The rhythmic thumping of pain resonating within his skull sounded the return of Steele’s conscience. I’m going to kill, no murder that bastard. Steele concluded decisively. Bitterly delighted to not have his airway obstructed by the absurd ritual of a mad pony, Steele forced his eyes open and cast his vengeful gaze at the first thing he saw; it only took a moment for his sense of smell to sync with his sight.

“What the fuck!” Steele screamed, recoiling sharply and using his fore-hooves to backpedal and sit upright; he furiously wiped his muzzle in an attempt to rid himself of the putrid smell of the innards of a decaying corpse.

“What’s wrong!?” questioned a distressing voice.

Steele froze. Through his gaping blue eyes one could see the sheer fear that chilled his spine, gripping him with an icy terror that wiped his mind clear of thought.

“Steele?” It asked again making him wince and shut his eyes. No. Steele answered mentally.

Steele lowered his hoof, yet kept his eyes shut, unwilling to believe what he prayed to not be true. He didn’t want to hear nor believe the nightmare he once more found himself in.

“Steele what’s going on?” The dreaded voice asked fearfully.

Steele’s shaking halted as his self pity began to twist into hatred and insanity. He turned to meet rose with a deranged look of disbelief, frightening the small filly and causing her to back up nervously with a sharp gasp.

“Steele?” She squeaked nervously, her eyes locked on his unsettling ear twitch.

“You’re not real.” Steele whispered, madness rearing its ugly head and clawing its way into his fragile psyche. “You can’t be real. You’re dead.” Steele continued, now edging his way toward the freshly awoken filly.

“Steele stop it, you’re scaring me.” Rose whimpered, almost whispering as her fear swelled her words and trapped them within her throat.

“What do you want with me? What did I do to deserve your curse!?” Steele demanded, frightening the small filly and sending her screaming and running further into the eerie darkness of the stable.

Steele breathed heavily, rage threatening to surface and take control of his actions; pained emotion had gained the upper hand in its battle with reason and Steele seethed with sorrow and confusion his heart bled. He didn’t want any of this, and yet seeing the small filly retreat full of fear had reawakened something within him. As rapidly as it came, Steele’s anger and frustration evaporated, leaving him with a look of guilt and sorrow.

“Rose!” He called, his voice whiny and soft, remorseful even.

Celestia what is wrong with me? He wondered, questioning what possessed him to lose control of his pent up aggression on a defenseless filly like that; dead or alive, it was not something he could see himself do, and yet there was no doubt that he had unwillingly lost control. He began to once more wonder what had brought him back into this godforsaken horror that played with his emotions and sanity as if they were the strings of a mere puppet, however the thought of being something’s plaything infuriated him and instead lead his thoughts on the matter of dealing with Rose. What was a stallion to do when the dreams he can escape to become nightmares? He wondered, demanding an answer from no one in particular. When he came up short on an answer he decided to fall back on instinct. Do what needs to be done and sort out the details later. He instructed himself, picking himself off the floor and halting before the corridor that lead deeper into the ominous stable and his fears.

Easier said than done. He realized. Steele was used to darkness, often gazing into it to meet emptiness and uncertainty, but when he felt something gaze back, and do so with utmost certainty and hatred, he questioned his boldness. This was more than darkness, this was fear and death; there wasn’t a lack of light, but rather the death of it inside this stable, and it chilled him to the bone. Worst of all, Rose was involved in it all, and to make things worse he couldn’t tell whether she was the problem or a light intertwined by the darkness that sheltered her. Real or not, she was there. That was something that Steele only now began to grasp. She existed, but she did not belong in the world of the living.

Steele glanced back, meeting the open stable door with a longing stare. He had a choice, to leave and let Rose go, to let the both of them move on, or he could continue his futile quest on trying to save the ill-fated filly he could never truly grasp. Would it be selfish to forsake the kind soul that saved his, or would it be more selfish to instead pursue it, forcing both of them to continue making each other suffer on the foolish basis that once it’s over they can truly be together? Steele sighed, returning his gaze into the black abyss that was the inner stable.

“Rose!” He called again, saddening as his shout was quickly absorbed by the wickedness within. “I’m sorry.” He said, defeated. He turned to leave, not knowing where to go, but intent on ripping Rose from her place in his heart no matter how bloody or painful it would be.

Steele took his first steps toward the exit, toward his freedom, and yet he stopped short, trapped by the darkness within the stable. The shadows themselves slithered from within the deep confines of the stable and stretched themselves to snag Steele in his tracks. Paralyzed by the chilling sensation, Steele was unable to resist the black snakes as they slithered their way up his limbs, encircling his body and tightening their grasp; he could feel the shadows slowly, yet diligently twine themselves around his body, and the largest, thickest of them all encircling his neck. He stood rigid, helpless even as he could sense the shadowy serpent coil itself around his neck, raising itself higher until it had him under its alluring spell. It was not ready to let Steele go just yet, and under its influence Steele realized he was not ready to move on so easily either. He turned to face the darkness once more. His heart bled for the chance to get to Rose, his mind yearned for peace, and his soul plead to be free from the burden of failure. She needed him, he was certain of that, and like it or not he needed her too. Steele advanced toward the shadows lead by either insanity or courage, he no longer cared which, enticed by the tune the dark piper played.

Steele it called in that familiar childish voice, edging him to run toward it now. As he ran, his hooves clinking against the cold hard floor, Steele embraced the familiar dread and gut-wrenching despair; he closed his eyes and let his actions succumb to his will.

