Fallout Equestria: Las Pegasus

It was hot, smelled like shit, and an aggravating ringing sounded through the room. A black hoof sent the rusty pre-war alarm clock flying; the wall it hit silenced it. Just another shitty morning in the Mojave Desert for Steele, another miserable unicorn trying to survive.

"It's so dam hot I must have finally gone to hell." He mumbled, still groggy from an uncomfortable night spent on a pre-war mattress.

The dark coated figure got out of his bed and scratched his back while leisurely staring out of a nearby window. Outside promised nothing more than heat and misery.

"Yup. Still in the Mojave, still in hell." He groaned, dragging his groggy self toward where he suspected the bathroom would be.

Upon entering, Steele was met with an intact toilet, sink, and bathtub; luxuries that he didn't take for granted considering he smelled as bad the 200 year old abandoned house he spent the night in. He took a moment to examine himself in the cracked mirror above the sink. Through the dirt and grime, a blue eyed pony and his roughly cut grey mane stared back. Steele smiled, revealing a surprisingly intact set of teeth, another miracle considering the amount of abuse his face gets on average. Once done examining himself, he pondered as to whether or not it was safe to turn on the faucet and use the potentially radiated water.

He sighed, regretting not having one of them fancy schmancy pipbucks the "Stable Dwellers" had. That Geiger counter would sure as hell come in handy right about now. But no, he was just a fatherless bastard born to a gypsy on the surface. While stable folk pranced around blissfully ignorant and safe in their steel caskets, his childhood was a constant fight for survival as he traveled with his mother's caravan. It was rough, unpleasant, and ended on the night he woke up to smoke and flames choking his lungs while the shrieking of his fellow travelers stung his ears.

Steele ran out of his tent and was met with the sight of burning bodies and screaming ponies, who were gunned down as they tried to flee. Some nights he could still smell the smoke and feel the heat of the flames as his tears blinded him, blurring the memories of his mother's lifeless corpse as he begged her to flee with him. The voice of the bandit leader robbing his caravan was forever imprinted in his mind, along with his sadistic pleasure as he leaned in close to Steele’s shivering, tear-stained face and whispered:

"Run kid." Laughing maniacally with the rest of his crew as Steele scrambled for his life.

Steele ran. He ran until his legs gave out and his tears ran dry. He became a Stallion that night, and he never looked back. He learned to survive, to shoot, and to never forgive. Over the years the Mojave had made him many things; a prospector, a mercenary, a heartless bastard, but above all he was a survivor. And he intended to keep it that way.

"Fuck it." He exclaimed, concluding that he'd rather use radaway than smell like a corpse.

Once clean, bathed, and possibly irradiated, he returned to the living room and took a large swig of a radaway pack. He coughed a few times and reached for a half empty Apple Whiskey bottle to help wash down the bitter taste.

"Much better." He said, wiping his mouth and tossing the empty bottle toward the floor. What did he care, not his house anyway.

Morning routine complete, Steele donned his signature outfit, a black leather trench coat that had armored plates sewn into it, and a vintage black cowboy hat he had bargained for a long time ago. Next came his worn saddle bag, whose contents consisted of nothing more than 300 caps, a few medical supplies, and spare ammunition for his twin .44 magnums affectionately named Mustang and Sally. Not much, but he never did have a lot of possessions to begin with. Lastly he re-holstered his two prized pistols; he had found them on a dead prospector’s body and used them to save his life countless times over.

The old door to the outside groaned and refused to open under Steel’s magic and began to agitate him. It wasn’t long until a few heads turned, alerted by the loud crack of splintering wood. Steele stood in the barren doorway, his hat covering his eyes, and began to quietly walk toward the bar, past an aged and broken wood door. Goodsprings was a quiet ghost town, and none of the few residents wanted to question Steele’s actions. He didn't look like someone you wanted to mess with, especially not after their multitude of problems with coyotes, mutated lizards, and a local gang by the name of The Powder Gangers. They had enough to deal with, and so long as this guy didn't cause any real trouble and paid his tab, no one cared what he did.

