Shapes in the darkness, refusing to become less blurry and resolve themselves into definitive, distinctive beings. Mist and fog and haze… visions moving just beyond the surety of sight… a hoof’s space out of reach. Voices… a chorus of heavenly music, a cacophonous hive of buzzing wasps. A mare and a buck, two foals… talking… making food? Doing something, together, a… family?

“Wake up.” The words weren’t loud but they reverberated through my skull, vibrating and pulsing. “Wake up.” No. If I woke up then I wouldn’t know who these ponies were, wouldn’t figure it out… solve the mystery. I wanted to know. I needed to know! “Wake up.” No!

1. Motion

Is all that we see or seem
But a dream within a dream?

I woke up… damn it. The voices of two foals along with a mare and a buck tumbled about in my mind before growing fainter, fading away. I was losing them, couldn’t hold on, slipping away. Son of a bitch. I sighed with frustration and opened my eyes (with nary a twitch) to a familiar sight. I was looking up at what I definitely recognized to be the ceiling of my old room in Doc Mistletoe’s train car. Great… not this again. I felt tired, worn. The almost inevitable hangover from hell that I was expecting (and dreading) was nowhere to be felt. That was a strange (and unexpected) but certainly pleasant surprise. There was something I was supposed to remember, something important. It had to do with… foals. Foals. FOALS! My foals. I had children. I shot upward and came to a jarring and abrupt halt. Some jackass had chained me down, rather thoroughly.

“Mornin’ child.” A weary rasping voice said from my left. I turned, still struggling against my bonds, ignoring the chafing. I was a mother. I had children, and they were out in the wasteland, with ghouls and Hellhounds and radiation. I needed to find them, keep them safe. Mistletoe was sitting near me, a blanket draped over his piss yellow shoulders. The old buck was unkempt; the few remaining strands of gray and orange that made up his mane were in disarray, frazzled. He seemed weighed down by years (even more so than before) and looked more than a little bit… beaten up. “Yeh were thrashin’ in yer sleep somethin’ fierce… more so than before.” The elderly stallion continued as I strained against my chains. If that bastard thought that bands of metal could hold me down, stop me from finding my children, he was in for a hell of a surprise.

“Foals!” I blared, twisting, trying to gain leverage against my chains and failing miserably in the attempt. “I need to go. I need to find them. I need to…” What did I need to do? What could I do? What was I supposed to do? They were familiar questions to me, reminders of a conversation, now strained to the edge of memory (and possibly slipping toward being forgotten completely) by a fugue of alcohol.

“There’s thin’s yeh need to hear. Explanations.” Mistletoe spoke calmly, quietly. How could he be in such a state? How could he not be screaming with the knowledge of what was going on? There was a rushing roar within my head, demanding that I find my children. I was seething, burning, focused beyond anything I’d before experienced since wakening to my so called life upon the rocky hill.

“No!” I yelled at him, spittle flying. In my exertions my cot was being shaken, my cot… which had (very smartly, apparently) been secured to the floor. “I need to find my foals.”

“Yeh need teh listen.” He said grumpily, turning his muzzle in my direction. The old buck had a hell of a shiner on his right eye. It only served to emphasize the color, the blue of waves flowing beneath sheets of ice in a far northern ocean. Wonder how that knock to the face happened… oh, wait, right. I probably had something to do with that didn’t I?

“Fuck your listening!” I roared back at him. “Let me go right now or I swear to whatever gods or powers you hold in reverence in this shithole wreck of a world, I’ll get free. And when I do, you, or any pony, griffin, zebra, hellhound or dragon that gets in my way is dead.” I finished in a wrathful hiss, it was a bluff, since I clearly was not able to free myself, but I meant it all the same.

“ENOUGH!” The old buck thundered back at me, his voice magically amplified so that it reverberated off the walls in a deafening timber, rattling loose tiny little baby ponies crawling and crying in my head. My struggles ceased instantly. It felt like I was wrapped in the tightest of blankets, unable to move. Mistletoe must have thrown up a magical field around me, holding me down, preventing me from moving. “Candi! Brandy!” Oh no, not her again. I thought she’d left town. I heard a squeak from the doorway and the sound of hoof falls echoing down the hall. Wait did he mean the horn head or the liquor? Probably the liquor… I really hoped it was the liquor. I could hear glass knocking into other glass in the distance. Yush! Okay, so, maybe the good kind of brandy then, after all.

The aged stallion started coughing, a wheeze in his throat. He was gasping for breath, holding a hoof to his chest, muzzle drawn in a grimace of pain. The doc slowly took a cigarette in his magic, (impressing me that he could hold down a pissed off hell-mare and use an additional telekinesis field at the same time) bringing it to his mouth before lighting it.

“Let me go.” I whispered. “Please?” I asked, on the verge of begging. “My children are out there somewhere.” How long had I been out? How much time had passed? The longer it had been, the more difficult it would probably be to find my foals.

“If I unchain yeh, will yeh sit still and listen or will yeh jump up and cause a ruckus?” He questioned, inhaling as if his life depended on it.

“I’ll listen.” I lied. Mistletoe gave me a withering glare.

“No yeh won’t. So, the chains stay on, as a precaution. Now just lie down, cause there’s thin’s yeh need the know.” Why did those words sound like the beginning of a story sent in to Wingboner? I have to tell yeh a few thin’s and yeh’ve got to hear me.” He replied. Damn. The old coot wasn’t falling for the bait. He somehow knew that I wasn’t telling the truth.

“Do I have a choice?” I asked, testing my restraints with as much subtlety as possible. They were good quality iron apparently, too strong for me to break, too tight for escape. I suppose that maybe, with a few years time I might be able to chew through the metal but that thought was absurd, even for me.

“Nope.” The buck answered, exhaling smoke from his nostrils. I didn’t have a choice, did I? Well, we’d just see about that. That old geezer didn’t know this young mare as well as he thought he did.

“Now, whe-” He began, clearly not expecting what I was about to do.

