Fallout Equestria: Psychosis

by Cyberpunked

Rating: teen
Tags: Crossover, Human, Dark, Comedy
Length: 15176

A cyborg named Black finds himself between a dead end and a firing squad with a piece of alien technology as a shield.

Get the job and do what they tell me to do. That was the life of Black, a cyborg living in 2248. Not unusual, save for the shadowy source he got his jobs from, and their content. His "do what they tell me to do" usually involved corporate espionage, assassination, and thievery. He's happy with his life, wanting nothing more or less to happen.

But, after a night at the local bar gone wrong, he's stuck between a rock and a hard place. The rock's a firing squad, the hard place is a pair of super soldiers, and all he's got is a gun, his coat, and the most valuable case this side of a Nuclear Football.

Guess what happens.

Edited by the wonderful G-man64. Read his stuff.
Description edited 4/8/14. Moved to On Hiatus until I finish all rewritten chapters.

Published 1970-01-01 00:00:00 UTC
Last updated 2014-04-01 19:37:39 UTC

Prologue

Today was not a good day for a man named Jim D. Black.

First off, he had woken up on the wrong side of his tiny coffin apartment with a crick in his neck. In his attempts to remove it, he’d bruised his thigh, cut the palm of his hand, and managed to put first degree burns on all of his toes. He’d settled on occasionally rolling his head around, and that relieved some of the pain, but throughout the day he’d still have to deal with discomfort around his neck. That wasn’t fun when you had a neural jack, multiple synthetic muscle strands to support a cybernetic arm, and a completely metallic spine and skull. Damn Corp Wars...

Second, the waitress didn’t get his order right. This wouldn’t have been a problem, seeing as he had a steady supply of gray-market stimulants he could have injected at any time, but he much preferred the bitter bite of distilled beans that had been crushed up into a fine powder, and he liked that warm. So when he’d ordered his coffee, found out it had been cold, and chugged it down, he was even more surprised to find out it had been decaf. In the end, he injected a dubiously-legal stim and got over it. He’d learned the ways of the honey badger a long time ago, whatever that was.

Third, the weather. The Boston-Atlanta Sprawl was known for its (highly acidic) rain, seeing as it was on the east coast of the United States and spewed out industrial fumes all day, but today it was even worse. Not because of hurricane force winds or a meter of rain being poured onto his head, but a miserable overcast sky and a drizzle so light he could barely feel it. That was worse to him than any monsoon or tornado, seeing as he was generally an upbeat guy.

Fourth, he was being cornered by a bunch of Manticore mercs, the most ruthless kind of mercenaries in the Sprawl. This… was a problem that couldn’t be explained in a couple sentences.

Jim was one of those few people who held the honor of being called a Street Samurai. People who were on the fuzzy side of morality and the law, took jobs from Zaibatsu corporations, and killed for money. An almost legendary Street Samurai, in fact, often being paid upwards of a quarter million ameros even for a simple hit. With the money he had stored in Swiss bank accounts, he could’ve retired years ago, replaced his cybernetics with organic clones that worked just as well, and put his entire life behind him while snorting coke off the backs of hookers.

But he was in it for the thrills. Not for the killing, not for the bringing people to ruin, not even for the money he got, but simply for the act of causing chaos. It was the best high in his books, better than any amphetamine or hallucinogen in his eyes. Every hour he was running across the rooftops of buildings, evading the corrupt police patrols, and causing havoc was another hour he considered fulfilled. If he ever gave up his life and settled into a cushy corporate deskjob, he’d have considered that a fate worse than death.

So yes, he was what could be called a modern supercriminal; nigh-untraceable, nigh-untouchable, nigh-uncatchable.

When he got hired by some Zaibatsu corporation calling itself by some crazy eastern European name, he didn’t care. When he was told to get a super secret project from some lab studying quantum mechanics or some shit, he didn’t care. He just entered the airvent, found the room the project was in, watched one of the tests, broke in, and grabbed what he was told to grab; a weird-ass metal case, some hard drives, and the neural chip of one of the lead scientists. That last one was pretty messy.

What he didn’t expect was the large group of mech-aug Manticore mercs coming down on his ass like the wrath of god. The second that scientist’s lifesigns went out, they barged into the room, gave it a ballistic makeover, and tried to find whoever did it.

Unfortunately for Jim, they did.

Now, he was running across the slick streets with a dozen of the most heavily armed dakka-lovin’ mercs on his tail. Bright neon burned streaks into his cold eyes, startled citizens wearing plastic raincoats darted out of his way, and identical AI-assisted cars honked their disapproval.

He spotted a shadowed alleyway he could turn into. Then he glanced over his shoulder.

The largest motherfucker Jim had ever seen was running straight towards him, and he was closing the twenty meter distance between them incredibly quick. How the hell running in a suit of armor that heavy was possible without a power suit, he’d never know.

He did know that he’d need to hit that man in the knee to bring him down quick, because the armor everywhere else was too thick. It was against his ingrained instincts to go for center of mass, but pragmatism, a century old medical textbook, and circumstances were forcing him to think on the fly.

When the giant man suddenly appeared in front of Jim with no sound other than the crushing of pavement and screaming civilians, Jim did something he’d look back on and laugh about:

Punched the giant man in the face with his cybernetic right arm, thanking Newton and SarifCorp all the way, and crunching the Manticore’s faceplate and knocking him flat on his ass.

Escape! screamed his mind, but the mercs were nearly on him by then. He grabbed the Manticore’s plasma rifle’s two power cells, and jinked into the alleyway, hoping to God it wasn’t a dead end.

It was.

No other options readily apparent, he turned the nearest dumpster around to block most of the narrow alley, propped the metal backpack he’d stolen on the green-painted steel alloy, aimed the plasma gun at it, and waited.

Half a second later, six Manticore’s turned the corner, rifles immediately at the ready. They didn’t fire when they saw Jim just about ready to destroy the billion ‘mero object they were hired to protect.

“Stop!” he screamed, activating the voice changer in his throat, “You make one move, I break this piece of shit!”

That gave them pause.

“Put your guns on the ground, your hands above your heads, and step out of the alleyway. Anyone who doesn’t comply gets to see this nice piece of tech turn into a pile of slag, got it?”

A pregnant pause. Everyone dropped their guns, too afraid Jim would actually destroy it. Behind his faceplate, Jim grinned.

“Suckers!” he said, turning the barrel of the machine gun to the mercs and squeezing down the trigger. Three of them went down, their momentary screams of pain drowned out by the constant ZZZRR of Jim’s plasma gun.

When the other three grabbed their guns, he’d already emptied the power cell. Cursing, and with no time to reload, he dropped behind the dumpster with only a dozen bullets screaming past his head.

Jim looked around. The concrete wall in front of him was too high to climb, even with the  power suit he’d gotten from Drebin. There wasn’t a convenient fire escape, and if there was, he’d get shot as soon as he tried to get up it. A thought crossed his mind to simply toss a molotov and get out, but last time he checked every Manticore mercenary had some sort of fire-retardant on them at all times, along with a somewhat fireproof suit. That plan was a bust.

He glanced at the Obrez on his hips. Heavily modified Lee-Enfields, rechambered for 5.56x45mm, the stocks cut off, pistol grips installed, and barrels cut down to an almost pistol-length eight inches. A semi-automatic action had replaced the original action, but it was slow and clunky. Great for CQC, and they looked damn cool, but they weren't great for much else. To use them, he'd need to get the first shot off. With the lead being flung at him, he doubted he’d be able to squeeze even two shots off before getting iced.

His gaze landed on the plasma gun -how the hell did mercenaries get plasma guns?!- in his hands. He knew how to reload a rifle, but the same problem with the Obrez presented itself; expose himself to fire, get shot at. It was a problem usually solved by having someone else go and get shot, but he was running it solo. He peeked his head out the side and saw that twelve more Manticores had joined them.

The dumpster probably wouldn’t hold for much longer. He gave it thirty seconds, at the most. Boston-Atlanta police took five minutes to respond, but he doubted they could take down Manticore mercs. Last he heard, most of the cops were bent, and most Manticore mercs cared less for human life than a bad case of malaria.

So how do I get out of this situation now…

Kick the dumpster? Nah, the power suit wasn’t that strong. Take potshots? He’d need some sort of optical fiber camera to get a look at his enemy, and that was a resource he didn’t have. Bluff surrender? No, Manticores weren’t merciful, and by the letter of the law they were allowed to execute him on the spot.

Jim glanced at the graffiti covered door to his right. Then he grinned, reached for his vibro-knife, activated it, and turned the lock into bits of chewed up steel.

Still on his back, he kicked the door open with the butt of the rifle, rolled in, and looked around. He cursed when he saw the cowering people inside.

“Get out while you still can! Those are Manticores outside, and they don’t care if you’re caught in the crossfire!”

They were halfhearted words, in Jim’s opinion, but they worked well enough to get the people to scatter. He never much liked collateral damage. When they were gone, he put the machine gun over his shoulder, ran over to the stairwell, kicked the door down, and started running, blood pumping in his ears all the while.

Barely two minutes and a blocked off stairwell later, he was on the roof of the building, looking at the gray skyscrapers surrounding him. Nothing to jump on to, nowhere to run, and he doubted he’d survive a fall onto the hood of one of those cars down there.

He was well and truly trappe- the backpack!

Not caring that there was a mercenary group hot on his heels, he set about opening the case. It was easy, as a vibro-knife could cut through steel like butter, but when he opened it he had a sudden realization.

He had no idea how the hell he was supposed to operate it, and with mercenaries just around the corner, he didn’t care how he was supposed to do it. All he had gleaned from his eavesdropping was that the green button meant go, and the haptic keypad was for entering coordinates.