“Steele, Luna dammit!” Hermes shouted, shaking life back into the unconscious body of the dark coated Stallion.

To his relief Steele took a single deep breath and began to cough out the remaining toxin in his lungs. Conscious and bitter, the merc sat upright and strained his eyes to adjust to his dim surroundings; he was met with a very relieved looking Hermes towering over him. A quick glance revealed that the courier had been trying to revive him while keeping a distraught Iron Weld at bay with his plasma rifle. Steele’s eyes widened for a moment and he shot a disgusted look toward Hermes.

“Don’t tell me I needed…” He began, watching Hermes’s mood shift from confusion to his stupid little grin.

“No boss-man, but if you did I wouldn’t be the one standing over you.” He informed, grinning mischievously at Scratch who was keeping Oracle firmly pressed against the lectern with her sword.

“You realize I can reach you with this thing from here, right?” Scratch replied. “I’ve even found a plausible candidate for your undertaker.” She added, returning her attention to the frail old pony eyeing her with a blank, grim expression.

Hermes laughed and returned his attention to Steele.

“You alright boss?” He asked, offering a hoof.

“Better knowing you didn’t take your only chance to get a piece of this.” Steele joked, accepting a gawking Hermes’s hoof and bringing himself upright with a grunt.

“Did you just?” Hermes began, turning to Scratch who was having a hard time trying to stifle a giggle. “Did he just make a joke?” He asked simply to ensure his own sanity.

“Now is not the time for humor! You’ve made a grave mistake, Steele. I’ve done what I can to help you, and I can see you’ve come to realize what burden you carry, but ultimately it is up to you to sever your ties, child.” Oracle boomed, chilling the mood and silencing all.

Scratch and Hermes eyed Steele nervously, seeking instruction from the suddenly sullen stallion. Whoever or whatever this Oracle guy was, he was no fool. He had successfully toyed with Steele enough to have him realize the weight his words carried. Mad pony or not, Steele had to admit the old coot might not understand him, but in the very least forced him to finally understand the nature of his psychological torture.

“Let him go, Scratch.” Steele commanded.

“Wait, you know what he’s talking about?” She asked, hesitant to let the blind psycho loose just yet.

“Let him go.” Steele instructed again, this time succeeding in having Scratch back off.

“You have valuable friends my son, not many have such a luxury in these times.” Oracle began. The blind mystic approached Steele with a strong sense of importance. “You should cherish them before you get the chance to lose them.” Oracle warned, breathing directly onto an irate Steele’s face.

“You should cherish the few teeth you have left before you lose them for playing your little mind games instead of giving us what we came here for.” Steele remarked through grit teeth. Enough of this bullshit. He told himself, he was getting answers.

Unfazed by Steele’s remark, Oracle only sighed and gave Steele a pitiful look.

“Iron Weld, clean up the ceremonial supplies and fetch our guest his clothing.” He commanded, staring intently at Steele until he heard Iron Weld fulfill his wishes; he turned to walk away from Steele, seemingly defeated in trying to persuade change in the cold hearted pony. “You will find those you came here for upstairs, but you will not find what you seek without change.” He stated gravely.

“What do you mean those?” Steele asked, making sure his gear was untouched. When he received no answer he looked up to find the frail old pony had disappeared into the shadows as mysteriously as he had come. “Celestia dammit, where’d he go?” He questioned his friends, but to his frustration they too were surprised by the agility of the old pony.

“The stallion you three are looking for visited the Followers upstairs. You can find the staircase over there.” Iron Weld informed, pointing to a corner of the church that hid the dark wooden spiral staircase ascending further into darkness. “Here are the rest of your belongings.” He added, levitating Steele’s saddle bags to him.

“Thanks.” Steele answered bitterly, smirking when the assistant let a loosely packed piece of paper fly out of his bags.

“Oh I’m sorry about that, here let me-” Iron weld began, levitating the paper to his face for a moment before freezing as soon as his eyes met the aged document.

The trio watched curiously as the quiet pony had the color drain from his face while his eyes raced through the paper over and over, reading it with utmost disbelief.

“Leave me!” He yelled suddenly, shocking the trio. “I’ve come to this place to escape that hell, and here it is come back to haunt me.” He informed, backing away fearfully and launching the paper into the air, as far away from him as possible.

“What are you talking about, what’s on that paper, Steele?” Hermes asked.

Steele stayed silent, returning Iron Weld’s disgusted glare for a moment before finally using his magic to bring the paper back to him. He took a quick look at the paper and read a few lines before burying it into his saddlebag.

“A note I took from the stable.” He informed, regretting not leaving the damn thing to rot.

“Well what’s it say that has you two drama queens so worked up?” Scratch asked. For her, this whole haunted stable thing has long since run its course and quite frankly was getting stale and boring.

“It’s the overmare’s last words, including why she made the orders that brought the extinction of an entire stable.” Steele informed gravely, instantly dampening Scratch’s demeanor.

“Poor mare, she tried to stop the deaths after her husband's murder, but they wouldn’t let her get away with it.” Iron Weld recounted, shaking his head in remembrance of bitter memories.

“Wait a second; you’re the mechanic aren’t you!?” Hermes remembered, pointing an accusing hoof at the distraught stallion. “You’re the one that left a warning message at the stable entrance.”

“I had to find some way to tell ponies to stay away.” Iron Weld answered, eyeing Steele with bitter accusation.