“La la la la! Doc is a mean old doody head with his head up his butt and his butt stinks! La la la la… and he smells like mothballs, osteoperosis, dentures and complaining!” I interrupted rudely and loudly, saying the first things that came into my mind. Mistletoe did a double take as if not entirely sure of what was happening.

“Are yeh done?” The buck asked when I ran out of steam and stopped to catch my breath. He tilted his head to better hear the sound of another pony approaching, accompanied by the rattling of a tray.

“I’m done.” I replied cheerfully with as much politeness as I could muster. “But I always have a choice. Just now for instance, I was choosing to not listen to you.” A bewildered and somewhat frightened looking Candi entered the room as I finished speaking, bearing a bottle of (what appeared to be decent quality) brandy and three dusty glasses on an old metal platter. The filly, sexy as ever in her nurse’s outfit, opened the bottle and carefully poured a measure into each glass. “You and me… were not going to… you weren’t ever going to buck… you knew... about my foals.” She stopped in her tracks, poised to deliver the first glass to the doctor. “That’s why you were so nice, leading me on, letting me think that we might…” I trailed off as Candi gave a little tremble before offering Mistletoe some of the brandy. She looked like she wanted to cry and avoided my gaze. It was true then. She had given me hope, been a… friend… because she pitied me. And that made it all the worse. Doc Mistletoe released his magical hold of me but I didn’t feel as if I had the strength or will to lash out at him… or Candi… for now. Just give it time and I’m sure the urge and ability would return.

“When yeh came in,” the buck started speaking, pausing as if to search for words, then taking a drink before continuing. “When they carried yeh in here, drugged up, unconscious, barely alive… I thought I was seein’ a ghost.” He stopped speaking as Candi used a hoof to expertly place my glass of brandy on my barrel where I could just barely reach it with my muzzle. Hopefully, if I tried to take a drink I wouldn’t spill the precious, precious booze all over myself. Urgh… frustration. Being tied up sucked, unless it was for sexy times. And this was not a sexy time. Candi retreated to a corner, holding the last glass between her hooves as though it was her only link to life and sanity. The stallion cleared his throat and carried on.

“I thought yeh were my daughter, and everythin’ seemed the stop… but, I lost her long ago. Then I saw yer wings and… Daisy… her name was. A foundlin’ not much more than a foal when my mate and I saw her… abandoned, starvin’ and layin’ next to the side of some dusty forgotten road near New Pegas.” The old codger stopped speaking to grab the bottle in his magic and refill his now empty glass. “Lasso and me… he… he was an earth pony too, said we couldn’t leave her. We hadn’t been… hadn’t gotten used to… we were raised in a stable yeh see, valued ponies’ lives.” The buck stopped for a few seconds, ruminating on what to say next… or lost in memories of the cloudy days of his youth.

“We kept her and raised her and she became a fine young mare… long ago. Then yeh came into my clinic, lookin’ so much like my little Daisy, and it was thirty years ago all over again. That’s why I’ve been so concerned fer yeh… and so disappointed when yeh started doin’ the thin’s yeh’ve been doin’ since wakin’ up.” He sighed and shook his head while I took a gulp of my brandy, only just remembering that it was there. I’d been paying attention to the old buck’s story, and neglecting my alcohol. There’s a first for everything, I guess. Neglecting alcohol was not something you’d often hear me say or see me do… ever.

“But, that’s all past, and not important anymore.” Doc set down his glass and stared at the wall in front of him, past the wall in front of him, to something far beyond and years before I was born. “Railright was here, with us,” he nodded his head toward the nurse, “when I realized yeh’d given birth before.” He was? Well that was kind of creepy… and maybe just a little bit hot. “And that buck, always in the sunglasses (stupid sunglasses, I thought), had come in as well, talkin’ with the mayor.” Mistletoe took another gulp and didn’t even wince. In his youth the stallion must have been a champ. “Seems yeh’ve got a guardian angel in that one… or a guardian devil, as the case may be. It was just us four… that knew, figured it was better to keep thin’s that way.” Mistletoe spit out his cigarette and ground it into the floor with a hoof as I finished my brandy. It tasted like something, something fruity and delicious. It wasn’t apples but a tangy and summery flavor. So, it hadn’t been the whole town. I hadn’t been a laughing stock… for that reason anyway. The nameless Pegasus mare was not some sad carnival attraction to be pitied, with the occasional peanut tossed her way… my way. It was… good to know that they weren’t all keeping this secret behind my flank. And Ditzy, I was glad that she didn’t know… unless the doctor was lying to me now… fifteen seconds after he’d stopped talking. He was probably waiting for me to say something, but not counting on me being lost in my own mind… as usual.

“You stopped speaking.” I said through the burn of the liquor, wishing really hard that the glass would suddenly and perhaps magically fill itself to the brim. “Is that it?”

“No, yeh daft impatient foal.” The stallion shot back. “The buck that found yeh, like Lasso and I found Daisy, he didn’t know anythin’ about foals. Railright asked, and I asked… and Candi asked.” The buck looked at his pack, considering taking another smoke no doubt, but shook his head and ignored the urge. “He told us everythin’ from when he first heard yeh hollerin’ to when he set yeh off on yer way here. All he saw was evidence of two struggles, the first that probably ended in yer head wound and the second with the ghoul bounty he was trackin’ down. No sign of foals, nothin’ at all… nothin’ but yer gear and blood. And that stallion may not be a good pony, but he is pretty damn good at what he does.”

“My foals weren’t there?” I asked. Where were they? Had I left them somewhere? Had I lost them? Were they still alive? I wanted to cry. I wanted to get the fuck off this cot and go tearing off into the wastes to find them.

“They weren’t. And I don’t trust yer rescuer much, but I don’t think he would lie, not about this, not when he could profit in someway, have you indebted to him by bringin’ yer foals here.” The doctor answered. Candi coughed from her corner as she finished off her glass and the unicorn used his magic to refill all three vessels. So where were they, then? “There’s some in this town, like Brandy… folks are suspicious of yeh ‘bout her disappearance by the way. There’s some in this town as deal in slaves, as yeh well discovered when yeh got that collar round yer neck.” Collar? Crap, I’d entirely forgotten that I had a… mother fucker… I shook my neck and yep… the damn malfunctioning explodey thing was still there.