“Stop right there!” someone yelled. Jim didn’t listen. Instead, he glanced over the edge of the hundred meter building, punched in a bunch of random numbers, flipped the merc’s leader the bird, and jumped off the edge.

When the leader got to the edge, he didn’t see a red splat on the ground.

Jim groaned in pain, silently cursing his mechanical eyes, their damnable booting sequence, and the pounding railroad-spike-through-the-head kind of headache.

Everything in his body felt wrong. His feet seemed to be stuck with the muscles extended and burnt toes curled in. Neither of his hands responded, both -metal and flesh- seeming to want to stay balled up into fists. All of his internal organs seemed jumbled up, heart behind lungs, lungs pushed against the sides of an overly expanded chest. Even his skeleton felt wrong, spine straightened out, shoulders on the front of his chest, legs twisted ninety degrees, and a skull feeling far too large with eyes that seemed like dinner plates.

The only things that felt right… maybe his penis, and that was it.

He waited. The tinny beeping wasn’t doing his headache any good.

Then a tiny shock went through his neck, signifying his CyberHub had activated.

[Booting SarifCorp CyberHub Mk3.]

[Booted]

[Loading SarifCorp CyberOS V2.0.1]

[Loaded]

He coughed. An electric jolt went through his all-wrong body. A little yellow list appeared in the inky blackness in front of him, listing out warnings about illegal modifications and calibration.

[Warning: Illegal modifications detected. Report to nearest SarifCorp station at your nearest convenience.]

[Warning: SarifCorp Hercules Mk3 Prosthetic Arm has become uncalibrated.]

[Warning: SarifCorp Eagle Mk5 Prosthetic Eyes have become uncalibrated]

[Warning: SarifCorp Lung Capacity/Filter Implant Mk3 has become uncalibrated.]

[Warning: SarifCorp Heartbeat Regulator Implant Mk4 has become uncalibrated.]

Jim blinked, suddenly seeing the world through a wide-angle lens. Muddled colors of blacks, browns, and whites mixed together to become a nauseating hue. A blob of something red near his face seemed so far away, while a sphere of yellow in the corner of his eye nearly blinded him.

[Initiating calibration of SarifCorp Eagle Mk5 Prosthetic Eyes in 5…]

[4…]

[3…]

[2…]

[1…]

[Calibrating]

And then the world came into focus.

He was surprised; the room in front of him looked like the inside of a shantytown clinic. It probably was, going by the downtrodden, dusty appearance of it all. Strangely enough, there were only three other beds he could see; a personal effort, perhaps? He’d pat them on the back for their initiative.

His eyes drifted, coming to rest on a large black screen held up by a rolling tripod. The cracked screen showed a blue line, constantly shooting up or crashing down, each action punctuated by an arrhythmic beep. Soon enough, it settled into a steady beep-beep, matching his own heart.

That’s a heart rate machine, stupid.

Jim would have facepalmed, if he could have mustered the energy to move. He was used to the Heartbeat Regulator automatically connecting to a haptic computer that the doctor had, not something that old. Curious, he traced the cord coming from one end of the machine to his fur-covered chest.

If his insides could’ve twisted up anymore, they would’ve.

His chest, while still crisscrossed with strands of synthetic muscle, wasn’t bare. No, it was the exact opposite of bare; it was covered with short, bristly fur the shade of dark red that he’d call “rust”.

He twisted his head, getting a better look at the rest of his body.

“What the fuck,” he whispered, though it came out more as a sharp “whuddafuhk.”

It was surreal. It was crazy. It was insane and he knew it, but he’d been turned into a goat- no, some kind of horse, there weren’t cloven hooves, and was that a tail?

Almost involuntarily, the dark orange mass of long, messy hair swished. Yes, that was a tail. It was most definitely a tail. A very tail-y tail. Not the “creep follower” tail, an honest-to-God HORSE’S TAIL!

And it was connected to his body. An anatomically-impossibly colored horse’s tail was connected to his body.

His body that had been turned into that of a horse.

He gripped his head, but stopped when his hand -it was not a hoof!- hit something; something hard and jutting out of his forehead.

Jim twisted his eyes, trying to get a look at it. When he did, a cold wave of pure what-the-fuck washed over him.

There was a unicorn horn. Jutting out of his head. A horn with an almost invisible monofilament wire wrapped around it. A horn that was a point cone with a spiral going up it. A unicorn horn.

Was this a dream? No, he wouldn’t be lucid. He never dreamed lucidly. Was he in a Dream Catcher? That was a possibility- but that just recorded dreams, it didn’t let you have lucid dreams! Drugs were out of the question; the pancreatic implant would have metabolized them into something that wouldn’t get him high.

He saw a mirror on the wall, just opposite his bed.

Yes, that was a horse-no, a unicorn- in the mirror. A unicorn with big, shiny eyes and a monofilament wire running down its horn and the side of its face and oh God WHAT THE FUCK HAPPENED TO HIM!

A panicked scream escaped his throat, turned into a warbling electronic tone by the still-active voice changer. Jim rolled out of bed, hitting his head hard on the floor but not letting that get in the way of his hysteria-induced thrashing. The heart monitor hit the floor.

“What the hell!” a woman yelled.

Jim stopped, turned to the voice, and felt his eyes get even wider.

Yes, that was another horse. A horse with a bubblegum pink coat, a mane that was on the border between light red and hot pink. Plus eyes that were blue and VERY MUCH HUMAN, because fuck logic.

Chapter 1: Learning the Ropes

Time was frozen for Jim.

All he saw was that horse, mouth agape, looking straight at him. The horse that was violently girly, wearing a leather coat, and carrying a gun in its mouth. The room didn’t matter, his being a unicorn didn’t matter, nothing mattered.

There was a horse that had no right to be pink, wearing something decidedly human, and doing something that he was fairly certain was anatomically impossible. A rational part of his brain said that the pink failed as camo, that the horse didn’t need the leather coat, and that the gun would knock all its teeth out if it fired. Another rational part of his mind said that PINK HORSE + LEATHER COAT + PISTOL was illogical and had no right to exist in the universe. Then a third, irrational part of his mind screamed PONY, PONY, PONY, PONY, PONY, PONY, PONY!

He closed his eyes.

Then he opened them.

The impossible pink horse was still there. Still being pink, still wearing the coat, still holding the pistol.

He laid his head on the ground.

Then he raised it.

        Still there. Still pink, still with the coat, still with the pistol. As far as he could tell, she was confused.

        Then it hit him that he shouldn’t have been able to tell if the horse was confused because their body language was COMPLETELY FUCKING DIFFERENT but he could still tell she was confused.

        He started chuckling.

        The horse cocked an eyebrow. “Sir, are you okay?”

        Clarity started to return to his head. No need to be panicked. Panic wasn’t good. If he panicked, he was dead. Deader than dead. A plan started to form in his head. He needed to make the most of this situation, figure out where he was, get help! Hopefully his acting skills would hold up.

He turned off his voice changer before saying a simple, “perfect, really. How are you?”

She was definitely confused. “Was there anypony in the room? Anypony at all?”

Jim looked around. “Nope,” he exclaimed, a stupid grin splitting his face, “just myself and these beds and you.”

The pink horse -she said pony, so she must’ve been a pony, like in those old cartoons- blushed -how?!- then holstered the pistol. “If you’re alright, you’d best get back into bed.”

A blank spot hit him right then. He glanced at his splayed out legs, then back to the pony.

“Shit,” he muttered.

“What?”

“Shit, I said, shit,” he repeated, louder.

“Why? What’s wrong?” The horse started getting closer.

“I can’t walk.”

The horse stopped. Her -definitely a her, going by the slight build and high voice- face was definitely confused. “Wait, what?!”

“You heard me. I can’t walk.”

She cocked another eyebrow. “And why’s that?”

He paused for effect, biting his lip. “I… forgot.”

“You forgot how to walk?” Once again, she started to move closer. “How is that possible? Everypony knows how to walk. How come you, a grown stallion, don’t?”

“Well maybe I hit my head! That’d explain it, going by the fucking massive headache!”

Before the mare had a chance to reply, Jim got to his feet -well, hooves, now, but he thought of them as his feet. It was much like walking on all fours, if your arms were stretched to the same length as your legs, the joints messed with, and everything changed, but the comparison still stood.

As soon as he tried to take one step, gravity decided it wanted the slightly-panicking man-turned-horse to kiss the very much dirty floor.

When he tried to catch himself with his (woefully uncalibrated) right arm, he ended up launching himself to the side. The bed that he ended up hitting went bang under the weight of a large horse flung at great speed by high-density synthetic muscle. New pain assaulted his new body, and he started up a storm with the profanity coming out of his mouth.

When he finally stopped, he noticed the large cut running across his back, and rolled off the crunched-up bed, there was a large crowd (they were all horses of varying shades of brown, green, and tan) in the doorway. Their weapons varied from rifles, to shotguns, to submachine guns, or even baseball bats -horses can’t play baseball they don’t have fingers and they can’t throw how the fuck do they have baseball bats- all of which were pointed in Jim’s direction.

And the pink horse had a positively-radiant (and biologically impossible) blush.

The only good thing to come about this was the fact that Jim knew he really, really had to turn down the power in his right arm. Which was actually a leg. Which he didn’t use to facepalm, because he was certain it would leave a dent on his thick metal skull, and that wasn’t easy to repair.

“I’ll just… return to my bed now. Sorry about-” he pointed to the bed-that-was-not-a-bed-anymore with a hoof “-that. I know I’ll pay for it, just let me get my bearings, alright?”