“Sorry, I forgot to invest in a pipbuck when I last went shopping.” Steele answered scornfully.

“Either way, leave me alone. I came here to leave that nightmare; I have no desire to discuss it. Bother the Followers upstairs and leave me alone!’’ Iron Weld concluded, turning to leave the trio’s questions unanswered.

“Gladly.” Steele remarked, shouldering his saddlebag and fixing his hat. “Night’s still young and there’s work to do, let’s get a move on.” He commanded.

“You sure you’re ok after he drugged you with Celestia knows what?” Scratch asked.

“Not the best way to get introduced into drugs, but I don’t think I’ll be doing them anytime soon.” Steele answered sharply.

Steele led the trio up the aged staircase using his horn to provide a dim light source; Hermes’s horn added another, blue sparkle and together they illuminated their ascent into the other hidden secrets of the church. A short climb later and the trio found their path blocked by a heavy wood door that dared not show signs of life or light behind it; a small rusted rectangle acted as a sliding peephole. Without hesitation Steele knocked three times and waited for the deep echoes to call attention to his odd little group. Once the echoes died, silence followed, but before Steele could grudgingly knock again the peephole slid open with a heavy thunk and a set of judging yellow eyes appeared.

“What do you want?” Their owner inquired harshly.

“We’re here to find a guy named-”

“Never heard of him. Leave.” The rude stranger responded, slamming the peephole shut and silencing Hermes.

Irate and unwilling to cope with anymore bullshit, Steele bucked the door, hard, sending ages old dust into the air. The peephole opened up quickly and the same pony now eyed the intruders with worry.

“I don’t believe you were done hearing us out.” Steele said, venom in his tone.”

“Look, I don’t want any trouble. If you have no business with the Followers then leave; we have nothing to offer.” The yellow-eyed pony responded; he began to slide the peephole shut, but was stopped by Steele’s magic.

“We just want some information and we’ll get out of your way.” Steele bargained.

“A lot of ponies that come this way want information, but you won’t find it here. Good day.” The mysterious stallion tried once more to close the peephole, but Steele held it in place with his magic.

“I see you’re in a hurry, so let’s make this quick. Info for info.” Steele offered in a bittersweet tone. He opened his saddlebag and retrieved a neat stack of old logs; he slid the pile through the narrow opening and waited as the yellow pair of eyes fell silent while they read.

“You’re just full of surprises aren’t you?” Scratch remarked, crossing her arms and cocking a brow at Steele as the trio waited for a response from the now mute pony halting their quest.

“I like keeping you guys on your feet.” Steele smirked. “Keeps things interesting.”

“What did you give him anyway? More letters from the Stable?” Hermes questioned, rather irked at being kept in the dark when it came to Steele’s affairs.

“Research logs that belonged to a pair of Followers; found it with their remains.” Steele glumly informed. Hermes fell silent again, contemplating whether it is best to let Steele’s affairs remain unknown. “Hey, don’t fall asleep on me in there!” Steele shouted, knocking on the door a few times to remind the stallion of their presence.

The familiar pair of eyes returned to the narrow opening. “Do you think they suffered?” They asked in a defeated tone, catching Steele off guard with the sudden presence of sincerity and humanity in the deep voice.

“I can’t say for certain, but it wasn’t the rats that did them in.” Steele answered heavily.

“I see.” The yellow eyes dropped their gaze to the floor and everyone shared a quiet, dreary moment of silence. “Please, come inside.” The stallion said. He unbolted the heavy door and slid it open to welcome his guests into the well-lit sanctuary that was the Followers of the Apocalypse’s home.

The trio entered, drawing the unified attention of all the working Followers; they paused for a brief moment; their expressions ranged from worry, to disgust, to fear, but soon they were all working again. The Follower’s home could be summed up in three words: spacious, clean, and efficient. Like bees in a hive each member fulfilled their role to the point. Books lined old, yet well maintained hardwood shelves, medical and scientific equipment either rested on sanitized steel tables, or were under the careful operation of a focused scientist, and the makeshift coffee and water containers that littered the workplace were set aside neatly so as not to hinder progress.

A heavy thud, followed by the clink of a bolt drew the trio’s attention to their host just as he closed the door behind them. “How did you find us?” Questioned the sullen yellow-eyed stallion. He wore a white lab coat that held a pair of thick-rimmed glasses over his light blue coat; it did little to conceal the large form of its owner.

“The lunatics that run the church below. We passed their little drug test and they sent us upstairs for answers.” Steele answered venomously.

“Good to know they’re doing their job then, albeit they might have been a bit excessive given… recent events.” The scientist said; he retrieved his glasses and put them on now that he felt a bit more comfortable with his odd guests.

“Their job!?” Steele demanded, stepping menacingly toward the startled Follower. “Good to know you have ponies fuck with you before they see you.” He added accusingly, unwilling to forgive the fact that everything he felt only moments ago was part of some bullshit plan.

“Forgive me.” The Follower said nervously; he backed up a bit and gave a reassuring glance to his worried companions before returning his attention to the steaming mercenary before him. “The ponies below only offer to protect us from dangerous folk who threaten our work, but they also run the church below of their own free will. We trust them to do as they please and pass judgment on their own accord. Their actions, no matter how unorthodox, are theirs alone; we simply share a home.”

“And who are you lot to require such protection and secrecy? Don’t you have some saintly code of helping all who need it?” Scratch questioned. Or some other bullshit like that. She thought; she wondered what a small team of selective scientists could do for people like her.