“That waste roamin’ buck might do so as well, since there’s good money to be made slavin’ but from what I’ve seen and heard… he hates it when somethin’ bad happens to children. If yer foals were near he would have found them, and brought them here, and made sure yeh knew yeh owed him a favor.” Mistletoe’s eyes seemed a little vacant from the liquor or just from being attached to a wandering old mind. “Now, yeh can go out… yeh know, and get yerself killed lookin’ for ‘em, but Celestia only knows where they are and how lon’ it’s been since last yeh were with them.” Fuck. This was going to make things a lot more difficult… wasn’t it? If they weren’t nearby I would have to search far and wide… and I would search far and wide. I’d search to the ends of the goddess damned earth.

“That doesn’t change the fact that I need to find them, take care of them, make sure they’re safe.” I told him with a sureness of purpose and intent that belied the newfound realization of how hopeless and fruitless my search might be, but search I would, until I found them, no matter how long it took. It was a very large wasteland after all and I was just one pony, a steam powered badass pony, but only one pony nonetheless.

“I know how yeh feel.” Mistletoe responded hoarsely and quietly. “But yeh need a plan, yeh need equipment, yeh need friends and information… and yeh need to stay sober for more than two goddess damned minutes so yeh can put all that other stuff together.” He kind of had a point, except for the whole sobriety thing. I sure as hell was not going to go through life sober. That would be too boring and routine and mundane and… non… alcoholy.

“You didn’t tell me, when I first woke up…” I started to say, noticing that Candi was holding her mane in a hoof, using it to dab at her eyes. Was she crying? I was trying really hard not to, and succeeding, mostly. Though, my eyes felt moist.

“Because Railright and I thought yeh’d go harin’ off into danger, lookin’ fer yer kids without any other thought in yer pretty little surgically reconstructed head.” The doctor finished with a harrumph. I… could understand… I think. It didn’t make me any less angry. They had made the wrong choice (despite being right about what I would have tried to do) because it wasn’t their decision to make, it wasn’t their family out there. It wasn’t their children. I had… a responsibility… a duty. They felt like very familiar words now that I thought on them.

“So, now that yeh know more about what’s goin’ on, what would yeh do if I untied yeh?” My surgeon turned captor inquired. ‘Buck you upside the head’ was the first thought that came to mind, not that I would admit that to him.

“Go to the bathroom.” I answered honestly. He frowned and gave a look that said he wanted to slap me in the surgery scar. What? He wanted the truth, and that was pretty darn truthful. “And then…”

“And then.” The doctor reiterated, repeating my words back to me. Damn it this stuff was hard. I didn’t want to think… I wanted to search for my foals and drink. Thinking hurts me, as I’d discovered and several times tested (just to be sure). It was why I’d thereafter tried to avoid doing any thinking at all. Did I just hear the faint echo of somepony laughing at me?

“And then, I’m going to find someplace to sit, in what passes for sunshine around here, and think about what I’m going to do next… how I’m going to find my foals… figure out a plan.” I completed the thought, only straining a little at the effort. I was still exceedingly happy that I was sans hangover today, thanks to the doctor and his delicious… I mean able, or was it capable… nurse.

“Good girl.” He replied with a nod. “Candi, take her glass.” Our quiet (and quietly sobbing if I was any judge) companion removed the empty glass, that still smelled wonderfully of brandy, from me before the doctor used his magic to remove my shackles… manicles… ponicles (no, sounded too sexual), my chains. Let’s just go with the simplest description on this one. Gently, Candi helped me to my hooves, still unwilling to look at me, and sniffling a little bit. At least she had the decency and good grace to feel bad about how she’d acted before the revelation.

I was steady on my hooves, steadier than I’d been since first awakening to the pain and mystery of this, my life. The brandy I’d imbibed (that word made me think of bibs and flicking my lips with my wings for whatever weird ass reason) was probably only tangentially related to my newfound ability to stand without tipping over. I tried to shake proverbial cobwebs from my head, feeling around with a mostly useless wing.

“What did I get hit with last night, that knocked me out?” I asked, stretching my legs and getting the kinks out. My head, on closer inspection, felt rather sore and bruised, with a big lump over my right eye.

“A buildin’ child.” Mistletoe answered. Oh… okay. Really? Ouch? Yup, that would definitely qualify as ouch. “Well, it’s more like I used my magic and hit the buildin’ with yer head.” He clarified. That made slightly more sense despite diminishing the badassness of my role in the first answer.

“Thank you.” I told him, regardless of the fact that I really wanted to beat the living magical unicorn crap out of him. I think I was being pretty smart in not mentioning that violent ideation to him, out loud, you know.

“Fer smackin’ the skull of a pony with a head wound?” He asked, confused. Hehehe… the shoe was on the other hoof. Now some other pony was sure of what was going on.

“No,” I replied, “for caring enough to do what you’ve done for me… and for telling me the truth… in the end.” I started to walk toward the door, Candi close by in case I needed support. I stopped, turning my head to look back at him. He’d given some answers but also left me with questions. “What happened, by the way… to your daughter and your buckfriend?” He hadn’t really said when he’d been telling his story. Mistletoe stared at me for a long time, lighting another cigarette and turning away.

“They died.” The old buck said in a voice far too small for a pony of his size. I didn’t know what to say. Some ponies would want sympathy, a mane to cry into. I think he just wanted to be left alone. All I could do, after a few seconds of nothing, was put one hoof in front of the other, Candi by my side, and leave the room. The doctor remained behind, not saying anything. He just sat there by himself, slumped and frayed and worn, black and blue and old, a cigarette dangling from his mouth and a half full bottle of brandy in front of him.

“Ah’m sorry, really… ah didn’t… ah mean…Didn’t want to… ah’m… real… just… sorry.” Candi gave a heartfelt if stuttering apology as she gave me my possessions (many of which had somehow gotten scattered and mud splattered the night before) back. They’d been stored here in the Doc’s train car last night, just far away from me.