Steele made his way up the old wooden steps of the “Prospector Saloon”, the letters of its weathered neon sign consisted of various separate parts. Upon opening the door Steele was nearly knocked into by a fast unicorn with a bandaged head; the crazy bastard paid Steele no mind and instead headed straight toward gas station up ahead. He looked determined, and Steele immediately noticed the stable suit complemented by the glowing pipbuck on his left arm. Steele opened his mouth to say something, but instead just shook his head and walked toward the bar. No need to cause unnecessary trouble, especially not with any stable dwellers. He told himself. Once he cleared the door an aggravated stallion wearing a Powder Ganger prison outfit stormed out. Steele ignored him as well, knowing better than to mess with the easily angered imbeciles. He took an empty seat in the corner of the bar and waited for Sandy Shake, the cheery, red haired bartender with a southern accent.

“What’s his problem?” Steele asked, nodding his head toward the exit.

"Damn bastard." Sandy began, waving her cleaning cloth as she spoke to help emphasize her point. "Wants to kill some traveler we hid in the gas station. He's just mad cause we refused to tell him where the poor guy is hiding." She took a moment to simmer down and returned to wiping a mug. "I'm just worried he might be back and cause some trouble." Sandy Shake finished, obviously flustered. Seems like she had been the one to talk to him.

"Not the Powder Ganger; those idiots are always looking for trouble. I'm asking about the stable dweller, idiot nearly knocked into me on the way out, didn’t utter a word either." Steele said.

“Oh, him. Poor fellow." Sandy Shake began, a calmer tone in her voice. "He’d just been shot in the head, and wouldn't’ ya know it Doc Mellowgrass patched him right up after that Victor fellow dug him up."

"Shot it the head huh? Whoever it was must have been a lousy shot." Steele answered, taking a sip of his whiskey.

"Guess so. Lucky him though, he seems like a nice guy. He wants to help some crazy wanderer named Rango, who's been running from the Powder Gangers; we let him hide in the gas station uptown." Sandy Shake answered, absentmindedly wiping an already clean mug.

"So what's he bugging you for?" Steele asked, mildly curious about this new do-gooder who had just escaped death.

"Well, he wants Goodsprings to help, and since I'm the mayor he came to me. It sure broke my heart having to let down such a sweetheart-- especially after he just fixed my radio--, but I'm afraid it's too darn dangerous to confront them head on. I can't risk everyone’s life like that."

"So he actually wants to die." Steele answered coldly.

"Well, as far I know he's a courier, and they're pretty tough considering they have to carry all those important packages across the wasteland. Heck, if you ask me. I reckon his ordeal had to do with a package he was carrying. The trio that shot him took off soon as they got what they wanted."

A courier? So, chances are he did have a death wish. Steele thought, taking another sip of his rust colored drink. Few couriers live long enough to retire, and most die trying to deliver their precious packages. Whoever this new guy was, he must have been carrying something valuable to get a hit squad on him. Steele processed the idea of following him considering if he was going to go get his package back, then there might be a good deal of caps involved.

"And this Victor guy you mentioned. Who's he?" Steele questioned, forgetting about his drink and listening intently for any useful information than might lead to profit.

"That's the strangest part." Sandy exclaimed, finally putting down her mug and reaching for a dirtier one. "Victor’s a securitron. Now what he's doing this far out of Las Pegasus is a mystery. He rolled along one night, and dug up the courier soon as his attackers left. Why he took particular interest in him sure beats me, but whoever he is has to be important to get that kind of attention."

That settled it. Steele wasn’t going anywhere near this "courier". If he had House's bots on him, then he was a nothing but a hazard. The mysterious head honcho of Las Pegasus was never involved in what didn’t particularly interest him, and if something did, then whatever stood in his way would be thoroughly removed. No-one ever saw him, but everyone but the NLR and Solar Legion feared him. Locked away along with the secrets of the Lucky 38 tower, House controlled Las Pegasus and its three strongest families via his securitron robots. He was a force to be reckoned with, and even the NLR who had been stationed at Las Pegasus tried to avoid causing him problems. If this courier had beef, or worse, business with Mr. House, that was his problem and Steele wasn’t about to get involved.

"Say, you look like a hardened traveler. I'm guessing the Mojave hasn’t been kind on you, has it?" Sandy Shake asked, lowering her overly clean mug and bursting Steele's thought bubble.

"More than you'd like to know." Steele answered gruffly, his icy shield coming down to protect him from his painful past. He was reminded of his drink and proceeded to tend to it.

"I see. Don’t suppose you'd be willing to help him out. I mean, if you don’t have any nice relations with the Powder Gangers that is."

