alcohol consumption, and my eyelids grow ever heavier as I see multiple patrons surround me in a flurry. Yeah, I really should've thought this over.
* * * *
Another dream... this one seems to be like the last. This time, however, instead of being in total darkness, I find myself within a room ...Not just any room, but the shack in which I woke up in yesterday. Being the size of a mouse, both the corpses around the room and the I hear a creak, and in turning around to face it, I see glaring red eyes staring directly through me into my soul. My eyes suddenly begin welling up with tears of blood uncontrollably. I want to scream, but I am unable to; and I need to run, to get the fuck away from whatever that thing is. That desire is taken from me as I begin melting into the floor. The dream fades with me soundlessly screaming into nothing.
* * * *
I slowly open my still-heavy eyelids to find that I am hanging from a wall. How long has it been? Hours? Days? ...Longer? Groaning, I am suddenly aware of the stiffness in my muscles as I wrestle against my restraints futilely. “What the... fuck...?” I mutter to no-one in particular as I look around, noticing I am in a small holding cell. There's no sign of Hot Shot. Fuck. I should have known something like this would have happened.
Barely noticeable in the dimness of the cell area outside is what appears to be a jailor pony of sorts. He's casually writing in a journal, paying no heed to me, and humming a little tune of his own. I can barely make out his features from my 'vantage' point, but he looks strikingly similar to Malt. If it is, in fact, him, I wouldn't be surprised. The last thing I truly remember was being carried off, but that was more of a sensation than a visual memory. The dark jailor pony seems to notice me, locking eyes with me and strutting across the room as an evil grin splits his otherwise emotionless face.
“Finally awake, I see.” says the jailor, whose appearance clears up as he nears the light in front of my cell. As I'd suspected, it was Malt. The bartender still wears his dusty pre-war uniform, and scrapes off a bit of dust from his collar with his hoof as casually as if he were waiting for the 9 o'clock train for work. “You thought you'd get away with killin' Hoof? Do you think I'm that stupid?”
I struggle at my restraints fruitlessly, confusion written plain on my face. “What? But I didn't even--”
At that point, he is apparently already tired of my 'lies', so he whips out a small Zebra pistol, aims it at my left foreleg through the cell bars, and pulls back the hammer with his teeth. “Either you tell me why the fuck you killed him, or your leg's done 'n gone,” he firmly tones in through gritted teeth.
As I start stalling him, I notice a moving shadow in the background, unsure of who or what it is. “W-well, he was... he was coming up behind me w-with a gun pointed at my head... a- a revolver, even! It all happened so fast and I found a... a cleaver... and, uh...” Malt's patience appears to be wearing thin, and I'm running out of things to say, but the shadow looms closer. Suddenly, a red hoof shoots out and nails Malt in the side of the head. He coughs, his windpipe crushed as he grips his neck in pain, falling over on his side and gasping for air.
“That's for almost killing my friend,” I hear a smooth mare's voice chide.
“Hot Shot...?” I warily prod into the darkness. A familiar giggle rings out in the chamber.
“Yep. Miss me?” she asks, obviously enjoying seeing me squirm.
I sigh, exhausted. “Can you just get me out of here?”
Another giggle, followed by the sound of the cell door opening with a loud creak. Moments later, Hot Shot emerges, holding the key to my shackles in her mouth.
She undoes the shackles by standing on her hind legs and awkwardly using me as support. After a bit of fussing with the dampener on my horn, I am finally free from the wall, instantly falling to the ground. Only, I don't land on the ground; Hot Shot tumbles along with me and I land on top of her rather suggestively and comically. We both blush and chuckle nervously as we gain our footing.
“I.. you... I can't believe you came back, Hot Shot!” I say in utter disbelief.
In return I get a sincere smile. “You helped me break free, so now it's time to repay the favor.” Works for me, I guess. “Your stuff's probably in that footlocker over there, by Malt's desk.” I nod, and go to investigate.
“Dammit, it's locked. Have anything I can use to open it?”