“I know.” I said by rote, checking the pistol and blade that the Mysterious Stallion had given to me and setting the blade (with a few hellhound hairs still on it) aside in favor of Ditzy’s machete that I’d recovered from my hilltop ambush failure. I sighed internally. It had been such a great plan, only I’d fallen into the Hellhound’s claws instead of it falling into my hooves. One of these days it might work… one of these days.

“Yer not… angry with me?” My cute companion asked, worried and doubtful and maybe expecting me to hit her. Now if ever there was a time for whips and gags and bondage… hehehe.

“I… am.” I admitted, looking into Candi’s eyes. She wavered, wanting to turn away. “There was a time, I think… well now, isn’t that weird.” Strange things were happening in my head, nothing unusual with that. Move along ponies, move along, nothing to see here. “I feel a certain way, and want to say that I’ve gotten over acting on that feeling but I have no proof that I’ve been this way before or done things in this manner…” I trailed off, scratching my chin and pondering on the strangeness inherent in not remembering anything before about two weeks ago.

“What?’ Candi asked, confused by my words. She wasn’t the only one, either.

“There was a time, at least, I think and feel there was a time when I would have beaten the unholy hell out of your adorable hide, but I’m just not feeling it right now.” I told her simply, one eyebrow raised, focused on trying to figure out what I was saying and if I could place a memory to it. “It would be a shame to bruise that fine flank of yours, but, more so than that, I need to find my foals.” Flashes in my brain… memories at the dusk lit edge of comprehension… or just too little alcohol in my blood. I couldn’t be sure. “And, I think I was… trying to do better… trying to be better.” My head hurt at the words, straining to remember and getting nowhere in a hurry… or at all. “So, I’m not going to kick your pretty little plot.” Candi sighed with relief and smiled. “Wanna buck instead?” I asked, feathers crossed, hopeful but considering it to be a hell of a long shot that she’d agree.

“No.” Candi said with a frown that was less than sincere. I could totally tell that she admired my enthusiasm and relentlessness on the subject. “Yeh’ve got the win’s but ah’m into bucks, not mares, ah’m afraid.” Damn. Well, there goes that opportunity. At least I tried, though.

“Ah, you silly little filly.” I said, throwing my wings and forehooves around her. “That’s too bad, just… too bad.” I held her in a very awkward hug and let my hooves linger a bit on certain areas. I was trying real hard not to burst out laughing. Candi gave me a few tentative pats and tried to disengage herself, to no avail. “Yup, just too bad.” I continued with a snigger.

“Okay, yeh can stop huggin’ me now.” Candi said breathlessly as I squeezed. All good things, huh?

“Alright, alright.” I replied, drawing away from her and cracking a huge smile. Candi seemed to appreciate my humor. She giggled and blushed, putting up a limp hoof in faux displeasure. I swear she was just so damn adorable. Sometimes I didn’t know whether I wanted to mother her and keep her safe or peel away the nurse’s uniform, toss her down onto my cot and… my mind was wandering to places it shouldn’t, especially with the object of my hard… arbor… harbor… arduous… ardor. Yes, with the object of my ardor so close at hoof.

“Where are yeh goin’ from here?” Candi asked as we headed to the train car’s door. Good question.

“Somewhere high, and dry, and warm… and sober.” I told her, opening the door to the outside, bright by comparison despite being another miserably monotonous day full of clouds. “I need to-” I wasn’t paying attention to where I was going and tripped as I tried to go down the short flight of steps, tumbling crest over plot and landing in a nostalgic heap on the ground. Owie. Son of a bitch. You didn’t see that. No one saw that. Trying not let eyes water too much from the pain of smacking my chin really hard. Not crying, definitely not crying.

“Are yeh okay?” Candi asked, descending a few steps from the top of the stairs. I wanted to say no, that I need a hot little filly to provide ministrations and tend to me during a long period of convalescence and a steamy hot recovery. Stop that! Bad mare. She’s just not into you. Focus on the pain, not the pretty face beneath the soft pink mane. Find some other pony and buck them instead, or just go somewhere private and give those wings and hooves some usage.

“I’m… fine.” I lied in a breathless wheeze, trying not to squeak and very thankful that I hadn’t bitten my tongue.

“Yeh’ve gotta be more careful, darlin’ those steps are killers.” Candi admonished. The steps were killers. Yes, it appeared I was beginning to find that out. “Are yeh sure yer okay?” She inquired further as a gentle patter of rain began to fall, sounding louder than it should because of all the metal used in the town’s construction.

“Oh yeah, good, perfectly fine.” I responded, shaking the little stars, moons and suns from their circles round my head. “I’m just… going to lie here for a little while… catch my breath.” Yeah, catch my breath and wait for my body to stop hurting and begin functioning again. Oh boy did everything hurt.

“Alright, yeh take care of yerself, now.” Candi warned as a way of farewell.

“I will.” Not. Ugh. She went back inside and closed the door, no doubt glad to be out of the rain. As soon as I heard the door shut I coughed and sobbed once or twice (for three or four minutes). I really had to not trip on those steps. Okay, time to get up, time to get moving, time to find a place to think things through… time to not cry at the ouchies, scrapes and booboos I’d just accumulated and added to the mess that was me post shot in the face.

One hoof at a time and I stood, rising up and shaking out my wings, temporarily glad for the gentle rain but sure that it would get on my nerves as soon as the temperature dropped. I hadn’t taken too much damage from the fall and my saddle bags and accompanying sack of crap hadn’t come open (small victories), that was good. I snorted and was both amused and worried by the fact that dust left my nostrils when I did so. Whatever. I quietly trotted away from Mistletoe’s train car, looking for a place to sit down and drink… I mean think. I had a long day ahead me. If only I had headache pills that I could take.

I whiled away the remainder of the morning (there wasn’t a lot of it left anyway) and spent a small portion of the afternoon thinking, just thinking. Goddesses it was boring. After getting up and shaking out the pain from my tumble, I made my way through the town, rather aimlessly, wandering as it were. I was looking for a place to sit down and be by myself, a place that would fulfill the majority of my prerequisites as previously described to Candi. I ignored the rain and the suspicious stares of many town folk. I was sorely tempted to shout ‘Boo!’ at them and throw up my hooves, making ghost noises and chasing ponies around. I must have proved my previous assertion wrong and totally learned something. If I was able to resist the temptation of creating my own Nightmare Night, than we ponies… or at least me… had the capacity to learn and grow. That or I had more important things to do, like figure out how I was going to find my foals.