The leader of the group, a grizzled old horse with gray coat and mane that was very much white, turned to the girly pony, and a silent conversation seemed to happen between them. It was punctuated with nods of the head, hoof -that’s impossible how do they tell what symbols are made with hooves that makes no sense!- language, and very subtle body language.

At the end of the conversation, the leader turned to the group and seemingly told them to buzz off. Group of panicky herbivores gone, the leader glared at Pink Horse for a second, then followed the group.

Pink Horse sighed. “Sorry about that. The Sheriff is a bit… jumpy. He’s nice, but jumpy. Don’t worry about paying him back.”

Jim was silent. Just for a second, though. “So, how’s about I get back into bed and you check up on me? Cause you’re a doctor or a nurse, right? I mean, unless you aren’t. In that case please don’t operate on me.”

The mare -was that the correct term for a horse that was female? Probably- chuckled. “Yes, I am a doctor. Don’t worry, I’m not going to operate on you. You’re in perfect health…” -she glanced at his cybernetics- “except for a couple things.”

He let out a fake chuckle. “What things?”

“An irregular heartbeat. Cardiac dysrhythmia of the tachycardia persuasion, I believe. It’s barely perceptible, but it’s there. I would provide some medication, but we’re… a bit short on resources.”

He gasped an incredibly fake gasp, because he already knew that his Heartbeat Regulator caused irregular heartbeat if it wasn’t calibrated. Nothing fatal, and it wouldn’t get worse due to built in failsafes, but he needed to put on an act.

“I’m not going to die? Am I going to die?! PLEASE TELL ME I’M NOT GOING TO DIE!” He put a hand/hoof to his chest, somewhat panicky, (attempting) to feel his heart.

“Calm down! It’s just minor! You probably don’t even need medication!” said Pink Horse, rushing over to Jim’s side, “well, there might be a chance of you suddenly dying, but that’s one-in-a-million! You’re perfectly safe!”

Jim let out a breath. “Well, ain’t that a relief.”

“Look, just calm down and tell me who you are.”

That threw a curveball in his plans. A genuine “Uh…” escaped his lips.

“Uh? That ain’t a name for a pony.” Pink Horse sat down, reconnecting the heartbeat monitor to his chest.

“I…”

“I who?”

The ceiling was very interesting at that moment. Very dusty, very… rustic. Very shantytown-esque. “I… don’t… know.”

“You… don’t know? You don’t know your own name?” Pink Horse cocked an eyebrow. She looked liked she’d dealt with this kind of stuff before. “What do you know?”

He bit his lip. “Just… that I was running. Running away from someone. And falling. When I hit the ground I woke up here. I can’t remember anything else, ma’am.”

Technically, he wasn’t lying. Just leaving out details. And that wasn’t lying.

“Is that all? Nothing about yourself? Or how you got those cybernetics?”

He saw no risk in divulging a tiny bit more information. Always had to seem friendly, even with members of different species. “Well, I know I’m good at running. And that I got this-” he raised his right leg/arm “- in an accident. But other than that, nothing.”

“Let’s get a look at your cutie mark. That should shed some light about your identity.”

Another curveball. “A what now?”

And that made Pink Horse stop in her tracks. “A cutie mark. The mark everypony gets on their flank when they figure out what they’re good at in li- oh Celestia. You really did hit your head that hard… Can’t even remember what a cutie mark is. The others at least remembered that...”

“Well… uh…” Jim was truly at a loss here, “why don’t we have a look at mine? And then I can decide on a name that you can call me! Would that work?”

Pink Horse nodded.

Glad that no other questions came up about his past, Jim twisted his head around to get a look at his flank. The fact that he didn’t even know what a flank was didn’t stop him, just that he needed to find a mark on his behind. And he needed to think fast about a name.

The symbol that was on his behind gave him pause.

It was his two Obrez, their synthetic furnishings and silver barrels crossed. They were overlaid on a serrated vibro-knife, and that rested over five black hexagons arranged in an X shape.

There was silence.

Pink Horse broke it by clearing her throat. “So… what do we call you?”

“Runner,” said Jim.

“Your cutie mark doesn’t have anything to do with running, and as far as I can see you can’t run. How about Gunner? There are guns. We found guns on you.” Pink Horse cocked her head to the side, obviously scraping the bottom of the barrel for names.

Jim thought about it for a moment. “How about… Cyber Runner.”

“What the hell is a ‘Cyber’?”

“It’s… a computer thing. Like the cybernetics. They have computers, inside them. I think. And I'm good with computers.” That was a weaker explanation than any Jim had ever made. He mentally facepalmed (or hoofed).

“Your mark has nothing to do with computers.” And that destroyed any computer related names that Jim could come up with. “My parents named me Salve. My cutie mark is bandages and some healing potions, and I’m great with medicine. That shouldn't be so hard We could call you… Gunslinger, but I don’t know how well you can shoot.”

Seeing no other option, Jim agreed. He was already in a world that had talking horses in it, and they had weird names, so why the fuck not. Disbelief went out the window a long time ago with the cutie marks. “Gunslinger it is then, because I can’t be original. It’s a better name than Pip or Steel Hoof or something.”

“Alright, let’s see if you can walk…”

Jim frowned. “This ain’t gonna be fun, I can tell.”

“Most of the time, it ain’t.”

“Well… you’re making progress, at least.”

If only falling on your face every five steps was progress in this world of ponies, then it must have been a funky world.

Suspendeth thy disbelief, and thy will shall never be broken.

It had taken five minutes, but “Gunslinger” as he was known, was able to stand up without assistance. It was taking slightly longer to figure out how to walk at any pace that could be considered “normal”.

Without complaint, he stood up, looked down at his legs, and followed the process laid out by Salve. Left hind leg, left front leg, right hind leg, right front leg. 1-2-3-4. Left hind leg, left front leg, right hind leg, right front leg. 1-2-3-4. Turn. Left hind leg, left front leg, right hind leg, right front leg. 1-2-3-4 left hind leg, left front leg, right hind leg, right front leg. 1-2-3-4. Repeat.

“Gunslinger” had written up a quick program that would create a beat in a pattern of four. Then he’d written up an extension to that program that told him just what step he had to take on which beat. It’d helped immensely, but he was still falling flat on his face.

“That was eight steps. You’re definitely making progress.”

He sighed. Then he got up, walked around for twelve steps, and didn’t fall down.

“Now, we got to teach you to trot. And gallop. Those are useful skills in the wasteland.”

That caught his attention. “The wasteland?”

“Right. Amnesiac. Well, all you need to know is that a long time ago, a bunch of ponies got in a war, blew up the world, and now we’re all suffering for it. Some of us were lucky enough to get into Stables. The others… I prefer not to think about them.”

A chill went down his artificial spine. Salve must have caught it.

“Something wrong?”

“Nothing. Nothing. So, can we get to the trotting and the galloping?”

“Later. For now, follow me outside.”

The first thing that Jim saw when he came out the house-turned-clinic’s back door was dirt. Brown dirt, as far as the eye could see, flatter than a dead man’s heart monitor. There were rocks strewn about it, and tiny hills and ripples, but it was overwhelmingly flat.

The second thing that Jim saw was the strikingly familiar sky; the same hue of television-static gray clouds that he was familiar with, day and night. The only difference was the rougher appearance, likely because they were natural and not caused by industrial fumes.

The third thing that Jim saw was the collection of barrels painted with bullseyes set up at various distances. All of the metal was rusted, incredibly so, but how it was still standing was beyond him.

Then it hit him that he was standing in a firing range.

“Stay right here, I’ll be back in a minute.”

And with that, Salve left.

Jim sighed. I really need to figure out how I got here.

So far, he’d deduced it wasn’t a dream, he wasn’t in an artificial dream machine, and he wasn’t high. It being the afterlife might have been a possibility, but he wasn’t being tortured by a bunch of big red devils, so that was good. He just knew that it wasn’t heaven. He’d never go to heaven with his morals, or the kind of stuff he did.

Or maybe it was the backpack. Had he managed to enter in coordinates that would take him to another universe? Probably. The device did use some Quantum Tunneling bullshit to do what it did. Maybe it sent him to another universe. One that had ponies instead of people.

But why am I a pony now?

He looked around, spotted no one (or pony) then lifted his cybernetic leg.

Yep, they were still there.

Neurons fired, organic and synthetic. The tiny fingers on the end of the metal limb opened. They seemed different, somehow, but just as familiar. Shorter, stubbier, and with a wider palm. Open. Close. Open. Close.

Schwing.

        Four, tiny, inch-long blades erupted from the ends of his fingers, right where the nails would have been. He retracted them, then turned to a nearby trash can lid.

He lifted the lid by the edge, turned it around, then threw it like a frisbee. It went sailing off into the clouds. A smile crossed his face. At least that was familiar.

Barely a second later, Salve came back outside, struggling to lift a massive burlap bag. Before Jim could ask if she needed help, or how she was holding it, she deposited it at his feet/hooves.

“Open that,” she said, panting.

“What’s in it?”

“Your stuff. Well, the stuff Spade and Club found. There was some armor that looked like it was built for a minotaur, but they couldn’t bring that with them. Said it was too heavy. Those griffon guns, they could.”

He undid the string, opened the bag, and was surprised to find that the plasma rifle and Obrez were inside it, not tarnished at all. He counted out his original six twenty round magazines, each full of 5.56mm rounds, three for each of his Obrez, while the two other drum cells for the plasma rifle seemed to be at full charge. They seemed much larger than he remembered.

The vibro-knife was in there, twelve inches of serrated cobalt-titanium alloy larger than he remembered. It must have been a depth perception thing, he assumed, because his entire field of view still didn’t feel right. Someone had taken the time to craft a cloth sheath for it, one that was undecorated.