Steele backed off and simmered down. If what the Follower was saying was true, then perhaps the psycho and his lacky below were on to something; not that he believed them anyway. He brought his head back into his current situation, curious to find out just who these secretive scientists really were.

“My apologies, I suppose introductions are in order now that familiarities are out of the way.” The scientist answered, glaring accusingly at Steele while he straightened his lab coat. “My name is Gizmo, and I’m the Head Engineer of the Followers of the Apocalypse.” Gizmo’s introduction was met with unamusement, and he decided to elaborate further. “We are the Followers of the Apocalypse.” He restated, walking to stand in front of his colleagues so that they were seen working busily behind him. “Keepers of knowledge in the Mojave, we follow the shadow of the apocalypse, gathering whatever information from the old world we can to help aid the restoration of life, after the end.”

Steele smirked. “Bold quest, but if you’re as saintly as you claim, what has you all stashed away and unwilling to face the public you say you wish to help?” He questioned; he took note of the Gizmo’s sudden loss of face.

“We weren’t always like this.” The flustered pony tried to refute. “Really, we’ve helped a few settlements start a life by sharing knowledge on proper farming techniques, provided medical expertise and knowledge to doctors across the Mojave, and gave advice on defenses against the dangerous mutants of the Mojave. We even have an active refugee camp run by our lead medic not far from Las Pegasus!” Gizmo defended, trying not to seem hurt by the smudge on his group's reputation.

“But?” Hermes insisted.

“With great knowledge comes great danger. Not all ponies out there seek to use the tools of power for the good of others. Some, namely the Brotherhood.” He paused for a moment to let the sour taste of that name fade. “Would go as far as to deem everyone undeserving of such a basic necessity.”

“I thought the Brotherhood cared only about pre-war technology. What would they have against survival knowledge?” Hermes wondered aloud.

“Don’t be stupid, the brotherhood could care less about the instruction manual on how to water your plants.” Scratch commented sarcastically. “You nosy lot have your fair share of pre-war documents and tech. Don’t you?” She accused.

Gizmo adjusted his glasses and cleared his throat nervously. “Well, you wouldn’t be wrong to think so… but, that’s because we can’t afford to let the old world’s mistakes be repeated by greedy, selfless, and power hungry bastards that would cut each other’s throats to get any edge they can! It would be stupid to assume that our ancestor’s actions during wartime were the peaceful, kind-hearted endeavors that our children’s stories portray. They weren’t the saints our history books make them out to be, and the weapons they build out of pure hatred were left behind as symbols of their mistakes. After all, the weapons survived when they didn’t.” Gizmo ended his heated justification and simmered down.

Steele’s friends might have begun to understand, but he was having none of the self righteous crap he heard so many times before. “And what gives you the right to decide the fate of everyone else and the uses of our tools of destruction?” He demanded, threatening to remove the pedestal of righteousness that Gizmo had put himself upon.

“Well you see.” Gizmo stuttered. His mind raced for an answer, but Steele’s judging glare kept scattering his attention; his face had just begun to turn a light shade of red before another scientist stepped in.

“The fact that we’re not using our knowledge to bring more suffering into the world.” The small-framed unicorn explained. She approached the trio wearing a tired frown and placed herself in front of her speechless colleague. “The wasteland ponies will find ways to kill and maim each other without needing to use weapons that won’t distinguish the innocent from the guilty.”

“Oh, and what makes someone innocent in this hell hole?” Steele rebutted. “Or is that for the guilty to decide?” He suggested.

The grey coated mare’s scowl intensified, but she remained speechless for a moment. “If it is, then don’t you suppose it’s best not to give them the means to decide for others?”

“I suppose.” Steele concluded hesitantly. He had successfully given the Followers a chance to re-think their saintliness, and took that as a personal victory.

“Good, now you three have made enough noise in your short visit. I assume you came here for more than to just berate us on philosophical ideologies, so what do you want?” The mare challenged blatantly.

“We’re after a guy named Lucky Star, and we followed him here.” Scratch looked past the short mare and took a good look at her jumpy companions. “By the looks of it you’ve probably met him.”

“The asshole in his fancy checkered suit?” She recalled bitterly; her clear, strong voice now held a bitter undertone. “Yea, he came here and demanded any information we might have on some stupid trinket he had. He never showed us the damn thing, and when we told him we didn’t have a clue as to what he was talking about, he threatened us and threw around our research until we forced him to back off. The cocky bastard told us to fuck off and left for Las Pegasus; told us he’d get that information from us one way or another.” The mare explained. She smirked at the trio’s satisfied looks. “You’re on a manhunt and you question our ideals; ironic isn’t it?”

“The bastard stole from us; we’re just going to go get back what’s rightfully ours.” Hermes explained.

“I doubt he stole something you didn’t already take from someone else, so who’s to say it was yours in the first place?” The mare closed her eyes and shrugged, deciding it’s best to not start another conversation. “But as you said, it’s the guilty that decide who the innocent are.” She resolved, silencing Hermes.

“Thanks for the information.” Steele exclaimed, eager to ditch these nerds already. “Let’s go.” He commanded, aiming for the door.

“Good luck on your manhunt.” The mare called after him.

“I thought you disapproved of it.” Steele said. He looked back and raising a brow before exiting.

“He was as much trouble for us as he is for you.” Gizmo justified; the color in his face back to its normal hue.