At the edge of the work yard, where Crane was using his impressive telekinesis to lift exceptionally heavy objects (and no, one of them was not me), I found a three story building with an overhang on the second story, perfect for protecting me from the rain. The first floor was a train car; the second was corrugated metal and scrap. The third and last floor was made from wood and random debris. I was moderately worried that the whole place would collapse but I wanted somewhere that was dry… away from alcohol. And there was some feeling of reassurance gained in watching Crane work, as though the monotony and surety of his tasks would put me at ease. It also didn’t hurt that the proud young buck was easy on the eyes.

I climbed stacks of old oil drums and coal barrels, empty crates and piles of wood and metal to reach my perch. The view was decent. I could see a good part of the town and some of the wastes beyond. Not that there was much to see, mind you. It was a gloomy day, fine sheets of mist descending, interspersed with big fat droplets of rain. Mists had settled in and the clouds were thick, heavy and low. I couldn’t imagine the guards being able to give a good advance warning should some threat approach New Appleloosa. Visibility was just too low. At least the shitty weather was probably a fair deterrent for mutants, raiders, slavers, bandits, mercenaries, gypsies, tramps, thieves and all other ne’er do wells.

For the first time since getting here and fain… falling unconscious, I truly took in my view of the town, really looked at the place. Oh yes, I’d imagined it as a tiny miniature city and me as a giant earth shattering pony, stomping and crushing the inhabitants when I was on my way back with the hellhound hide but I’d never really considered New Appleloosa from up close and in detail. I’d determinedly and perhaps blatantly not paid attention when Candi had shown me around the first time. At least I had an excuse for that though, seeing as I had been distracted at the time. What? Candi’s flank was a wonderful distraction after all. Speaking of distractions, whoever was inside the building I was using as a lofty throne had music on, a record or radio was playing. I could just make out the noises over the fall of rain and the sounds of the town around me, but they were broken up by static.

“This is…ar Saras…om the moun…border with the Cr…ying hello on th…ay. Nex…ve Days Gone By an…ewar Equestrian artis…it back, enj…sic and st…t there.” Wow, these ponies needed a better quality receiver… or was it a transmitter, or an antenna. Ugh, stupid techno things confusing me. At least the song was a good one, and the voice was kind of sexy (some buck with an exotic accent) even if the radio was really fucked up. It seemed it was a romance song… aw… how sweet… then why did it make me feel sad and lonely? Days Gone By… hadn’t the Mysterious Stallion said those words last night? And, as I now thought about it, hadn’t he known that I was a mother… even back during the hellhound incident? Isn’t that what the Doc admitted this past morning? That piece of shit (the younger buck, not Mistletoe… although…). How could he tell me not to trust these ponies when he clearly wasn’t trustworthy? Wait, wasn’t that something he said as well… that I shouldn’t trust him? Infuriating. The next time I saw him I was going to put my hoof up his ass or force him to buy me a bathtub full of whiskey to drown myself in… not literally, really, but he owed me (by my reckoning) a lot of alcohol for this whole situation. Of course the bastard was nowhere to be found, he probably knew I wanted a violent word with him… and was right now in hiding, collaborating with the cyborg zebra ninjas… or not. Oh well, I could deal with him later. Now I just settled for looking out over the town and listening to the music.

New Appleloosa was a small village I wanted to say, but one that could easily be expanded for a greater population and I wondered if there was a seasonal element to the town. Did ponies come here in winter to escape the cold? Or did they retreat here in the summer to avoid the depredations of the more active predators? The Pegasi hadn’t controlled the weather in almost two centuries. I couldn’t remember experiencing wild weather, a season without guidance… thanks to my stylish head wound, but that didn’t mean that the thought wasn’t frightening to contemplate. I shivered and wrapped myself in the (now slightly more) tattered blanket I’d gotten from Ditzy before my bounty hunting excursion. Yay… I was slightly warmer. Small victories.

The town was the color of rust and iron and steel. The forces of weather and time had worn and beaten their way through the structures in many places and if you looked closely enough you could make out bullet holes and energy weapon blast marks across various locations. The town had seen its fair share of violence, it seemed. Unless of course, they’d just been hoofed vultures and scavenged and picked the surrounding wastes clean of any usable material. It wasn’t a bad idea, and it would explain the preponderance of gunfire damage. New Appleloosa was short, rarely higher than four stories and most of the time not rising above two or three. The walls were sturdy and in good repair, despite being constructed of detritus, scrap and old abandoned rail cars. Smoke rose from a few chimneys. The place had a well worn, perhaps too well worn feel to it and some of the buildings leaned or would be leaning if not for added support in the form of railroad ties and various other forms of added ‘sturdy not fall over’ for the buildings. The pitter and patter of rain drops, falling on the many kinds of metal made not altogether unpleasant pinging sounds that made me imagine I was shooting nightmare hellhounds with a magical energy weapon.

Voices sounded below me, ponies going about their day, saying hello to friends and neighbors, making plans, bartering for goods and services. They were safe in here, reasonably safe at least, from the terrors that dwelt outside. That’s what this town was to me, the idea of safety. I couldn’t say as to whether or not it was an illusion or a reality, and I honestly cared little either way. This whole filly… file… sophie… Sapphic… sizing… philosophizing thing just wasn’t my nosebag (apples and oats, thank you very much). That, and it made my head hurt. At least it wasn’t hurting too badly right now. Small victories… they kept me going… and alcohol, alcohol made sure I stayed on my hooves, or off them as the situation demanded… but what burned brightly, what invested me most of all right now was the knowledge… the need… that I had to find my children.