He turned to Salve. “Well… uh, thank you.”

“You’re welcome. Now, usually, we don’t do this so quick, but because you’re recovering particularly fast, we’re skipping a couple steps. I just want to see how well your motor skills are.”

Silence, for a moment. “Might as well see how well my aim is.”

Jim unfolded the fingers on his mechanical hands, ignored the surprise on Salve’s face, grabbed one of the Obrez, loaded a magazine, cocked it, and took aim at the barrel that was a good fifty meters away.

KRAK. KRAK. KRAK.

And there were three bullseyes. The spread on them was negligible, but the recoil was stronger than he remembered. He set the Obrez down after flicking on the safety.

“Alright. That’s good. Much better than I expected. At least you know how to use that arm of yours, and your sight ain’t all that bad. You sure you weren’t a wastelander before you lost your memory? Or a sharpshooter?”

“I’m certain, ma’am. This is the first time I’m using these guns.” Jim winced inwardly as what he just said fully processed in his mind. That’s a lie, and she ain’t gonna believe me.

“So, pick up that rifle for me.”

Jim paused, looking at the massive beast of a weapon. It was definitely larger than he remembered.

“I can’t pick that rifle up, not with one hand.”

That gave her pause. “You’re a unicorn. You can lift things telekinetica- right, amnesia.”

Telekinesis? Bullshit.

Then Jim remembered that he was a pastel-colored unicorn, there was a pink pony in front of him, and griffons apparently existed. He’d thrown his disbelief out the window a long time ago.

But he was still not incredibly familiar with being a pastel-colored unicorn who could do magic. “Can you at least explain it to me?”

“Sorry, but as you can see right here-” she pointed to the lack of a horn on her head “-I ain’t a unicorn. The amnesiacs I process, of which few were unicorns, usually learn it pretty quick though. It’s instinctive, I think.”

Fine.

He grabbed the plasma rifle, set it down in front of him, and planted his rear end on the ground. Maybe telekinesis was just like controlling his cybernetics. Think, and it happens.

Plasma rifle, upwards.

Nothing.

He repeated his thoughts, trying to get the plasma rifle to go upwards. After the twentieth attempt, he stopped.

Time for a different approach. Maybe some innervision? They always did that magic shit with the introspection in the movies. Maybe it’s the same here.

He closed his eyes. His focus drifted to the horn sticking out of his head and the monofilament wire running down it. Then he opened his eyes, focused on the plasma rifle, and willed it to move with invisible fingers. Sorta like moving his cybernetic- exactly like moving his cybernetics.

A pale orange glow surrounded the stock and barrel. Something started weighing down on his head, probably some metaphysical equal exchange quantum mechanics bullshit, but he ignored it.

He willed the plasma rifle to move upwards. It swung up in a wild arc, but stopped at Jim’s command. He lowered it, straightened it out, and checked out that it wasn’t damaged. Satisfied with the state of the rifle, he physically grabbed one of the power cells, connected it, flicked the fire-select switch to ‘single’, and took aim at the furthest thing he could see through the variable-zoom scope.

A single tree, blackened and dead, some hundred meters away. Its limbs twisted, trying to reach into the sky, while exposed roots let it cling to the ground. Most of the bark had been shorn off by a stray bolt of lightning some time ago.

Jim smiled, looked down the sights, and pulled the trigger.

From the barrel exited a single blob of ionized gas, held together by a slow-decay magnetic field and guided by a tiny ultraviolet laser. The white hot blob crossed the distance to its target in the blink of an eye, vaporizing a large chunk of the rotted wood.

Then he whistled.

Then he grinned, set the rifle down, grabbed the vibro-knife, and activated it. The vibrating weapon shook in his magic (ha, magic! He’d never thought he’d be using that kind of stuff!) grip, causing Jim to frown. His frown did a backflip when he got a better grip on it. A piece of wood levitated over, and he sliced it up like butter, spreading sawdust and splinters all around.

He’d still prefer to have hands, those were familiar to him, but telekinesis was a whole new avenue.

Holy hell I can make shit float with my mind. I CAN MAKE SHIT FLOAT WITH MY MIND!

From the look Salve was giving him, he guessed that he did well.

She hmphed, then cleared her throat. “That was much better than I expected. Most amnesiacs I process can’t even stand an hour after getting up. Are you sure you weren’t a wastelander?”

“Absolutely sure, ma’am,” he replied, mentally tacking on a but I do know some places that could be a wasteland.

“Well, now that we have the mandatory tests out of the way, let’s get you outfitted. I think we might have some leather armor in your size, over in the storage area, should keep you alive for a while. Supplies, too. You’re gonna need ‘em.”

And I hate leather, he thought, not voicing those words. If there was one thing that he would say to other prospective Samurai, it was “don’t complain, not to Zaibatsu or indie employers, otherwise you won’t get repeat clients; same thing applies to women you don’t want hating you.” It was a different situation entirely where he was now, but maybe that one thing would stay the same.

Jim followed Salve through the town.

It was a bit of an exaggeration to call it a town; more like if a small section of the slums on the outskirts of the Sprawl got dumped in a desert, compressed, and if it were possible, given an even more run-down look. Most of the homes were either tiny shacks of metal and cardboard, some being less broken-down huts of wood and brick, while a select few were built around the restored-remnants of collapsed houses. Despite the different materials and qualities of the homes, they all shared a dirty, dusty look, wood rotted and metal corroded.

It left a bad taste in his mouth.

The inhabitants were covered in dirt, clothes -why the hell would they need clothes?- patched up things of cloth and leather, most carrying some form of weaponry, whether it was a baseball bat or shotgun. They looked at him with a mix of wariness and curiosity, as if he’d lash out at any moment or break into musical number. Most of their eyes were focused on his cybernetic leg, some on the weapons he was carrying on his back, and a disconcertingly large amount (mostly from mares, but he swore he saw a couple stallions looking) at his bum.

Realizing that he’d slowed down to a crawl, he quickly picked up the pace to get beside Salve.

A thousand questions were on his mind, but one came to the front.

“So, who are Spade and Club?”

“Two of the town’s many inhabitants. They’re from some city down south, Appleanta, I think. Part of some special company calling themselves the ‘Fifty-Twos’. Walked into town a couple weeks ago, said they were here to guard the town and secure some M.A.W experiment site. Sheriff pitched a fit, but when a bunch of bandits got cocky enough to raid they were vital in protecting the town.”

Probably mercs hired by some egghead.

“And they’re the ones that found me?”

“Yep,” Salve answered, then she pointed her hoof at a pair of stallions, “and there they are right now.”

Jim looked them over, then did a double-take. Were it not for the custom patches on the fronts of their trench coats, they were identical. Practically-shining white coats, inky-black manes, and dirt-brown eyes. They both wore pinstriped fedoras with playing cards (Spades on the one with the Spade patch, Club with Clubs) on them. Even their weapons (sidearms, he guessed) were identical, near-pristine revolvers with foot-long barrels and synthetic (mouth?) grips.

They had dragged an obviously-drunk stallion out of the bar, beating him senseless with their hooves. A petite mare (with wings, Jim noticed) was standing just outside the door, shocked expression on her face.

Salve didn’t stop.

Jim, realizing once again that he and a growing crowd had stopped to watch, quickly caught up with Salve.

“Is it normal for those two to beat the shit out of someone?”

“No. It’s normal for Lucky to get the shit beat out of him by someone else. He just so happened to get the shit beat out of him by Club and Spade today. Last week it was Aero. Week before that, I had the honor of beating the shit out of him.”

“He ain’t that lucky if he gets the shit beat out of him that frequently.” A thought crossed his mind to go and help Lucky. Spade and Club were really giving it to him...

“Don’t fret. He’s the town punching bag, and a justified one at that. Nopony can stand his desperate attempts to get some pussy or ass.”

And that’s when any sympathy for Lucky went straight down the shitter. If there was one thing Jim hated, it was womanizers.

“Can I ask just what Spades and Clubs are like?” Jim said, glad to be away from the scene.

“Spade and Club. Spade’s the talker, Club’s the fighter, and they’re twins. I’ve seen fillies swoon over both of them, but they haven’t shown any interest in mares. Or bucks. Very dedicated to their work, and protective of the ‘weak’ and ‘innocent’. I think it’s just a license in their heads to be heroes.”

Jim grunted. “But are they?”

“Some say they are, some say they aren’t. I prefer not to deal with them.”

Silence, save for the clip-clop of hooves.

The storage area wasn’t really a storage area. More like a fenced in mini-warehouse with a bored-looking clerk at the front. Three heavily-armed and armored ponies, one mare and two stallions, kept guard, aided by a pair of impractical-looking wheel-hooved robots.

Jim could tell their huge, dinner-plate eyes were focused on him even through the tinted visors they wore.

He made it a point to lay down all his weapons at the door, even his knife. If it made them less twitchy, so be it, but if that mare kept on staring at his bum...

“Try this on,” interrupted Salve, “it should have more padding on it. Might be a tiny bit more comfy.”

Sighing, Jim slowly removed the previous set of leather. “Look, just toss me a trench coat and some saddlebags and I’ll be fine. Frankly, I’d prefer to not get shot at all.”

“Trench coats are tacky and they aren’t in stock. Saddlebags, however...”

A pair of saddlebags slid into Jim’s hooves. Annoyed, he glared to his right, where that same mare was looking at him with one of those looks. Snarling, he snatched the bags, threw them to the side, and looked at Salve.

“Gimme that,” he said, snatching the black leather out of Salve’s hooves. He put it on, tightened a couple straps, then glared at the annoying security mare.