“Some saints.” Scratch smirked before she followed Steele out.

“No-one’s a saint in the Mojave. Some ponies are just better than others.” The mare responded, ending the conversation by closing and bolting the heavy door shut after Hermes stepped out; plunging the trio back into darkness.

A familiar set of lights relit, pushing the shadows back and gave the trio time to plan their next move.

“It’s late.” Hermes complained; he let out a long, tired yawn to help prove his point. “But if you feel like getting closer to Las Pegasus, I’m not complaining.”

“To hell with that. Las Pegasus is half a days away, we’ll only begin to see the top of the city in a couple hours of walking.” She turned to Steele for support. “I sure as hell won’t go into that town without a good night’s rest. I need my beauty sleep.” She joked, running a claw through the short feathery mohawk as she closed her eyes. She opened an eye to look at her unimpressed companions. “Luna knows you two need it way more than I do.”

“Hey I know mirrors aren’t too common around here, and I hate to break it to you, but they don’t seem to be working all that well. It’s best to move on now, when it’s too dark too see you two with me.” Hermes quipped; a goofy smile threatened to overtake his face at any moment.

“You’re right, seeing us with you would be rather embarrassing; we should stay so you can get as much beauty sleep as possible.” Scratch retorted, grinning at Hermes’s spiteful squinting at her.

“We’ll need to settle down for the night. Lucky could have a number of assets in the city, and I’d rather not take on a city of thieves at night.” Steele instructed, dampening Hermes’s spirits before he could protest. “But we aren’t sleeping here.” He added, crushing Scratch’s triumphant demeanor as well.

“This is the best place around! I’m not sleeping out in the open.” Scratch complained.

“There’s a sarsaparilla factory not too far from here. It’s close enough to Las Pegasus to let us get there before the sun’s overhead. We can make it there in an hour if you two stop discussing your looks and get moving.”

“Fine with me.” Hermes said, eager to get as close to his target as possible.

“Place better be warm.” Scratch mumbled.

Steele turned to begin his descent. “Not like I expect you two to not be jealous with me around.” He commented casually; he hid a grin underneath his hat at the sound of his friend’s complaints.

***

A full moon pierced the shade of midnight and illuminated the abandoned concrete and glass monument. The Sarsaparilla factory stood desolate and alone at the top of a steep hill; the weather-beaten building was only accompanied by a faded billboard that used a happy, pink ministry mare as its mascot. Be sure to drink lots of Sarsaparilla, it gives you extra sass! It advertised, using bold yellow letters on what used to be a cheerful orange background; perhaps its most unusual quality was the mare’s bright, unworn smile. It alone survived the harsh trials of time, and for a reason only disclosed to it, shone brightly in its dreary environment. A trio of misfits followed a lone slim, winding road to the heavy blue iron doors of the factory; they stopped to catch their breath for only a moment.

“Hell of a walk. You could have mentioned it was on top of a hill.” Hermes complained.”

“I thought you were the one who wanted to keep moving?” Scratched jabbed.

“I don’t have wings like you!” He complained.

Scratch landed beside him. “Don’t be such a wuss.” She said, rolling her eyes while Hermes caught his breath.

“Shut up, both of you.” Steele barked. He levitated Ratslayer to Scratch. “We don’t know if this place is empty; keep your weapons close, your eyes peeled, and most importantly your mouths shut.”

“What’s the gun for?” Scratch asked.

“The facility has a high ceiling on the bottom floor, where the assembly line is, but every level above that is a tightly packed office; there’s no room to fly above that, so you might want a gun.”

Scratch pushed the gun away. “I’ll take my chances. I’m intimidating enough up close, and any mutant that could have wandered into there could be dealt with my sword.”

“Have it your way.” Steele shrugged. He shouldered the rifle and drew his revolvers. “Ready?” He asked.

“Right behind you.” Hermes notified, his plasma rifle at the ready and eyes lit with a familiar, gentle green glow.

Scratch grabbed the hilt of her large bumper sword and nodded reassuringly, signaling her readiness.

“Right. After me.” Steele said. He let loose a calming sigh and pushed himself against the set of heavy metal doors.

A loud, rusty creak broke the eerie silence within the facility and the open door let in a few rays of light that illuminated the assembly level of the factory; Steele scanned the area with his guns and his friends followed closely, closing the door and waiting for directions. The high ceiling echoed every movement the trio made, but otherwise the facility seemed quiet. Steele made eye contact with his friends and motioned them to follow. Together they made slow progress navigating through the endless rows of dusty bottles that littered the conveyor belts; every direction they looked, their vision was obstructed by another line of abandoned and forgotten bottles that threatened to hide a number of dangers behind them. A single, huge rectangle window that covered most of one side of the facility let in the moonlight that illuminated their path.

“Looksss like we have wandered into the wrong nessst.” A voice whispered, breaking the silence.

“Shut up, Hermes.” Steele hissed, still on high alert and not in the mood for stupid jokes or cowardice.

“That... wasn’t me.” Hermes mustered. Surprised, Steele glanced back to find the courier shaken and searching fruitlessly for the perpetrator using his pipbuck.

“Gotten lossst, have we?” The voice asked in its snakish tone. Its owner was nearly untraceable with the echo, and the trio had their backs to each other, searching for the source of their assailant.

“Come out!” Steele commanded. This isn’t good. He realized, knowing that they were in no position to give the commands.