I sat back, leaning against the cold metal and pulled a very crumpled pack of cigarettes from my sack of crap. I must have purchased the smokes when drunk, or stole them. Who knew on these matters? I lit one with some pretty matches that had big red heads to them (not sure where I picked those up) and puffed, my cigarette held securely in my left wing. I sighed. A different song was playing somewhere inside the building now. Its opening strains reached me through the thin (mostly) metal walls. Hmm… the song didn’t sound so bad. It was something about moving… motion… getting up and doing things. Odd. Was the music trying to tell me something? Yeah, that I should stop fazing out and get back to the task at hand. So… I had children. I needed to find them? Motion… moving… how?

Well, the first thing to do would be to look for them… duh. In order to look for them I would need food, supplies, alcohol, gear, cigarettes, weapons, food, ammunition and more food and alcohol. But that was just what I needed in my search, what I needed for my search was a lead… evidence… something to point me in the right direction.

There was a problem with that though. I had no leads, no evidence. There wasn’t anything amongst my possessions that would help me and apparently there was nothing to indicate my children had been on the hillside where I’d woken up. The hillside? A hazy memory of the night before intruded in on my mind… whispering, truths and knowledge. The hillside! Mother fucking eureka! What was it that the Mysterious Stallion had said? Something about me leaving all of my stuff when I ran to town. If it was still there… was it still there? Would somepony have found and run off with it? It didn’t matter. My best bet for finding my foals was to return to where this whole thing began. If my possessions were still on the hill then there was a chance that something among them, a photograph, a letter a souvenir, might lead me in the right direction. I stood quickly, losing my blanket and smacking my head on the overhang that had been keeping the rain off of me.

“Arrgh… fuck!” I yelled, kicking the wall with a hoof as I rubbed my head with my wings. I had to be more careful, or less stupid, and at least it seemed as if sobriety didn’t improve my chances of avoiding these kinds of injuries… so… that meant I could keep drinking… right? Whatever, enough time for that later.

“Yeh okay up there?” Crane asked from the yard, pausing in the lifting of what appeared to be an old cartoony anvil.

“Fine, just hurt my head, nothing important.” I answered, rolling up the blanket and shoving it into my heavily damaged saddle bags.

“Yeh seem teh do that more than is healthy.” Crane replied and the anvil, still aglow in his magic, continued moving in its original direction. I grumbled mirthlessly but didn’t reply. ‘Yeah, you’re telling me,’ I thought back at him acidly. I made sure that everything was packed properly and strapped to my back. I had a mission, a goal, a place to go. It was time to head out to that hillside and find some answers. I was in motion and…

“Fuck…” Forgot I wasn’t on the ground and walked off the edge of the roof. Also, I found out that my wings still weren’t worth shit when it came to flying. Ouch. Thankfully, it wasn’t a long way down… and those oil barrels and crates and other stuff broke my fall (and me). Crane soon came by to investigate what had happened and found me sprawled out with my saddlebags on top of my head, grumbling and giving everything in sight the evil eye. He offered to help. I declined. This was something I had to do on my own.

As it turned out, walking through the wastes, the former heartland of old Equestria, was incredibly boring. There didn’t really seem to be that many interesting things going on. When most of the world has been dead for almost two hundred years… it turns out there’s a lot of empty nothingness. Oh, there were a few notable… things, to be sure, but for the vastness and the enormity of the countryside around me, it was disturbingly silent and vacant… void.

I was walking along the remnants of an old road, heading almost due north as best as I could reckon. Reckon? Great… I was beginning to sound like the idiots in New Appleloosa inside my own head. I better nip that in the bud as soon as possible. About a dozen (in truth only five) bloatsprites had buzzed up from an old water gate of some kind that ran underneath the road and attacked me. I’d killed most of them, ten at least (more like three) and the others had broken off their pursuit of me to cannibalize the fallen. It made me wonder what bloatsprites tasted like. Then it made me feel like throwing up.

There were scattered buildings easily visible in the gray distance of the cloudy afternoon, towering monolithic ruins of a time now gone. They would have been interesting to explore, possibly profitable and certainly dangerous, but they were not a part of what I needed to do right now. The only other event worth mentioning was when I found evidence of raiders in a blasted out shell of an old brick station house near the road. Well, I assumed it to be raiders of some kind, judging by the décor, all blood and guts and smears of shit next to four heavily stained mattresses and the torn up barding of a few victims. Of the beasts themselves… there was no sign, for which I was most grateful. They were probably out raping or lying in wait for some poor unfortunate caravan. I wasn’t so hopeful as to believe that they were dead, but I marked the location on the map Red Rock had given to me and planned on telling him and maybe Railright about the situation when I got back. If I got back…

The rain had stopped sometime ago… mostly stopped anyways, becoming nothing more than a fine mist shortly after I set out. And guess what? I was bored, which would explain why, after carefully and quietly passing the raider den and putting it some distance behind me, I started singing. My intention was to not die or kill myself of sheer mind eating boredom but also to, by demonstrating a lack of fear, possibly convince any enemies nearby to not tangle with me, since I was confident enough to be loud out here. Or, I suppose, my poor singing voice might have been enough to frighten anything nearby, causing them to clap hooves or claws to ears and run away screaming. Regardless… I sang.

“Trotting through the wasteland I’m a horse with no name, why did the clouds stop the rain? In the wasteland, I can’t remember my name. And I have some pain in my brain.” I belted out and made a modest effort to swagger as I walked. Ahead of me, a ways, probably a mile or so was a hillside that despite my previous injuries and drug induced stupor, looked very familiar indeed.

“After an hour below the sunless cloud, my mind began to go numb, I was singing really damn loud, this idea now seems kind of dumb. And the headache you’ll get from hearing me fret, will make you wish for a gun.” I left the road behind, only now noticing that there were dozens of old carriages, both ground and sky, littering the ditches to either side of me. Some still had skeletons accompanying them, attached to harnesses or huddled up inside, dry piles of dust and bone from the horrors of the Last Day. There was a twinge of pain in my skull that made my left eye twitch when I thought of that… or looked too closely at the sky carriages. So, I just shook out my head with a soft whinny and carried on, making my way toward the hill.