Whom he flipped off. She obviously didn’t understand the gesture itself, but seemed to get the meaning behind it. When she didn’t back off, Jim cut across his throat. She definitely got that, and backed off just slightly.

He turned back to Salve, scowling. In the minute he’d taken to put on the leather armor (it was still not comfy, even with the padding), she’d grabbed a pair of large, rose-tinted Lennon specs.

“Try these on,” she said.

A genuine “Why?” escaped his lips. If they were to hide his cybernetic eyes, they’d be slightly redundant, as the only way that anyone would be able to tell if he had cybernetics was if they looked incredibly closely. Thank God for SarifCorp.

“If you didn’t notice, nopony’s made eye contact with you. You got metal eyes. That scares ponies.”

And then he remembered that his eyes were massive dinner-plate sized things. He complied, the room shifting towards the red end of the color spectrum.

“Huh. It actually looks good on you. C’mon, let’s go the front so we can pay for this stuff.”

They walked to the front, Jim checking the bags along the way.

A small amount of water, six cans of beans, two empty Obrezmagazines that I’ll have to check, leather “armor” that wouldn’t stand up to a Saturday night special, some sunglasses, and bags. Yup, if they toss me out of here right now, I’m fucked.

The second they got anywhere close to the clerk, all three of the guards tensed. Jim snorted, putting what Salve had snagged on the counter and emptying the bag.

Clad in even heavier armor than her guards, the clerk levitated a suspiciously familiar machine gun from off the wall behind her.

Jim tensed. That gun would turn him into mush, even if it was falling apart.

...and the second the clerk looked up and saw Salve, the gun went back on the wall.

“Another amnesiac pony? Lemme guess- M.A.W?”

“Yup. How much for the supplies?”

“Normally, that leather armor he’s trying on would be two hundred or so caps. Those mags would be fifty each. Ten caps each for the beans and twenty-one total for those three bottles of water. The bags and sunglasses? Five caps. About four hundred fifty caps, total.”

Caps? As in bottlecaps? Was that what they used as currency? Fucking weird ass currency to use. I’d use empty cartridges, or maybe just not use a currency at all.

“For you? I’d say… two-fifty. Minimum,” the clerk said, leaning forward,”for the handsome buck behind you? Hundred seventy five caps.”

“Just a hundred and seventy-five caps?” Salve said, eyebrow cocking.

“Consider it a favor for the stud right there.”

Oh God this mare is hitting on me, he thought, barely noticing the bow-chicka-wow-wow coming out of one of the stallions or the look on his face, and isn’t a stud a breeding stallio- nope nope NOPE!

Salve, seemingly reading his mind, groaned, “Pincher, how many times have I told you that hitting on the amnesiac patients is kind of frowned upon? Oh, right, a lot. Now, here’s the caps-” she dug out a dirty-looking bag “-and we’ll be off.”

They quickly exited the storage area/warehouse, but not before Jim heard a catcall directed straight at him.

Salve had given Jim a temporary room in the hospital where he could rest his head for the night.

It was very small, the hospital bed in the center taking up most of the room, most of its sheets covered in gunge and its originally-springy material no doubt stiff as a board. Broken computers and medical equipment lined the walls, burnt out and choked with dust. The only window in the room as boarded up, letting the little light left in the day through the cracks. Even though he’d only been up for a couple hours, going by his CyberHub, the day went by far too fast.

He’d only been in there long enough to drop off all his weapons save for one of his Obrez, some of his supplies, and his saddlebags. With a bit of ingenuity, he cut out a small holster for the oversized pistol from a burlap bag, tying it around his left leg. Telekinesis certainly made the job easier.

Jim walked out of the room, cybernetic leg clunking against the ground. He’d seen Salve go to a room at the end of the hallway, probably a converted office, and he needed to ask her a question.

Clip-clop-clip-clunk.

Seconds later, he pushed open the door, looked inside, and made eye contact with the mare of the hour.

At the moment, she was sitting on her bed, loading a large shotgun with what-looked-like magnum slugs. She twitched, then glared at him. Jim barely noticed her out-of-control mane.

“What do you need?” she asked.

“It’s about my heartbeat. Why can’t you prescribe medication?”

“We don’t have any, and we probably won’t. Remember what I said about us being low on resources?”

Jim nodded, putting on a slightly more concerned face.

“We’re low. Way low. Not on food or water, we get enough of that from the radigators, brahmin, and the river. We’re low on medical supplies. Disinfectants, bandages, healing potions, painkillers, Rad-X, Rad-Away, Anti-Tox, shock talismans, you name it. We don’t get those, we’re fucked.”

“How so?” he asked, already knowing part of the answer.

“Even if we cook the meat, there’s still gonna be radiation in it. That builds up over two meals a day, every day, seven days a week. We mix in a bit of Rad-X with the food of the livestock, dilute the water with Rad-Away, that helps. And the water, despite our best efforts, still doesn’t get filtered enough. Tiny particles with bacteria, dirt, grit, whatever. That can make ponies sick. You got ponies sick on the job, you don’t get ponies doing their jobs.”

Jim nodded, not saying anything. He’d learned enough back home to always, always listen to everything.

“Don’t even get me started on the painkillers, healing potions, and disinfectants. You know how a heali- right, amnesia. Well a healing potion just boosts your healing system, and it works the best when there’s not a bullet lodged in your body. Yeah, it’s great when it works, because then you can go from being bed-ridden to walking, but when you’ve got a bullet stuck in your ribcage and you need it removed, you can’t use a healing potion! It’ll just heal around it, and that’s bad in the long run! So I have to do surgery, and because as you can see from the state of this place, it ain’t that clean!”

Internally, he winced. He’d been lucky to get off with few bullet wounds in his career as a Runner, but even with the advanced medical tech humanity had, it still hurt like a bitch.

He raised a hoof, stopping her reasons-turned-ranting from becoming full-on raging. “So, you’re running low on resources that bad? How about, as a favor, I go and find you some medical stuff?”

Salve chuckled darkly. “That’d be nice, don’t get me wrong, but the only place you can get anything is from places that haven’t been picked clean yet. And most places are picked clean.”

“That’s… not good.”

“Like hell it is! Spade and Club found a Ministry of Peace transport up the river that crashed when the bombs fell, but they couldn’t bring it back in because of the wildlife.”

“Wildlife?”

“Wildlife. Ironwolves, manticores, coyotes. No raiders, fortunately, but you’re dead if you go up there,” she said, turning to shut off the lamp by her bed. Sensing that it was time to go, Jim closed the door and made his way down the hall.

A sleepy woman was not something he wanted to mess with.

In Jim’s opinion, bars weren’t that great a place to be. Most of the time, they were blaring procedurally-generated pop music to a mindless crowd with nothing better to do while they were served cheap moose piss and shitty salty snack foods, which had no other purpose than enticing the crowd to buy more cheap moose piss. They were great places to do business for a lesser Samurai, but other than that he’d avoided them like the plague. He was classier than that.

Unless they had champagne, in which case he was perfectly okay with this bar.

So, when he was greeted by friendly folks talking about friendly things, wooden tables and chairs, warm, natural lights, and a bartender that was flesh and blood, a massive grin crossed his face.

None of the barflies paid any mind to the cyborg wearing black leather, nor the pair of pistol handles coming out of his saddlebags. Their eyes were on the messy white-coated, black-maned buck on the stage in front of them, and the microphone being levitated in front of his face.

Satisfied that he wasn’t going to be the subject of a shootout anytime soon, he made his way over to the counter. A teenager with half-lidded eyes tried to sidle up to him, but he pushed her away. The sound of her hmph-ing was lost over the jolly atmosphere and rocky voice coming from the singer on the stage.

Jim jumped on to a seat by the edge of the counter, waiting for the bartender to take notice of him. When the large mare did, she grinned and leaned to face him.

“And what can I get for you, handsome?”

“Any word about job openings in the area?

[//END CHAPTER//]

Chapter 2: Getting The Hell Out Of Dodge, Because Logic

Jim woke up with a start, vision black because for some odd reason his eyes hadn’t booted up yet. Usually they were booted the second they detected him exiting sleep, but apparently because reasons they weren’t active. There was an odd taste in his mouth, a tiny bit of a headache, and for a really weird reason most of his stomach felt… scratched. Like someone had scratched his stomach like he was a dog or something.

That’s fucking weird, he thought, same as that dream. How the hell did that luchadore type with boxing gloves?

His eyes still weren’t activating. Were they finally starting to give out? No, SarifCorp prosthetics were durable. He’d taken a low-intensity plasma shot (“shoot to disable” that merc had said) to the face, and they were still working. Not properly, but he chased the fucker who did it, ripped his arms off, and beat the guy to death with them.

That had been a fun job.

Either way, he rolled his shoulders and stretched his odd-feeling arms. Might as well get up. That dream with the ponies was realistic, he’d admit. Maybe someone put sedatives in him? That made sense, and certainly explained the odd feelings. If the backpacks just teleported him some place on Earth, and if it wasn’t the furthest reaches of Siberia or the Sahara, someone must’ve found him. If those bullshit quantum mechanics physics about wormholes or some shit (or were they showerheads?) from those old twenty first century games were correct, “speedy thing goes in, speedy thing comes out.”

He pulled up his (thankfully booted) CyberHub and checked for injuries.

[No injuries detected.]

[All prosthetics are at one hundred percent integrity.]

Huh. That was weird. He only got weird dreams when he was on sedatives, and if he wasn’t on sedatives then that meant that “speedy thing in, speedy thing out” wasn’t true, then… was he captured?