The source of the mysterious voice was now moving about by using the conveyer belts as cover; Steele could only guess that the hissing sounds were the attacker giggling with amusement.

“Ssso brave.” It laughed. “The mice wander into the viper’sss nest and demand authority.”

“Steele!” Scratch said, egging him for a command before they end up prey.

“Who are you!?” Steele screamed, racking his brain for a solution. You’re going to die here if you don’t act now. He thought for a moment, but forced himself to focus.

“Tell me, prey.” The voice paused along with the eerie hoof-steps. “Will you fight or flee?” It asked.

The party of three tensed, realizing that the silence was a timer to their deaths if they did not act now. Ten, nine,... Steele began to count; think dammit. He told himself. Five, four… Time was running out when a lone, green reptilian eye was magnified by an empty bottle.

“Scratch!” Steele motioned, cocking his revolvers.

Scratch wasted no time reacting. The pony with green reptilian eyes made the mistake of bringing his neck above the conveyor belt, and Scratch’s claw tightened around the hilt of her sword. Not a second later the sharp blade was cutting through bottles until it reached flesh, it tore through that too and pressurized crimson liquid stained the nearby glass and rubber red. Steele made eye contact with the still-smug expression on the green mohawked head as it traveled a while and hit the floor with a sickening, wet smack.

“They’re everywhere!” Hermes alerted nervously; his vision was being clouded with little red triangles encircling his position.

Steele had no time to dwell on the gruesome decapitation, and kicked his brain into gear. “Scratch, fly!” He commanded; he turned to run into the courier once he heard the flap of wings and slammed himself into Hermes, forcing the anxious pony to run with him. “Get to cover!” He ordered, pushing Hermes toward a thick concrete support pillar and branching off in the other direction with the conveyor belts as his cover.

The fighting had started with a single bullet shattering a bottle near Steele. The factory was now filled with the deafening sound of gunfire and glass shattering; the sound reverberated off the walls and rang in Steele’s ears, deafening him to the world around him. Glass shrapnel exploded behind Steele as he ran to a large stack of boxes he hoped would act as cover from the son of bitch using a carbine to send a hail of bullets at him. Pieces of glass bounced off his armored garb and he slid the last few feet to his cover.

“Shit!” He cursed, the sound of his complaint lost and unheard by even him in the deafening storm of gunfire. Steele checked his leg to find that he slid across a piece of glass, effectively cutting his unprotected leg.

Angry, deaf, and with a leg throbbing in pain, Steele peaked from his cover and returned fire in the direction of his attacker, forcing him to seek cover. The gunfire had died down slightly as their attackers were forced to reload, and Steele used the time to hobble over to a neighboring support beam while he reloaded. Once he got there he opened fire on two unsuspecting unicorns and successfully buried his bullets in their chests, ignoring the thin layer of leather they called armor. Thank Celestia for .44 rounds. He thought with a smirk, sinking down behind his cover to reload as the rest of the gangsters sawed thin the concrete protecting him. In the small breaks of fire Steel could hear the steady fwomp, fwomp, fwomp of a plasma weapon; the bright green flashes reflected from the shards of glass near him proved his assumptions of Hermes being alive to be true.

A loud, spine chilling scream pierced and halted the gunfire. Steele peaked his cover to see a pony glow a burning red and orange as the poor mare was liquefied and turned into nothing more than a steaming, glowing pile of goo. Her companions, mortified by the sudden transformation, had halted their gunfire to watch in awe, but now turned with renewed hatred to engage a reloading courier as he hid behind his battered column. Three angry gang members were now making steady progress, suppressing the courier while they advanced. Luna dammit. Steele holstered his revolvers and withdrew Ratslayer; he lay down at his pillar’s corner and aimed the rifle. Three trigger squeezes sent silenced shots toward the assailants; he tore a hole in one of their heads and knocked the wind out of another as the bullet made a thick dent in his steel armor.

Hermes respond by emerging from his cover and effortlessly ending the confused final gangster and stealing the last breath from the other pony before he could take it. Satisfied with himself Steele holstered the rifle in time to find a smug looking mare with a bladed gauntlet towering above him. She brought down her hoof quickly, and Steele’s instinct took over. He rolled onto his back, allowing her to shred some of his garb and the flesh behind it, eliciting a scream of pain from him. The mare stepped closer, using her nonbladed hoof to hold him down while she prepared to strike again; she did, but Steele grabbed the underside of her hoof and used his rear legs to keep some distance between them.

He was stuck in his little dance, each partner struggling and shifting to try and gain the upper hoof. Steele gazed into his attacker’s blue eyes, hating her shiny, silver lip piercing as she ran a snakish tongue over it and her lips. Like a mouse in a viper’s gaze, Steele couldn’t find his strength, and the rusty twelve inch blades neared the precious life carrying veins in his neck with every moment. At last, Steele found his window of opportunity; he brought his bleeding rear leg up to the unsuspecting mare’s chest and delivered a firm kick, wincing from the pain. The mare backed off, but collected herself quickly and pounced at Steele again as he drew a revolver toward her skull. Inches before her head could connect with the barrel of Steele’s revolver, blood flew from the mare’s neck as the tips of sharp yellow talons protruded the front of her throat. Steele looked past the panicked blue eyes of a young, blood stained mare and saw Scratch heave the pony in front of her; her claws never withdrew from the back of the gangster’s neck and a sickening gurgling sound escaped the living corpse. The griffon used the mare as a meat-shield and dropped the corpse before once more disappearing into the shadows of the high ceiling.