Steele winced underneath his hat. Being accused of affiliation with those heartless bandits and rapists hurt, especially with his past. Sandy Shake had pushed the wrong button, and the look on her face showed she regretted doing so. She began to apologize, but Steele cut her off.

"I learned to not risk my tail where I don’t need to." He answered, silencing Sandy.

She didn’t look pleased, but apparently she had decided to not cause any more damage and remained silent. Steele ordered some squirrel stew, paid his tab, and left without uttering another word. Once outside he stretched for a bit and considered his path. Nipton seemed like the town to go to. Always filled with thugs, whores, booze, and most importantly, jobs. Many weren't pretty, but this was the Mojave. Nothing was pretty.

His direction marked, Steele began to leave, but couldn’t help but notice the courier leaning behind some cover; a worn out varmint rifle floating beside him. He shot Steele a quick glance, but not finding anything that might convince him of striking up a conversation, he returned to inspecting his measly gear. Poor fool. Steele thought. Going against someone even as poorly equipped as the Powder Gangers was a bad idea with his gear, but whatever; he wanted to play hero and that was his business. Steele smirked and set out toward Nipton.

A few hundred meters past town and Steele ran into a group of Powder Gangers. By their appearance he could tell they were the group going to assault the town in hopes of finding their target. Knowing them, they’d probably burn the place down looking for him. There were six total. No real armor, but they were all equipped with guns, enabling even the most dim-witted bandit to be dangerous. Their leader, a unicorn, led the group; his varmint rifle floating beside to him, he didn't look like the kind of pony you want to start a problem with. Out of his men he looked like the only relatively sane one. Out of his pitiful brigade, three of his men were armed with rusty single shot shotguns that they held in their mouths; Steele caught the sour stench of drugs and realized they were high on jet, their movements twitchy, fast, and unpredictable. The other two were equipped with no more than machetes and appeared to be the least stable of the group.

They paid Steele no mind. He looked like someone who could put up a fight, and he didn’t seem interested in them so he could be ignored. His hat covering his eyes, Steele navigated around them. An able unicorn and 5 earth ponies; a sizable threat considering their enemy had nothing more than a stable suit and a rusty rodent gun. Steele stopped. The years had taught him better than to try and play hero --the small scar on his lower chin reminded him of that--, but he wasn't one to like watching good ponies die. The Mojave took many lives every day and death was just an unpleasant inconvenience in the Mojave; it had stopped fazing Steele a long time ago, but watching good ponies die brought back a painfully familiar grief.

No way in hell was he beginning to consider risking his life for some wannabe hero with a deathwish. Steele stole another quick glance at the bandits from under his hat in time to catch the gang members spreading out. Not long until bullets would start to fly, he should get a move on before ending up the victim of a stray bullet. He was getting eager to move on, but a nagging feeling in the pit of his stomach stopped him; Steele knew all too well the feeling meant he was about do something he considered to be very stupid. He forced himself to look forward and continue walking, but froze shortly as gunshot rang through the air, the blood-curling scream stole his attention. Steele’s gaze darted back in time to see a machete wielding gangster fall, blood leaking from a chest wound. The courier had apparently shot first and successfully landed an effective shot. He had dropped the machete wielder quickly enough to shock everyone but the group leader, who nonchalantly swung his rifle and returned fire.

"Well you morons, shoot him!" He ordered, sending more lead the courier's way; it wasn't long before they were keeping the courier pinned under a hail of bullets.

Steele swallowed hard as his mind began to race. He was actually nervous, and it drove him insane. Common it’s just another stupid kid that isn’t cut out for the Mojave. Leave him; he won’t make it out there anyway, might as well let them put him out of his misery. Steele reasoned. Another scream filled the air, and Steele snapped back to reality. He quickly scanned the scene to found that the scream came from the courier; It appeared that he tried to peek out of his cover to return fire and ended up with a bullet in his shoulder. The gangsters were closing in on his position quickly, but the lone machete wielder was what troubled Steele more than he liked. While his gang mates slowly made progress from the Courier’s right, the sly bastard had made quiet progress around the couriers flank and gripped his machete tightly with exited anticipation; his eyes boldly radiated his eagerness to kill.