No, he could feel his cybernetics. Even if whatever secretive organization removed his cybernetic arm, which was highly unlikely seeing as it was integrated into his right side, then he’d be restrained. Maybe an everything-proof room? Possibly, but really, an everything proof room? That was impossible.

[SarifCorp Eagle Mk5 Prosthetic Eyes activating in 3…]

[2…]

[1…]

And then his eyes were assaulted by a battering ram, multiple ten gauge shotgun shells, a pair of Gerber Mark 8 Steel-Cutter vibroknives on hyper-mode, billions of pins, trillions of needles, and the deepest darkest depraved dredges of shark maid fetish porn on the internet. Well, the equivalent of it. Really it was just a tiny bit of light filtered through shut blinds, but it felt like the aforementioned ocular assault.

“Joder! Shit! My eyes!” Jim screamed, flinging himself out of bed and squeezing his eyelids shut. The pain! He’d always had a little headache when he woke up, that was a disadvantage of being a cyborg, you always had little pains, but this was bullshit! This was entirely bullshit! Almost as bullshit as the dream with the po-

Oh, wait, he was a pony.

Yeah. That was a thing, now. His eyes were still shut, seeing as he didn’t want to go bli-

He was drinking last night. That was it. Now it was coming back to him…

“Hey hey, if it isn’t amnesia boy!” someone said.

Jim jumped in his seat, very nearly spilling the drink (champagne, if you were wondering) that Barkeep let him have, on the house apparently. He thought that no one would pay attention to him. His initial observations said that this town was one of those adventure towns, the ones like in the old west, but with ponies! A cyborg clad in black leather wearing red sunglasses was not supposed to be noticed! How could that be!

Wait. He was a cyborg clad in black leather wearing red sunglasses. That was suspicious.

Either way, he turned to the speaker.

It was the same white-coat black-mane buck from onsta- that pony was still on stage. They were near identical, as far as he cou-

He was talking to Spade or Club. That’s when it hit him.

When his headache subsided, the blinds got closed, and he found his sunglasses, Jim got a glance at the room. It looked like it came straight out of a shantytown. Splinters on the wooden floorboards, a tiny bed with very thin sheets, and… most of his belongings that he brought in the bar scattered across the room.

He glanced at the door, thanking whatever gods would listen that there wasn’t someone to see him in such a mess.

With a sigh and a rub of his forehead (not with the cybernetic arm, he wasn’t that dumb), he sat down, laid his face on the bed, and attempted to recall what happened the night before.

Something clinked. He glared at it, and saw a bottle of cheap moose piss that could’ve passed for beer. The label said “Buckweiser”, and that made him grin. Even with the difference in universes, there was still some overlap. Maybe he’d find “Colt” Firearms, or Ford “Mustangs”. That’d be hilariou-

He slapped himself. Only Honest John would make a pun that bad, and his puns were pretty bad. Made Jim sing some old twentieth century song, made him drink even though he had the alcohol tolerance… of an anorexic… six year old.

Fuck.

“Look, Spade, I don’t drink hard liquor.”

“C’mon, really? A big, mean-looking fucker like you can’t hold his liquor? That’s more bullshit than I can take,” Spade pushed, moving the massive growler of whiskey in Jim’s direction. XXX was the label on it, but Jim doubted it had anything to do with sexually explicit content.

“Buddy, please, I do dumb things when I’m really drunk. Really, really dumb things. Wildly inappropriate things involving pineapples and yo-yos.” Jim pushed the growler away, grabbing his champagne and taking another sip. He really, really hoped that Spade would just ignore him after that.

“Man, I’m gonna keep bugging you until you drink it.”

“Just leave. Please. And die.”

---

Jim sighed. The last time he drank any hard liquor, it’d ended up bad for the whole team. They’d had Honest John to blame for it, but some of it still fell on his head. All he’d done was give in, once, and then there’d been that decapitated head, the trio of angry old ladies, and those two dudes.

He checked to make sure that all of his stuff was on his person. Both his Obrez he personally checked, and other than a new set of scratches on the bottom of the grip, they were pristine. Unfortunately, his armor didn’t get the same treatment, having “POLICE” painted very brightly on the back, in clear white paint. That’d get him killed for sure if someone decided to shoot him.

Then a very feminine groan escaped from something on the other side of the bed. Jim pulled one of his Obrez (it’d kill anything at this range)out with his cybernetic arm, afraid to use his telekinesis because he had no idea how alcohol would react to magic. He could explode, get a worse headache, or nothing at all would happen.

He wasn’t going to test anything yet. He’d only been here for the entirety of a day and… a half? Maybe? He didn’t know, but he did know that he wasn’t just going to let experimenting kill him. He’d had enough of that when he was a testbed for bio-mods, and that wasn’t something he’d wish on anyone.

Then a hornless mare with light-green mane and sandy-tan coat (the colors went well together, he noted) appeared, wiping her mouth and rubbing her head. The connection between the clothes and the mare was instant.

“Aw fuck,” Jim whispered, lowering the rifle-turned-pistol.

“I’m bugging you.”

Jim glared straight ahead, trying to ignore the young voice behind him.

“Buggy bug, bug.”

He looked at his reflection in the disappointingly-flat and distressingly-not-bubbly yellow-tinted drink. Maybe he could start a fight, get a dogpile going on with this annoying kid on the bottom. Didn’t he know not to disturb his elders?

“Buuuuuuuuuuuuuggggggg!”

With a sigh, he pushed the champagne away, turned around, pulled off his sunglasses, and gave Spade his rendition of the Eye of Fear. Those of lesser will and intoxication would back away, a sudden desire to check their ovens instilled in them. Those of even lesser will and more sobriety would take it as a sign of the end of days and run screaming in terror, the authorities finding them days later as a hobo on the street.

Spade, whether he had incredible will or too little blood in his alcohol stream, Jim wouldn’t know.

He did know that if he drank from the growler, the annoying kid would leave him alone.

He also knew that he had very, very, poor alcohol tolerance. He’d refused bio-mods to fix it, seeing as he had a distinct (but very minor) phobia of drinking hard liquor, because there was an irrational fear he’d do something wildly inappropriate with a pineapple and a yo-yo in a public place. And besides, if they discovered those government bio-mods...

“Fine, alright, I give in. I’ll drink this shit, but don’t think I’m going to get plastered for your entertainment!”

With that, Jim grabbed the growler, tipped it on to his lips, and chugged down.

It wasn’t the best whiskey, at least. It burned going down his throat, left a stinging aftertaste, and bit like hell, but it wasn’t horrible.

He finished chugging after a minute, setting the growler down and glaring at Spade. Jim ignored the warm feeling spreading through his belly, choosing instead to poke Spade in the chest with his cybernetics.

The smaller buck stumbled back, but the stupid grin was still on his face.

“Happy? Are you fucking happy? I fucking chugged down an entire fucking growler, will you leave me the fuck alone now?”

“Alright, alright, I’ll leave you alone!”

---

“Lemme get this straight- I was so drunk I was saying that I was actually this thing called a human, which was a giant monkey from some place called ‘the Sprawl’, and that I actually had two hearts, one of which was mechanical, and that everyone should’ve bowed down to me because I was their robot monkey time lord master?”

The mare finished putting her clothes on. “That’s about the gist of it. Then you fell on the floor, vomited and said ‘give my regards to Honest John, the son of a bitch’. After that you passed out and I had to carry you to the room.”

“And you carried me all the way up to a room that you rented, put me in the single bed, and didn’t have wild drunken sex with me?”

“You aren’t my type.”

Jim let out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding. He’d been that close to blowing his cover. If he’d just walked up to Salve and said “hi, I’m a space monkey from a mega-city called the Sprawl that has super-advanced technology that could totally save everyone here with no effort, oh and I don’t have amnesia”, he’d probably have been run out of town. Plus it was bad taste to have wild drunken sex in his line of business.

This was going to be the first time he ever thanked God for him being that drunk. He couldn't do that at the moment, seeing as he was a mortal and God... was kind of God, so he settled on thanking the mare for not having drunken sex with him.

“The cuddling was great, though. You’re a great cuddler, despite the metal parts.”

“Wait what? Say that again.”

“You’re a great cuddler. The cuddling was great. Are you deaf?”

Jim didn’t answer that. Instead, he holstered his pistol, put on his sunglasses, and walked out with his head hung low and a lot more self-consciousness.

He exited the bar and made his way towards the clinic.

On the way, ponies gave him odd looks. Some were of curiosity, others of surprise, and some… some of… was that lus- stopping that line of thinking right now.

There wouldn’t be any way he could take a back street- he doubted there were any, and if there were, he’d still have gotten lost. His skills might have been navigation, but even he had his limits. An entirely different town in an entirely different universe? No. Besides, he really needed to ask Salve about work that needed to be done around town.

Even he knew that he couldn’t mooch off welfare for long. Besides, six beans and half a liter of water? That wouldn’t sustain him for three days even if he rationed, and going by what he’d learned from Barkeep, most of the towns were at least a couple days walk apart. Some sort of Apple place was closest, at three days, but he had no idea where it was.

The verdict? He needed a job, or an escort. Even if he could figure out how to shoot like a professional, and how to run like a hundred meter… sprinter or galloper or whatever, and how to negotiate, someone would figure out. Bar gossip had said that most-if-not-all of the amnesiacs weren’t cyborgs and they didn’t recover nearly as quickly. Maybe he should have fumbled up on some of the tests.

Jim sighed.

It would’ve been a whole lot easier if there was some mystical marker that pointed him in the right direction. Hell, it’d be a whole lot easier if he just had some sort of automatic sorting menu thing that listed things in order of priority, or just listed what he needed to do.