“Yeah, just move over... I got this.” She produces a bobby pin and a screwdriver from her saddlebags, placing them accordingly into the lock. From there, she fiddles with the lock in frustration while I sit back and get an admittedly nice glance at her flank once again. My gaze lingers for a bit, but I quickly peel away once I see she's almost finished with the lock. She lets out a small “Aha!” as the bobby pin does its job, the sizable footlocker's lid swinging open and revealing my belongings.
I quickly suit up, making sure everything is in check. All of my gear is there save for what few caps I had left; I'm not really surprised or angry 'they' took them, though. Amidst the gathering of my goods, I ponder how exactly Hot Shot found me, given she was hammered when I passed out and was of no help at that point. I voice my concern. “Well,” she replies, “That was an act. I simply played it like I was totally plastered, ambled out of the room and waited. Then I tailed the guys who hauled you out. Granted, it wasn't the easiest task since the sun was setting and I was buzzed, but I managed to stay hidden.”
“I have to ask, Hot Shot... Why, exactly, do you stay around me? I mean, you've got no real reason to or anything...”
I'm cut off before I can form another sentence. “Look, we need to get out of here right now. I'll talk about it with you later.”
“...Fine.” We exit the jail room, letting Malt's unconscious body lie. Given the narrow, metal corridor we enter, I can perceive that we are, in fact, still in New Appleloosa. Hot Shot guides me around stacks of crates partially blocking the passage ahead. Soon we emerge from the train car that marks the top of Turnpike Tavern. To my surprise, it's already dark out and the pink clouds in the west tell me the sun is about to set.
“They have a secret jail cell atop their tavern? That's a bit twisted,” I comment.
Hot Shot laughs, nodding in agreement. “Yeah, at least I got you out of there.” I thank her again for freeing me as we descend the network of platforms and rails that compose the town's 'roads'. I look down to the ground level of New Appleloosa, at the myriad ponies either milling about or locking up for the night. Ditzy Doo's 'Absolutely Everything' is closed, and most of the lights within the homes' makeshift windows wink out one by one. Hot Shot looks over at me as we walk and asks, “Think we can get a motel room for the night, Dusty? I'm beat and still have some caps on me.”
“Yeah, that sounds like a good idea. My legs could use a rest anyway.” On that subject, my legs are indeed healing nicely. That extra syringe of Med-X did wonders for the bones, and they no longer bow in odd directions. Nevertheless, they still ache, and I'm definitely looking forward to a long night's rest.
We arrive at the motel, marked by a simple yet sufficient sign reading 'Inn'. A lovely purple unicorn welcomes us into the pleasant-smelling box car. “Hey there! What can I getcha folks?”
Hot Shot, as always, beats me to the punch. “We were looking for a room for two, please?”
“Certainly, just follow me this way.” She leads us through a door in the back, down a stairwell and to a lobby area with several doors on either side of the room. “Go ahead and take your pick. Any but room 5 are available; that one's taken. Enjoy yourselves!”
Hot Shot and I wave as the gorgeous unicorn trots back up the stairs, unable to take my eyes off of her well-endowed...
I'm snapped out of my reverie by my companion, who hoofed me in the side of the head. “Quit staring at her ass and let's get some rest, yeah?” Rubbing my now sore cheek, I follow my 'orders' and enter the room Hot Shot picked out, room number six. It's across the lobby from room five, and offers a unique view of the horizon out the window. Hot Shot slips out of her barding and lays on the otherwise average mattress, now with 100% more covers. She gazes toward me and waves me over.
“W-wait, you mean we're gonna...?” My jaw practically hits the floor.
Hot Shot glares at me crossly. “No, you dumbass. I take the bed, you get the floor.” My hopes and 'stage fright' are dashed all at once as I frown in disappointment and prepare a spot for myself near the window. However, just as I begin to do so, I hear her sigh and turn to look with a raised eyebrow. “You seriously believed me? Come on, get over here.” I feel my face burn hotly as I gather up my 'fort', sliding onto the bed next to Hot Shot and procuring some of the covers for my own use. My maroon companion turns and looks me in the eyes flatly. “Any funny business and I geld you. Got that?” I nod rapidly in fear, quickly turning over to face the opposite direction.
I shut my eyes and, after a few minutes of comfort, the blissful calm of sleep takes me.