Fuck. Steele would regret this later, but he had to act now or that courier was going to end up back in the grave he just so narrowly escaped. Moving swiftly, Steele drew his revolvers in one well rehearsed, fluid motion. The hammers had been pulled back by his magic in the process of drawing the weapons, and Steele had nothing left to do but aim. He fired twice, sending red hot lead into the back of the machete wielder. Silence followed as the gangster dropped a mere few inches behind a surprised courier; crimson leaking from the two pronounced holes in his back. The gunshots ceased as the remaining gangsters assessed their new threat.

“What are you imbeciles waiting for!? Kill him!” Shrieked their leader; he had finished reloading his rifle and began to shoot at Steele.

“Nice going Steele.” He muttered, sprinting to a large boulder for cover.

Steele hid, counting the number of bullets his attacker had left. One...two....three....four, just one more left. He counted. Steele waited for the metallic clink of an empty magazine and stepped out of cover, his two magnums floating in front of him. He might not have had the assistive aim a pipbuck provided, but years of learning to conserve his ammo made him a crack shot and he didn’t need it. He managed to bury three shots into the leader’s body, tearing flesh and breaking bone before one of the three remaining shotgun wielders pelted him with shrapnel.

Shit that hurts! Steele cursed, gritting his teeth as his armor absorbed the shrapnel and let the kinetic energy bombard his body with pain. His magic never wavering, Steele scowled at his attacker, an earth pony who’s fear leaked through his high state; Steele cut his reload short with lead.

The last two had turned to confront Steele, leaving the courier to cower behind the boxes he sought cover from. Steele hid once more, cursing the pain coursing through his body and the equally painful reload time for his magnums. As he fished out more ammo from his saddlebag his attackers drew nearer, unnerving Steele with the sound of their bullets hitting his small cover. Why the fuck did I have to help that damned courier? He wondered.

By the time he finished reloading sweat had accumulated on his forehead, but thankfully his nerves remained intact. He could hear his attackers getting closer, but without the help of a pipbuck’s detection system he couldn't pinpoint their exact location. He set his mind on diving out of cover and fire at the first thing he saw, but to his relief a foreign rifle shot filled the air with the sickening sound of grey matter painting Steele’s cover. The last gangster had dropped his gun and began to run away, but Steele dove out of cover and pelted him with lead. Looks like the courier wasn’t completely useless after all. Steele smirked.

Steele reloaded and re-holstered his magnums, checked his armor for any serious damage, and applied a magically enhanced bandage to his forelimb upon finding shrapnel that penetrated an unreinforced piece of armor. Once more Steele regretted his lack of a pipbuck and its medical expertise. Nonetheless he referred back to his old rule of “If you can feel it, you’re fine.” He began to loot the Powder Ganger corpses, salvaging ammo, weapons, and medical supplies for keep or salvage.

The courier, apparently surprised that this mysterious figure had the heart to help --and with good reason-- just watched him from his cover, holding his bleeding shoulder. Once finished with salvaging for gear, Steele made another kind decision that he knew he would kick himself for later. He approached the courier and removed a healing potion and a bandage from his bag, dropping them and the unicorn gangster’s well maintained varmint rifle at the courier’s hooves.

“Take them.” He instructed coldly.

What the hell is wrong with me? Steele thought. Why in the name of the goddesses was I wasting supplies and risking my life for this stupid traveler? A piece of shrapnel must have penetrated my skull and hit my brain because there was no reason I should be this kind. To Steele the courier had nothing to offer, and that made him worthless.

“You’re lucky I forgot to get some water.” Steele lied, reverting back to his old heartless self.

“Th... thanks.” The courier replied, probably as scared of Steele as he was thankful. “Who are you?” He asked, wanting to at least know the name of his savior.

“Don’t push it.” Was the reply.

Steele walked into the bar for the second time that day. A few residents futilely tried to hide the fact that they had been staring out the window and began to loudly whisper amongst each other, pausing only to momentarily steel a glance at Steele. They were beginning to agitate Steele. The word of you being a do-gooder gets out, and you just might have a hit squad called on you. In the Mojave, no one liked to have their dirty business threatened by some goody two shoes, and murder was a popular solution. He took his seat and ordered a bottle of whiskey and some water to go. Sandy Shake’s beaming smile drove Steele to hide deeper under his hat.