She was an easy kill, Steele. Get it together! Steele regained his footing and found that Hermes had moved and once more stole most of the attention from the remaining gangsters. He watched the wood splinter from the stack of boxes Hermes commandeered and took a deep breath to collect his thoughts in the ear-splitting noise that was the firefight. The conveyor belts could act as sight breaks, and he could use them to mask his movements. Steele readied his revolvers and bolted out of his cover, keeping low to hide his head behind the bottles. He fired at and downed a few gangsters before ducking low behind one of the belts. Shit. He cursed, realizing that he was sandwiched between Hermes’s attackers and his own. He peaked for a moment to unload on the gangsters attacking Hermes, but was forced down when they opened fire. Luckily, Hermes took the moment to liquefy the gangsters and Steele vaulted the belt to gain better cover; he cursed as he landed on some glass. How could I not, the whole damn floor is covered in it! He reloaded his revolvers and waited for the gunfire to stop and allow him to advance.

By now, both sides were running low on ammo, and some of the cleverer unicorn gangsters were hurling glass shards at the trio in an attempt to conserve ammo. Steele was forced to wait, glancing up to see parts of his bloodied reflection in the wall of glass above him. Once they stopped, Steele moved again. Firing, waiting, moving; Steele played this little game of patience until the gangster numbers were dwindled down and he and his friends owned the majority of the ground floor. Another pass of glass stopped and Steele emerged again. He brought up a revolver to return fire, but was stopped by a bullet slamming into his thick breastplate. He fell, sucking for air after it had been forced out of him. Helpless, he lay exposed and gasping like a fish out of water. Get up, get up! He kept telling himself, unable to follow his orders because every time he tried to stand he was forced down by a hail of glass just barely missing him.

Steele could have sworn he heard screaming, it wouldn’t be surprising considering the only thing he heard in the past twenty or so minutes was either screaming or gunfire. His head rang, but with enough coaxing, air once more found its way into his lungs. The screaming he heard was closer now, and he realized there was a crouching figure next to him, pulling his body behind cover. The darkness around his vision cleared, and Steele recognized Hermes returning fire next to him.

“He’s hit! He’s hit!” The courier screamed.

“I’m alright.” Steele replied in vain, his response out-shouted by the fighting.

Steele regained his footing in time to charge another melee fighter behind Hermes’s back, thrusting his whole weight into the poor bastard and knocking him onto his back; he punched the attacker until he drew blood, and ended the fight with a strong final blow to the neck, leaving the pony to choke on his own blood. He returned his attention to the courier when a small glint from the corner of his eye caught his attention; he looked up to find it came from on top of a sheet metal housing that used to be some kind of office, and realized the high level threat. Hermes!

Hopped up on a wavering supply of adrenaline, Steele backtracked to the courier, praying he would make it in time. Hermes had taken down yet another gangster with the help of his trusty pipbuck and checked his back in time to see Steele’s chest smother him and pin him to the ground; he heard a muffled bang follow afterwards.

“Sniper!” Steele explained, backing off to allow Hermes to regain his footing.

To the duo’s relief a sharp cry signaled the end of the sniper as Scratch’s blood-coated blade tore its way into another victim.

The few remaining gangsters saw their chance to flee and tried to make a break for the door; Steele gladly spent ammo on disposing them as they fled.

“Silence.” Steele confirmed happily, as he slid down to rest against the conveyor belt.

“What?” Hermes asked, itching an ear in a vain attempt to clear the ringing.

Steele laughed and rested his aching head against the cool metal for a moment. Hermes grabbed a seat next to him and together they waited for Scratch to find them; it didn’t take long.

“That was a hell of a lot of ammo. Collect anything that we can use. We’re too weak to carry more than we need to for tomorrow's journey. Grab some carbines though, they’re worth some medical supplies.” Steele instructed. He rose and helped his friends scavenge. Together the trio collected silently, embracing the welcoming silence of dead gangsters.

Once done, they met up at the staircase to the upper floors.

“Who the hell are where these guys? Just some gangsters?” Hermes asked bitterly. Steele couldn’t stifle his laugh; he brought a hoof around the courier’s neck as he laughed. “You alright, Steele?” Hermes asked, fearing his friend had finally lost it.

“Hermes, we just killed a whole team of one of the most dangerous raider-tribes in the whole Mojave.” He explained, withdrawing his hoof. “If the reptile eyes and snake emblems didn’t give it away, they’re called the Vipers.” As Steele explained he motioned his friends to follow him upstairs. “These religious zealots worship snakes for whatever reason, and their initiation process is incredibly difficult to survive; almost as hard the Goth’s actually, but while the Goth’s is a physical challenge, these crazy fuckers poison each other and recruit whoever survives.”

“Explains why the bastards needed a few bullets to take them down.” Hermes groaned, struggling to climb up the steps.

“They weren’t that bad.” Scratch remarked jokingly. Although not as battered as her companions, she too was covered with nicks and wounds that painted her body red.

“Tell that to their other friends.” Steele answered.

“You mean there’s more!?” Hermes asked fearfully, looking alert and anxious again.

“Doubt there’s any here now, but let’s just hope that no other group comes in for a checkup.”

The trio finally reached the top floor and found it mostly barren; another large rectangular window provided a great view of the night, the quiet Mojave below, and the top, cloudy layer of Las Pegasus in the distance.