“Trotting north from Appleloosa I need to come up with a name, there’s bits of bloatsprite in my mane, If I find no evidence this journey will be a shame, the town’s folk all think I’m insane.” I wove my way through the detritus, trying not to disturb the dead with anything other than my voice. I climbed the hill slowly, making sure each hoof was planted firmly before continuing higher. I didn’t want to dislodge any scree, trip and fall, or cause a rockslide. I left the debris behind and tried not to imagine the bones of the past coming back to life and following me. Creepy… and awkward.

“After two hours I let my mind run free, cause there was nothing good to see. There were rocks and bones and shotgun shells, there were hills and dirt and megaspells. The wasteland is a graveyard with its dead all around, with clouds in the sky up above. Ash and dust cover the bones on the ground, why can’t I get any love?” I stopped singing… and moving. I’d reached the place where I’d woken up. Welcome home…

The Mysterious Stallion must have collected the brass from the round he fired to hit the ghoul piece of shit but everything else was still here. There were drippings of blood on the rocks from me head butting the zombie, and a small dried up pool of it where I’d lain. The empty packaging from the drugs lay scattered near the remains of the small fire. And there was stuff… my stuff, apparently. Wasn’t that weird? It was mine, belonged to me and yet I didn’t remember any of it, anything about it. My life was strange and far too sober right now for my liking.

Somepony… I was guessing the ghoul, had gone through a lot of my possessions, displacing them at random across the area where a few short weeks ago I had awakened to a hole in the head. ‘Yay for nostalgia’ I thought to myself with a frown. I collected and gathered everything together into one big pile to sort through, giving my wings some exercise. Then, I sat down, cigarette in my muzzle, and began to look through the remnants of my old life.

There were two blankets. One was a ratty old beige thing that had seen better days. The other was a reversible blanket, well cared for, thick and warm. One side was jet black and the other was some kind of strange pattern of yellows, browns and greens. Camouflage maybe? But for what? On the black side, in a corner, an unadorned fabric shield was sewn on. I had no idea why but it reminded me of my Cutie Mark… and my tattoo. Thinking about it too hard only put me into a loop of confused pain though so I set the thing aside with the other blanket.

Half a dozen empty cans of various types of war era food and two empty canteens were the only victuals. I tossed the cans and, after smelling the interior of the canteens (water had been in one, whiskey in the other), I set them on top of the blankets. There were a few small knives, sharp but beginning to rust that got added to the keep pile (along with a Wingboner magazine that was more than a bit tattered and extensively leafed through. I was saving that for later and seeing it brought thoughts to my head, memories. I was in a bed, with a buck, head down and flank up, being mounted and… the memory faded. I smiled. Maybe I would be able to remember my drunken escapades… eventually.

Next I found some lightly armored barding, in a dull matte gray color and random accessories, including bows, ties and ribbons for manes and tails. Hmm… those might make me feel pretty (and every once in a while I think I deserved to feel pretty). I decided to keep the accoo… tree… mints… cooties… remains… accoutrements… mother fuck, stupid words. I’d keep the barding too, folding it nice and neatly (poorly and haphazardly) before adding it to the pile as well. There was a set of broken binoculars, a threadbare negligee that came apart in my hoofs, a coffee cup and two war era books on etiquette that I tossed in the discard pile.

I took a short break to go pee, away from my work, and to take a quick glance around the hill to make sure nopony… or creature was about, trying to sneak up on me with their time traveling zebra stealth cloaks. Returning, I pulled to me the item I had been most invested in investigating. Ah… what are those words doing? Anyway… saddle bags. They were oiled leather, tan in color, with little in the way of ornamentation but appeared very well made. The stitching was ex… qui… cute… squeeze… exquisite. I’m a smart pony, remember? The bags bore monogrammed (is it still a monogram when there are two letters?) patches, hastily stitched… or re-stitched… on to them, and falling off anyway. ‘WS’ were the two letters. WS… where did it come from? What did it mean? Were these saddlebags mine originally? Did WS stand for something… like a name? ‘Whiskey Something’ immediately came to mind. But I was probably just projecting as my mentor would say… what the fuck? Mentor? Projecting? I shook my head out and smacked it a few times (regret, regret, regret). Weird. Now if only I could figure more of this shit out.

The saddlebags were mostly empty. There was a half smoked pack of Newpony cigarettes (I smoked menthol… really?), a completely empty pack of Zebra Silvers (where the hell did I find that?), spent shells of a type that I didn’t recognize, makeup (which I was totally going to try on later), a can opener, some lint, a few stray bottlecaps and a blank book. The book seemed old, very old and it was blank inside but when I flipped through it with a wing I found two things hidden in the pages. The first was a photograph, black and white, creased and faded and half burned, the sides flaking away. But in the center, still visible were two foals… a boy and a girl. One light with a dark mane and the other dark with a light mane (a white mane perhaps? The source of the hair I’d found back at Mistletoe’s?). And they were… they were mine. I knew it, couldn’t explain why or how, but I knew they were mine. They were… perfect. Adorable, little angels, innocent godhood given form and flesh. I was breathing rapidly and tried to slow down, calm myself. They weren’t here but I knew what they looked like, and in the picture they seemed… happy. Any writing on the back that might have given me more information was burned away. Fuck. I gently set the photograph down on top of my keep pile and looked at the other thing that had fallen out of the book.

It was a crude pencil and crayon drawing, done by a child no doubt. I couldn’t exactly figure out what the drawing was. It looked a little like two octopuses… octopi… octopodes. Wait a minute. What the hell was an octopodes? When octo-ponies attack! Ugh… strange shit in my head. I looked at the drawing more closely. In one corner, with very poor writing… there was a single word, and it made me cry. Shakily written, with what looked like hearts, stars and little suns around it, was the word ‘mommy.’

I sat there for a few minutes, not caring that I was crying, rocking back and forth, the drawing clutched to my heart. This was more than any photograph, more than a book or monogrammed saddlebags or anything else. This was love. I kissed the drawing, placed it back in the book and set it down in pride of place on my keep pile. Somewhere, out in the blasted desert that had once been Equestria of yore, there was a filly or colt that loved their mother… drew a picture for her. And I would find them… find them both, no matter how long it took.