“Don’t worry these are on the house. We all kindly appreciate what you did out there." She said, placing Steele's goods in front of him. "Thanks to you Goodsprings won't have any Powder Ganger trouble for a while.”

“Thanks.” Steele answered, taking three water bottles and his whiskey; he sure as hell needed a drink right now.

He left without another word and sold his salvage to the Goodsprings General Shop. When he left he caught another glimpse of the white, light beige haired unicorn he knew as the courier returning from the gas station; a relieved, scruffy looking traveler was behind him. The courier smiled as he neared Steele. His shoulder was bandaged and he seemed to have full use of it again. His new varmint rifle was neatly secured on his saddlebag; no doubt the work of his pipbuck’s inventory manager. Steele snickered and paid him no mind. He set off toward Nipton once more. He had wasted enough time and resources on this guy, and hated him already.

***

Steele took another swig of water and levitated the bottle back into his bag. What I wouldn’t do for a nuclear winter. He bargained, cursing the Mojave's never ending, relentless heat. Steele had made steady progress toward Nipton, but as he neared heavy smoke filled the air and seemed to arise from the town's center. Steele drew his weapons. Nipton was a shithole, but it could sure as hell keep its ground against random bandits. Unless they were having a pleasant BBQ, then whatever was burning the town meant business.

Steele considered just leaving the town, but he came there looking for a paycheck and whatever this mystery force was just might provide one through salvage. The town was now within reach and the air was thick with the smell of burning flesh and death. With no walls to contain them, an occasional scream and gunshot was heard through the empty streets. This doesn't look good. Steele thought, slowly creeping along the wall of someone’s home, pistols floating readily nearby.

He peeked around the corner to catch a sickening sight; a Solar Legion decanus was calling out names, and once called, the poor pony stepped forward only to be executed via quick decapitation by the all too eager Legion recruits. There were nine total. Two recruits, three prime legionaries, three veterans, and finally an all too familiar decanus leading it all. A sizable group that was extremely dangerous. It was no surprise that they were able to take the town without a fight.

Steele slid back into cover behind his wall. As another scream filled the air, followed by the sound of crimson painting the floor, Steele drifted into remembrance. The Solar Legion was the largest force from east. Having survived the bombing from the great war, the survivors of the badlands resorted to a brutal way of life following that of ancient zebra tribes. Knowing of the zebra’s success with using brutality, physical strength, ruthless military tactics, and the most powerful weapon of all, fear, the Solar Legion had ravaged the west, conquering surviving civilizations and seeking more land and power. Their military had been slightly adjusted after the model of pre-war royal guards of the Solar Empire, and their existence thrived on slaves, terrorism, fear, aggression, and mercilessness. It was from them that Steele had learned to never forgive. Back when he was just a lonely colt the Legion saw potential in his pain and anger, and took him under their protection. Here Steele learned how to suppress emotions, survive the wasteland, and most importantly, hate the Solar Legion.

This phase of Steele’s life consisted of brutal training and torture. Like all recruits of the Solar Legion he had two choices: become a slave, or survive long enough to become a soldier. He chose to survive, but a few years of hell and being treated like a piece of shit, set his mind on desertion, branding him a traitor. He was lucky though, his performance during his training gave him a positive image in the eyes of Celestia, the heartless bitch with a glare colder than her non-existent heart. Of course Celestia wasn't her real name, but anyone who would question the self proclaimed princess would suffer a fate far more gruesome than the standard decapitation. Steele’s melee training and adaptation to pain helped him kill his competitors in his rise through the ranks, but in the end it was his good nature that pushed him out of the testosterone filled hell known as the Solar Legion. His good standing with the princess was what had kept a bounty off his head, but now that he was older his Legion relations were questionable. The fact that he had worked jobs against them only made things worse.

The Solar Legion often patrolled the Mojave in hopes of gaining territory from the NLR so that they could more easily attack the Las Pegasus dam, a vital source of power both figuratively and literally. Their actions mainly consisted of spreading terror and fear, and spying on the NLR. Occasionally a skirmish would break out between the two mortal enemies, but no large battles have been fought since the first great battle for the dam. Since the NLR victory, Celestia has been collecting forces and preparing to strike again, and the NLR have been on the defensive ever since.

Now what Legion could want from such a worthless town was the real question. It held no useful resources, and was too far away from Las Pegasus to be of much strategic use. All Steele knew was that Nipton was a viable source for dirty jobs, and served both the NLR and Legion. Could Legion have caught onto this and now wanted to make an example of this town? He wondered, remembering the Legion's passion in making bloody examples out of others.