Heck, why couldn’t there just be some sort of exposition fairy that guided him along? Just told him everything he needed to know, about why he was here, why he was a pony, and why everyone was staring at his ass. He’d settle for an evil looking man-bull thing, or a crusty old geezer, hell, even an annoying little kid, just so long as he got answers!

Fuck now everyone was staring at him because he’d just stopped in the middle of the road. The next thing he needed was for spaghetti to fall out of his pockets, but that didn’t happen, so he kept on walking.

Right up until a stallion got in his way.

[SUDDEN PERSPECTIVE CHANGE]

Wanderlust was a simple stallion. He had an orange coat and sky-blue mane, but that didn’t matter. There might have been some history of being silly (some mares would say adorable), too, but it didn’t matter. His cutie mark might have been a horseshoe and some bottlecaps, but most ponies didn’t pay much attention to that. Certainly not bandits or raiders.

What did matter was the fact that he was in need of a caravan guard. The last one had walked off when he said they’d be going south through bandit territory, and he’d been lucky to make it to Rivertown alive.

Oh, it was a nice town. One of the larger ones he’d seen, and he’d been all over. From Hoofington to Manehattan, Stalliongrad to Mareami, all in the span of some five years. Had guards, had a wall, had a bustling community, but he was in the business of searching for a caravan guard. Which they unfortunately did not have.

Two days searching and he hadn’t found any prospects. Sure, those Spade and Club fellows seemed nice, but they were already on a mission! Wanderlust was a polite stallion, if odd, and he wouldn’t interrupt their mission to investigate stuff even if he had a bajillion caps. Which he didn’t, being a dirt-poor trader.

Maybe finding a Sentinel patrol? No, he doubted that they’d be all the way out here. They mostly patrolled through Appleanta. If he did find a patrol, then they’d take him.

If, he reminded himself, if I find a patrol.

Could he ask for the assistance of the guards of the town? No, he’d been lucky to get into town without bandits on his ass, and unless he found some four-leaf clovers which made him lucky, which let him get more four-leaf clovers to infinitely prolong his luck until he was the luckiest pony in the universe, then he just plain wasn’t going anywhere without a guard.

Where would he even find four-leaf clovers? And where would he hide them if he had to, to keep someone from stealing all his luck? Would he have to kill if he wanted to keep his clovers? Oh he really didn’t want to have to kill to keep his luck!

What if he found an entire clover field! Just roll around, gather all the luck. But what if a giant monst-

Unfortunately, he wasn’t lucky enough to spot the massive stallion he was about to run into.

Thud.

And Wanderlust fell to the ground, pain shooting up through his nose. He made to apologize, but stopped when he noticed that there was a massive stallion wearing black leather, carrying a pair of badass looking pistols, and having cybernetic parts.

Plus he was huge. Like way huge. Huger than Wanderlust, and he was pretty large. Well, in comparison to the ponies from his hometown, who were kind of small. To normal wasteland ponies he was kind of small. An unusually tall dwarf pony? Maybe this pony was a very unusually large dwarf pony.

Bah! He shook his head, banishing those thoughts. There was a badass in front of him, either waiting for his apology or a chance to shoot him.

“Sorry about that,” Wanderlust said, “usually I’m more attentive.”

“Oh, that’s alright! I’m not very attentive myself. Sorry for bumping into you,” said the surprisingly soft voice of the badass. He expected a deep rumble, or a throaty growl, but a voice like that? Did not expect!

“It’s fine.”

And silence. The stallion started walking, Wanderlust following after realizing there was a complete badass who looks like a mercenary just walking past him. And that he needed a caravan guard.

Thirty seconds.

The badass paused, turned, then looked at Wanderlust. “What do you want?” the stallion groaned.

“Oh well I was in town and looking for a caravan guard. Do you happen to know any caravan guards?”

That made the stallion pause. “No, unfortunately, but I am planning on heading out soon.”

Wanderlust’s face lit up. “Wonderful! How soon?”

[BACK TO JIM/GUNSLINGER]

Jim didn’t sigh.

Of course, he mused, I just have to think about getting a job and then a weird pony walks up and asks me about it. I am a master at the art.

He still needed to talk to Salve, find a more resource-efficient medium-range weapon other than the hideously-overpowered plasma rifle, and maybe get a map. Then he’d be out of the town.

Both Jim and his maybe-employer made their way to the clinic.

Salve was there, reading an old magazine. As soon as she heard the clunk of Jim’s cybernetic hoof, she looked up and glared at him. Then she glared at his maybe-employer, cocked an eyebrow, and her face softened.

“Before you ask me if you can go out, let me tell you that it usually takes a week before the amnesiacs even think about joining a caravan. And usually they don’t even find one.”

“So can I go?” Jim asked, pointing to his soon-to-be-employer.

“Sure. Your health checks out and you got the two skills every wastelander needs, why not?” she deadpanned.

“Is that a yes or a no?”

“Yes. You’ll survive in the wasteland. Just keep your wits about you and your gun pointed at anything that moves.”

And cue silence.

“You’re letting me go, just like that?” Jim stated, almost confused.

“Yeah, you’re letting him go, just like that?” Wanderlust added. Jim glared at him, which caused the small stallion to back away to avoid the low-power Eye of Fear. “Sorry!”

Salve sighed. “Look, I can’t prepare every amnesiac that comes through. I can’t just go ‘hey, here’s everything you need to get started’. I have to get them up to speed, get them to learn the ropes, and hopefully send them off with somepony who isn’t going to kill them. Frankly, Spade and Club are probably bringing in another pony right now, as we speak.

“Admittedly, you’re one of the fastest recovering cases, but even if I wanted to I couldn’t help you. You know how hard it is being a doctor in a small town like this? You got dumb ponies needing treatment all the time because they do dumb shit. Jump off a building thinking they’re a pegasus, try to breakdance or something, drink two hundred year old rat poison for shits and giggles. Maybe explore the crater of an old megaspell. Or other things.”

And cue more silence.

Jim groaned. “Alright, I see your point there. Still, letting me go without even checking on my health? That’s a bit… questionable, to me.”

“You just got piss-drunk, and if you’re still walking and talking, then you’re fine. Like I said, I don’t have the time to take care of all your injuries and all your requests. Your employer could handle anything you need to know. Now, if you could plea-”

At that moment, a pony barged in, carrying a foal on her back. A large cut was running across her back.

“Help!” the mare screamed. “She tried jumping out the window like Mare-Do-Well! I told her not to but she said she’d try to be a hero!”

Both of the stallions stepped out of the way, Jim giving Salve a look and Wanderlust trying to avoid the blood. Then they turned, looked to each other, and walked out.

Leaving the altercation with the mare behind them, Jim decided to discuss business terms with his employer. He’d come back later and get the

“So, how much am I getting paid?” he asked, ignoring the wait what? look the stallion gave him.

“Uh… seventy-five caps? It’s a half-week’s walk to Appleanta from here, assuming we don’t stop in Powder Springs.”

Jim very nearly tripped at that. Appleanta? Was that some pony parody of Atlanta? And Powder Springs? Fuck, that was where Honest John came from! Maybe this was where John disappeared to, all those years ago. He found a similar portal device, activated it, got turned into a pony, and to say ‘fuck you’ to everyone named a town the same as his home?

And then Jim realized that it was all baseless conjecture, and that he really needed to throw his disbelief out the window if he was going to get anywhere.

“Are you okay?” his employer asked. “You looked a bit shaky there.”

“Sorry, sorry. Just… just a thing. You know how amnesiacs are. Flashbacks and all that to the life they can’t remember.”

“Y’know I never really understood that. How do amnesiacs just have flashbacks all the time? Do you need like emotional stuff, or does it just happen?”

Jim didn’t answer that. He couldn’t. He wasn’t really an amnesiac. He was just pretending to be an amnesiac. He’d probably get paid more. Like the actors that portrayed doctors getting paid more than the doctors. Fucking Hollywood.

“It… sometimes happens. Or maybe there are triggers. I’m still not sure. You know I just woke up, and that my memory only goes back to about yesterday. Bit of a fish out of water, me.”

“The fuck is a fish?”

“An animal. That lives in water.” Jim never thought he’d be explaining just what a fish was to a tiny cartoon horse living in a third-world wasteland.

“Well, anyway, back to employment. Does seventy-five caps sound good to you?”

Jim was silent. “How long is the job?”

“Three days, going south to Appleanta.”

“What should we worry about while we’re on the path? Bandits, wildlife, any obstacles, anything?”

“Don’t worry. The only thing we really need to worry about are bandits, and if you’re smart like me you can avoid them.”

Jim didn’t reply to that. Really, three days with a maybe encounter of probably poorly equipped bandits? Even if his employer was a complete idiot and fuckedsomething up, they’d probably get to this Appleanta place in time. Still, if he was remembering correctly, all of his supplies were worth one hundred seventy five caps, and that was mostly the armor… And the armor was the cheapest thing in his size… Shit, he wasn’t good with math, but seventy-five caps probably wasn’t a lot.

“I’ll do it for one hundred caps.”

His employer whinced. “Sorry, but I don’t have that kind of money. Does eighty five sound good?”

“Ninety, any lower and I walk.”

More silence. The other pony sighed.

“You drive a hard bargain, but I’m in need of a guard. You’re hired, Mister Amnesia. You’ll get your pay when I get to Appleanta safely.”

“Mister Amnesia? Fuck, did we ever exchange names?”

They both stopped, put their hooves on their respective chins, and then realized that, no, they never gave each other their names. Jim facepalmed (not with the cybernetic arm, he wasn’t that hungover), his employer sighed, and then they both gave each other a look.