I wiped the tears away with a wing and opened the second (and last) saddlebag. There was a note in it. Most of the words had been smeared away to illegibility but I could make out most of the opening line; ‘Mi…ight, we have… reful about how we… proceed with the pla…’ and part of the last line ‘ow what to d… my heart is y… now and forev… love you alwa… Winter.’ Was this… a love letter, something sent to me or that I’d never sent to somepony else? Was it just something utterly random that I picked up in my travels? I’m sure I must have traveled extensively before this situation. I didn’t know for sure and most of the note was gone. It was a mystery, one (more) that I couldn’t solve. I liked to think it was part of some epic romance… a forbidden love, or a plot of intrigue and spies with danger and martinis and espionage. But… then… I have a rather vivid imagination, don’t I? There was just the note, nothing else (a few empty bottles of Wild Pegasus, but you don’t really need to know that, now do you?) except… wait… i used a wing to dig deeper, into the bottom of the bag and came up with… a music box? What the fuckity fuck fuck? Was I living a cliche? Weren’t music boxes supposed to be vital clues to some kind of revelation? Didn’t they always mean something in the end? It was small, about the size of an apple and losing its silver gilt. But there were still really pretty flower patterns on it (made me think of spring for whatever reason), and a tiny model pegasus that I think was meant to spin or swoop or something around the top but it was dirty, grimy and needed to be cleaned. I tried turning the thing but nothing happened, no music, just a few clinks and clanks from the interior. Well shit then, maybe it was just some broken music box and not some all important object of power. Whatever. Maybe I could sell it to Ditzy for a few caps… or clonk Red Rock over the head with it for duping and cheating me on the Hellhound hide. I looked at it more closely just as I was about to shove it back into the bag. Was it my music box? Or, did it belong to my foals? Son of buck toothed prostitute mule. On the chance that it belonged to one of my children I couldn’t throw it away or sell it, not now. Damn. I was just going to be a walking repository of strange useless crap from now on… wasn’t I?

I began putting my score of goods… which really wasn’t a score when you consider they were mine to begin with… into the new saddlebags. Boy, I was going to start looking like a pack mule pretty soon with all the shit I was carrying. It was only then that I saw something under where I’d left the saddlebags (right near where my old blood pool was). The object, whatever it was, had been partially buried under loose rocks and dirt, and it was shiny.

I scraped the covering silt and soil and stone away and uncovered… a pistol. It was unlike anything that I’d seen before, bronze colored metal, blue lacquered wood, sleek lines, with a grip that I could use in my mouth, or with my wings. The barrel was long, with a smaller, thinner barrel underneath and the action gleamed as though the firearm was cared for every single day. The grip was some kind of dark reddish black wood with white detailing on it. There was a place for a magazine but it looked like it was a break action weapon at the same time (I was getting confused). This thing was some kind of advanced, well crafted hybrid of energy weapon and firearm. It was beautiful. I thought back on something that Doc Mistletoe had told me. Yes it was beautiful and unique and… this thing had shot me in the head. I had never seen its like before and it matched what the doctor had told me of the weapon used against me. I brought it up to my face and squinted, there were many designs, all tiny, hoof etched into the grip. They were unfamiliar to me… all except for the first one and the last one. The first was my Cutie Mark and the last was my tattoo. Was this? Could it be? This weapon was mine. Somepony had shot me with my own gun… and left me to die on this hillside. Somepony would pay.

The mist began to form into rain again, picking up in intensity, soaking my mane, forcing it to cling to my head and neck. I stowed the pistol after one last look at it and made sure that I had everything else packed (and the photo and drawing safe from the burgeoning deluge). I hadn’t found all that I wanted, but I had something, a way to move forward, to stay in motion. I was definitely overburdened by all the gear but I turned from the spot where I’d lain, watching some of the caked blood on the stones pulled into the earth by rain and started walking.

I had a lead, something to go on in what would become my search for my foals, and just as importantly, I had a plan. I began the long slow walk back to New Appleloosa, only this time, I wasn’t walking. Just like that first day, I was galloping, ignoring the extra weight I was bearing. The Mare With No Name was heading south, toward the future. I shivered and then ignored the weather, disregarding the storm fomenting around me. There were things I had to do… things that I now knew that I could do, needed to do, must do. I sped southward, toward my future… and finding two foals.

Progress: 75% to Level 3

Coming Soon: Chapter 8. Wild Skies

Author's Note

My apologies for the long wait, I would have had this out about two weeks ago but circumstances (including getting the damn flu) delayed me. One more chapter and this volume is done. I would very much like to thank my editor; Demichev, the originator of FOE; Kkat and of course anyone who takes the time to actually read this story.

Since my competence isn't spectacularly high in this regard (my hyperlinks seem to fail in the transition), the first song is 'Days Gone By' as sung by Kathy Phillips. I can't find it on the internet (I have it on a promotional DVD from a small music festival in New Jersey, and I suppose I could try and put it up on youtube or something) and the second song is 'Welcome to the Motion' by Adam Sams which you can find on youtube should you be interested in listening to it. The song that the Mare sings is, obviously, based off of 'Horse With No Name' by America (and have I ever been waiting to use it in this story).

Three more things before I go. First , I plan on going back through the chapters and shoring up any inconsistencies (there are a few) after I finish chapter 8. I don't plan on making any major changes, just a few small tweaks here and there. Second, my editor will be very busy in a month and a half (fair winds and following seas to him) and would anyone be interested in helping out while he's otherwise engaged? Lastly, preparatory work has begun on the second volume (and no, you don't get to know what it's called or what it's about... yet. There will be room for a lot of new and interesting characters in the story. Would anyone like to include their OC in volume II? I love reader/writer interaction and would very much like to make this more of a communal/cooperative effort, especially for those who have their own characters but haven't written them into anything yet. If you would like to participate, please let me know and shoot me a message with the details of your character (as much information as you can provide) and whether or not you have an issue with them dying... since this is an FOE story after all. Happy holidays, stay safe and stay happy.