“Knew I saw something.” Said a Legion veteran, causing Steele to aim his revolvers at the veteran's face. “WE GOT AN INTRUDER HERE!” he yelled, alerting his brethren.

“Shit.” Steele muttered. Legion soldiers were focused primarily on melee combat and had some pretty tough armor. Steele could probably hold them off at a distance, but there were too many of them to consider an actual attack.

The Legionaries now turned to face Steele as he holstered his weapons and came out of his hiding spot, his spotter following proudly. Steele kept his hat down, mostly to avoid having to watch the fear-stricken citizens. He eventually stopped in front of the unicorn decanus whose earth-pony subordinates lined up behind him.

“Well, if it isn’t the traitor known as Steele.” He said, his voice eerily calm, too calm for a ruthless murderer. The familiarity of the calmness however, was the most unsettling part for Steele, and he looked up to meet his captor’s eyes.

“Glad you still remember me after all this time Vulpes. I’m guessing you still aren’t one for pleasantries, are you?”

“Right now, pleasantries are the thing keeping you in my presence and not in line with the rest of the garbage.” He answered, motioning toward the Nipton citizens behind him as if they couldn't hear him. He maintained his unsettlingly calm voice.

“Well shit, consider me lucky then.” Steele answered, spitting onto the ground. He took caution as to not spit near Vulpes’s feet. He needed to remain tough, but make it clear he wasn't here for a fight. Any disrespect would be a death sentence.

“You thought you could escape this judgment?” Vulpes asked.

“The fuck are you talking about? I just got here wanting to grab some water and move on. I saw smoke and wanted to make sure I could still get what I needed and go.” Steele answered. He knew he was lying, but whatever the Nipton folk were being punished for suggested that he did not want to be a part of it.

Vulpes leaned in close, his brown muzzle nearly touching Steele’s, and maintained eye contact. It was an attempt to intimidate him, and oddly enough it was slightly working.

“Why were you hiding then? Are you sure you weren’t spying?” He pressed.

“When I got close enough I heard gunshots and screaming.” Steele answered, backing away and straightening his neck. “I guess it was wrong of me to not immediately assume Legion. Anyway, I hid behind that house because last I remember you and I aren't exactly friends, and by your standards that apparently makes us enemies.”

“Oh, Steele it’s quite the opposite with you. If we were enemies as you suggested, then one of these recruits would have had the opportunity to bring down a dangerous traitor.” He answered, keeping his calm voice.

He was beginning to unnerve Steele more than ever, but being on friendly terms did mean he might get to live, so he tried his luck and pressed further.

“Oh, and what in your opinion makes me friends with a monster like you?”

Vulpes laughed an uneasy laugh. One that had no emotion behind it at all. Such an action from a man like him was truly terrifying as high ranking Legionaries only laughed when they had just finished ruthlessly decimating their opponents, and that meant Steele wasn’t exactly on safe ground just yet. The uneasiness of Vulpes’s men behind him suggested the same as seeing their emotionless leader fake a laugh must have been utterly horrifying.

“I have a lot to thank you for Steele. If you had not run off to become the traitorous scum you are now, then I would never have been able to surpass you in training. I have my position thanks to you, and intend to return the favor of sparing your life in return. The next time we do battle, I can rightfully spare you no mercy.” Vulpes answered, a mad eagerness in his tone replaced the eerie calmness.

Steele cleared his throat. He knew what Vulpes was talking about. Back in his days as a Legion soldier Vulpes was a fellow competitor and an actual friend. They shared food and stories, but eventually became nothing more than competitors for better ranks in the army. He had ranked up equally with Vulpes and was supposed to fight him to the death for a higher position, but left before he could compete. Steele was far more ruthless back then, and would have easily killed Vulpes if given no other choice. His larger build would have ensured that, but with him gone Vulpes easily took care of his equal and progressed through the ranks, gaining body mass in the process. With further legion training, Vulpes now possessed a bulkier, more earth pony like build and posed a serious threat Steele if he decided to strike now.

“Well alright then. Glad I could help an old buddy out. Now, if you excuse me.” Steele said, turning to get the hell out of there.