Jim spoke first. “The ponies here call me Gunslinger, but I respond better to Black, for some weird reason. Nice to meet you.”

“The name is Wanderlust, and I... am a caravanner.”

Silence.

Wanderlust, as he was now known, grinned. “Well, now that we’re introduced to each other, want to get a dr-”

“No, just tell me where your caravan is so I can check it out and find it.”

“Alright, that’s fine. My caravan is over by the north side of town. It’s the one with two brahmin. My associate should be there. Just tell her ‘Shanktastic’ and you shouldn’t have to worry about anything. Now, time to get intoxicated!”

At that moment, before Jim had any time to ask Wanderlust just who his associate was, the stallion galloped straight to the bar. Jim reminded himself to justgo with the flow. Instead of running after Wanderlust and swearing at him, he chose instead to sit down on a nearby bench and think. Easy to do, on an empty street.

The sooner he got out of town, the better. Drunken antics weren’t appreciated, as far as he knew. Attention would be on him, and that was the last thing he wanted. Samurai might have been killers of many, but they were always anonymous. The bad ones made a name for themselves, the good ones kept in the shadows.

Unfortunately, he doubted his acting skills would hold up. The last time he’d ever really had to fabricate an entire personality was with the support of an entire crew at his back, along with a lot of practice and preparation, and that was a long time ago. There were probably holes in his story that someone would notice, and then the questions would get asked.

His amnesiac ploy wasn’t going to work, not unless he kept moving. Rivertown had familiarity with actual amnesiacs and a small town dynamic. They knew what amnesia was like, and his learning to do in two hours what most others took a week to learn was definitely suspicious.

Wanderlust’s appearance was a godsend, Jim knew, and that he needed to keep on his good side to get paid any amount of money to get anywhere. That’s what good people did, right? Had good relations, weren’t a supercriminal? He wouldn’t know. He wasn’t a good guy.

Shit! Why couldn’t it just be simple, like back home? All he had to worry about there was when the next job came in, or when the Operator got the next shipment of ammo, or which fucking corporation would hire him next! None of this bullshit about acting a mask, or balancing public relations or not drawing attention to himself! Why? Why couldn’t things be simple?

Because nothing is ever simple, he sarcastically mused, and next thing you know I’m gonna have to deal with an ancient cult of alien worshipping hippies.

Killing those thoughts before they could evolve into something more sinister, Jim drew one of his pistols and glared at it. Why the hell had he brought them on that mission? Would’ve made more sense to go with a dedicated armor piercer, or hell, even a plasma zipgun. The Obrez were wonderful for ambushing and getting the first shot off in close quarters, but they were crap at everything else. Did do a good job of intimidation, though.

He definitely needed better weapons and armor. That was a given. He’d have to conserve on plasma rifle ammo, but if he found some sort of bullet-firing carbine…maybe a shotgun, he’d be set. The armor he had on was definitely crap, despite looking cool, so he needed to replace that as soon as possible. Power armor would’ve been nice, but he doubted the backwater knuckleheads even invented it, or if they did, if any of the suits were still operational. Or in his size, for that matter.

So, priorities listed. Find better weapons, find better armor, don’t get hunted down, figure out why I’m here and how I could get back. Also, why I’ve been turned into a pony. Also, also, go with the flow.

Jim already knew it was the backpack that dragged him here because of some random numbers. What he didn’t know was how it turned him into a pony and why he landed near a town frequented by amnesiacs. He’d overheard tidbits of conversation on the “amnesiacs from that MAW place”, but he had no idea what the hell the MAW was or where said MAW place was located.

With a sigh, he checked the time on his CyberHub (noting that he really needed to sync it up to something) and groaned.

Only fifteen minutes had passed.

“Fuck,” he muttered. Didn’t he have some songs loaded on his Hub? Maybe he could pass the time by listening to those…

[Loading Folder: Music (53.2GB)]

[Searching Folder for: Nine Inch Nails]

[Found Sub-Folder: Nine Inch Nails Discography]

[Load Sub-Folder to Music Player]

[Sub-Folder loaded]

[Playing now]

“God money, I’ll do anything for you…”

He waited.

Jim took the mare scolding the bandaged child riding on her back (odd how that image came up mentally, to him) as a sign that he could run into the clinic and get his stuff. Only fifteen minutes had passed, surprisingly.

What didn’t surprise him was the fact that Salve had returned to sitting on her chair, reading a different magazine.

“Hey,” he said, grabbing her attention.

“Hi. What’s your business?”

He sighed, walked up to the desk, and looked her in the eye. “I’m grabbing the stuff I left in my room.”

“Go ahead. The door’s unlocked and nopony’s been up there.”

“Alright,” he muttered, clambering up the stairs.

Jim stared at the room. Everything was as he left it. Well, no, really he didn’t mess with anything. Just set his plasma rifle down, covered it with a burlap bag, and called it a night, then went to the bar. The only other things in the room were… really nothing. He had his sunglasses, he had his armor, he had his guns, his water, and… beans.

Just… Just fuck beans. Fuck all the beans.

Fuck, they were beans. The only thing worse would be MREs. He’d had enough of those in his stint as a soldier, and he was not going back. That fucking taco prank. Jim had a fear of the Chicken Taco MREs for months after that. Fucking Chicken Taco PTSD…

He shook his head, strapped the plasma rifle to one of the saddlebags, and exited the clinic.

Unlike the movies and books, it wasn’t nearly as epic as it should have been. Instead of dreary music providing ambience, all he got was… silence, tinged with the merrymaking in the bar. There wasn’t some ray of light shining on him to provide some holy illumination, just a sheet of sickly green filtered by silver. No breeze to make his hair (or was it a mane?)... do whatever it was hair did in the wind.

Heck, there wasn’t even a philosophical rambling monologue to go with it.

Jim was disappointed, to say the least, but he didn’t voice it.

Instead, he consulted a nearby pony to figure out where the north gate was. After a conversation mostly consisting of stuttering and pointing, he finally got an answer.

“That a way,” the mare had said, trembling and pointing off to his right.

“Gracias, senorita.”

Before she had the chance to respond, Jim was walking away.

It was barely five minutes later when Jim exited the north gate. The guards didn’t pay him any mind, instead choosing to glare at the dusty horizon.

The first thing he saw was the single large caravan wagon harnessed up to two mutated cows. The cows were mostly normal looking, save for a lack of fur, two heads, and distended udders.

Really, he’d seen more horrifying science fair projects. Actually, he’d killed more horrifying science fair projects. Heavily mutated cows were just a drop in the bucket of weird shit he’d seen, but the mantra of go with the flow he’d pseudo-officially established kept him from stopping and going “what the fuck.”

Next, he saw the tiny pony sitting on the front of the cab, massive shotgun held in a deep blue telekinetic grip. She wasn’t wearing much, just a bandanna around her neck along with a sling for the twelve gauge shells, but damn if she didn’t look mean. That shotgun would make short work of him, cybernetics or no.

Then Wanderlust stumbled out from somewhere, clasping a hoof across Jim’s back.

“Hey, Wrench, this is our new caravan guard! His name is Black!”

“Wrench”, as the tiny pony was now known, just glared at Jim. A tiny part of him said that it was an adorable glare from a tiny pony, while a slightly larger portion said that oh dayum those eyes burned. Either way, both of them were squashed like bugs underneath an L5 Lagrange Point colony being dropped from orbit by a part of him that said go with the flow.

“I’m guessing this is your associate?” Jim asked, surprised to find such a tiny… foal, he guessed, traveling with such a crazy pony. Odd how their colors were similar... “Are you two related?”

“Nope!” Wanderlust exclaimed, “I just found her in Boomtown, fixing shit up, and because of some reasons I can’t remember she’s traveling with me!”

“So, since I have all of my stuff, are we leaving?”

“Yep! Come on, let’s get all of this set up!”

Jim didn't say a word.

Chapter 1337: Platinum Edition

Something has gone wrong. We don't seem to have an archived copy of that chapter.

Interlude 1: Dreamstate

Jim was on a skyscraper. Everything was normal. The rain was falling sideways, the cars were floating in the air, and the sky was a brilliant shade of hot pink that compeimented the acid greens and stygian blacks of the city perfectly. Little clouds that looked like helicopters and space ships zoomed over and under things. A band was playing, their instruments making sounds like cats and dogs. The drummer caught a glimpse of Jim, and smiled as snakes crawled out of his ears and did the Cupid Shuffle, despite their lack of limbs.

He pulled out a lighter and stuck it to his mouth, igniting the end of it with a cigarette with a flame appearing from his thumb. Cops and robbers lept on frog legs over sheets of aerogel. Bullets the size of tanks fired rifles at each other, their impacts causing massive implosions. One of the pyramidal arcologies ubiquitous to the Sprawl started rising into the air, metallic legs springing from the base and overly muscular arms appearing from the sides.

Just then a massive S-shaped dragon with pencil-thin legs, tiny bat wings, two button eyes, a massive V-shaped unibrow and one massive muscular arm appeared. It did battle with the robot arcology.

A luchadore appeared, riding on an oversized cat. He was typing on a haptic computer, despite his boxing gloves.

“How do you type with boxing gloves on?” Jim asked.

“THESE ARE MY HANDS!”

Then the luchadore disappeared, replaced by a winged serpent that looked like some Doctor Frankenstein had glued parts from every mythological creature in the book together and called it perfect. No bilateral symmetry, oddly enough.

“Oh, I’m in one of thosedreams a- Is that my older brother?” the serpent said, pointing to the dragon with the muscular arm.

“TROOOOOGGGGGDOOOOOOOOORRR!”

And then the world was burninated.