“Let’s set up camp here.” Steele suggested, dumping his gear and loot against a wall near the window.

“I left a warm, insane church for this.” Scratch complained, only half-joking.

Steele left his friends to manage their haul while he limped around searching for anything useful. He didn’t find anything, but a broken, grimy mirror resting on its side. Out of curiosity, he faced it toward himself and smirked at the reflection. Cuts, gashes, and sear marks from bullets that barely missed littered his skin and garb; a few glass shards were still embedded into the dark material. Where flesh was not covered by a red outer layer, it was covered by dirt. Only his face was spared; well… mostly. There was a long gash running horizontally along his cheek where glass had left its mark. Steele’s attention was caught by his rear leg, instinctively he had raised it without paying much mind, but now he could see the bloody mess he had to tug along.

He brought his attention back to his reflection and sighed; he searched for something meaningful. He was exhausted, wounded heavily, psychologically tormented, and worst of all part of a quest he was never too enthusiastic about undertaking. He smiled. But I’m alive. He reminded himself. And I’m not alone. That’s what the most important part was. He had two unlikely companions with whom he just conquered certain death with, and no amount of damage could outweigh how much better it was than being in good health and alone. It was odd to say it, but he was a hella glad to have the courier fighting alongside him today, and Scratch played an irreplaceable role as well.

“Steele!” A voice called for him.

Steele gave a last look at himself and sighed again. He was different now, and only time would tell whether that was a good thing; for now, it was, and he turned to leave.

“I’m here.” He announced, returning to his little band of misfits.

“We were just about to assume you got lost.” Hermes said.

“Pass me our meds.” Steele commanded. “You lot look like hell.”

Scratch wasn’t off too bad, she had escaped most of the fire by flying, but she too had her fair share of wounds. Hermes on the other hoof was cut up pretty bad; his white coat red with his own blood, but his armored vault suit seemed to do its job otherwise.

“You don’t look better yourself, “mister lady-killer”.” Scratch replied sarcastically. “Who died and made you doctor anyway.” She asked.

“I had a combat medic buddy when I worked for the N.L.R.” He taught me enough to get by with more than just the “suck it up and deal with it” medical expertise that Legion goes by.”

“Then patch me up, doc.” Hermes joked.

Steele got to work, cleaning cuts and digging out glass shrapnel with his magic; he applied magic bandages accordingly and gave each patient a bottle of healing portion to top it off.

"Sloppy, but it'll do." He commented. He looked at his bloodied hooves and decided to leave them be.

“You’re not going to make a comment on wasting supplies?” Hermes remarked. He was mummified, but for the most part alright.

“Shrapnel must have pierced his skull.” Scratch remarked, looking no better with her blood stained bandages. "Again."

“You two are going to have to drag me around tomorrow, so I rather get there in once piece.” Steele answered bitterly.

He began to pack up their meager supply of meds before he was stopped by Scratch.

“You’re the one that’s going to hold him down, right?” She asked Hermes.

“You know more than me.” He confirmed.

“What the hell are you two talking about.” Steele asked, backing up on three legs.

“Returning the favor.” Hermes answered; he pushed Steele onto his back and used his magic and weight to hold him down.

Scratch grabbed the remaining medical supplies and took her position at Steele’s wounded leg.

“This is going to hurt like hell, so keep him still.” She warned.

“Fuck off, both of you.” Steele protested; he tried to fight back, but as soon as Scratch grabbed his leg he was immobilized with pain.

"Try not to break your teeth." Scratch advised, shoving a wooden stick into Steele's mouth; he protested with a muffled growl, but Hermes kept him in place.

Unable to decline the sudden medical procedure, Steele regretfully accepted his fate. An hour of him attempting to scream, curse, and make death threats passed, and he was covered leg to neck in the group’s last bandages; small, bloodied glass shards lay stacked in a pile next to him.

“That was a hell of a lot of glass.” Scratch said, wiping the sweat off her forehead. “Least you’re not the only one with some medical know how.”

“Thanks.” Steele answered sarcastically, throbbing in pain after the sudden surgery.

Hermes yawned loudly. “That's enough excitement for one day.” He suggested; he plopped down next to the large window and stared at the bright city in the distance.

“More than I asked for.” Scratch replied, yawning as well. She grabbed a section next to the wall and collapsed on a makeshift pillow.

Steele hobbled over to his mummified companion and took a seat.

Las Pegasus, as the name suggests, was a safe haven for all pegasi looking to flee their army’s oppression after the Great War. Dashites, loners, refugees, and any other form of survivor fled to the great city and rebuilt it when it was spared the mega-spell bombing of the war. From here, Steele and Hermes could only see the top layer of the city, or rather the thick clouds that hid the tall buildings inside from view; what lay above them only the pegasi knew. The clouds kept the important tall buildings out of view from any invaders, namely the Lucky 38 weather control tower/casino that was rumored to be the home of the infamous Mr. House. Rumors claimed it was the reason behind the immobility of the clouds. From here the duo could see the faint glow of a city that never slept, just barely visible behind the thick clouds.

“We’ll get there, rest up, and kill that son of a bitch.” Steele assured, tapping Hermes on the back reassuringly before choosing to retire for the night.

Hermes stole another glance at the city, and took his spot near his friends. Tired, battered, yet alive Steele and his misfits enjoyed a deep sleep.

Author's Note

First time linking from google docs.(Still can't believe I've spent all those hours re-italicizing everything.) Let me know if anything seems off.