“Not so fast. You have earned my mercy, but not the mercy of my subordinates.” Vulpes said, his eerie calmness once more present in his voice.

Shit. Steele knew this wasn't going to be that easy. He turned to face Vulpes once more.

“You say you do not know why this town deserves its punishment, and that you have no part of it. If so, then you will not mind taking part in the execution of justice. This town was full of thugs and criminals. Its residents whored themselves out to all, even Legion soldiers. This town deserves to be punished for its sins, and it will be made an example of the chaos and evil that the Solar Legion will not tolerate.”

Damn, he should have known this was part of the Legion’s terrorist campaign. Steele couldn’t lie, Nipton was full of a lot of assholes and thieves, but even they did not deserve such punishment.

“What do you want me to do?” Steele questioned. Anything that Legion would want him to do couldn't be good.

“I have designed a lottery. Based on their numbers, the players will be rewarded with a different fate. Those with a certain set of numbers will be given swift deaths, others will be crucified, some will have the honor of becoming Legion slaves, and the winners will live. All I ask is that you show your support to Legion’s movements toward peace, and give one of these sinners the fate that they deserve.”

“So you have me do your dirty work again, fine. I’ll bite, but only cause I see some of these bastards are Powder Gangers and deserve what they’re getting.” Steele lied; in truth he felt uneasy and bare in front of the doomed citizens.

Vulpes smiled and motioned toward a recruit. He had brought him a bag of random paper clippings. Each was numbered, and Vulpes used his magic to select a random paper.

“Looks like we have a winner.” He announced, sending a desperate wave of hope through the pitiful citizens. “Number five hundred forty two.”

“That’s me!” yelled a Powder Ganger. He was waving his ticket around, but was soon restricted by two legionaries and brought forth before Steele; Vulpes watched gleefully behind him. “Hey what gives? I thought you said I won?” He complained, squirming in his captor’s tight hold.

“Yes, you did win. You won second place. And the prize for second is you get to live.” Vulpes began.

“Then let me go!” The Ganger begged.

“You won second place, than means you get to live, but we certainly can’t have you running around committing crimes anymore. You weren’t that lucky.” Vulpes teased, not showing the sick pleasure he was getting from watching the color drain from the unfortunate pony's face.

“What are you going to do to me!?” He panicked, earning a strong punch to his head from one of the legionaries restricting him.

“As I said, we can't have you running around anymore." Vulpes paused, boring an icy stare at his victim. "So we break your legs.” He finished, taking a sickening satisfaction in dealing out the fate of the gangster.

A legion veteran dropped a large hammer at Steele’s feet and grunted. Steele grasped it with his magic and glared at Vulpes.

“This is sick.” He said.

“This is justice.” Vulpes answered.

Steele returned his attention to the scared gangster; he felt sick.

“No man, no. Please man, you’re not one of them man. You can’t do this, please I beg you. YOU CAN’T DO THIS!” He pleaded.

This was the sickening behavior that forced Steele out of the Legion ranks to begin with, but this was also his ticket to freedom. He sighed, raising the hammer higher, this guy was a monster and deserved death, and although he might not deserve this cruel of a punishment, he stood between Steele and survival, and that was a bad place to be for a Powder Ganger.

The hammer came down quickly, and the sound of bones shattering was masked by the agonizing screams of the gangster as he struggled to break free. A few more strikes, and the gangster had passed out from pain, his body carelessly tossed to the side by the Legionaries. Steele dropped the hammer and glared at Vulpes for a moment before taking off.

“Spread the word of the Solar Legion Steele; let the people know their liberation approaches.” Vulpes shouted after him.

Fucking bastard. Steele thought. He had crippled a man, and left a whole town to die. The nagging sickness in his stomach finally got to him, and he vomited once out of the town’s borders. He was going to make Vulpes pay one day, but for now he did what he had to in order to survive. Unlike the stable dweller, he knew when not to play hero.

Jobless, no destination in mind, and night approaching quickly, Steele decided to hunker down at some ranch shack. The owner seemed to be missing, and the bed was more than just a mattress, so this was more that what Steele could have asked for. He plopped down onto the mattress, sending dust everywhere, and fished out his old beat up alarm clock. The dam thing wasn’t worth half of what the old gem powering it was, but it was better than nothing. Steele placed it on the drawer next to him and forced his eyes shut. He just wanted today to end.