Pax I
Autumn
"Enough blood has been spilled. Just walk away and put a stop to all of this."
Neighville
Noon
The trader town of Neighville was all that lie on the horizon. The town, its occupants all bustling about, going on their daily business. Merchants selling their scavenged goods (with merchandise of the questionable variety), caravans passing through, their time in the town long past. What seemed to be its few permanent citizens and the ever present visitor were partaking in the various activities, the lonesome and rare family alike. Shady drifters weaving in and out of crowds, some dealing chems, others looking a bit skittish, and few picking unwanted conflict. So much seemed to go on all at once in such a seemingly small space, it was overwhelming. A place this dense, compared to the void of the wastes, would do that to any pony.
At least the wastes offered Pax Bellum some comfort.
Moving place to place, town to town, ruin to ruin, and occasional fight to fight wasn't an ideal situation to be sucked into, but it kept the old pegasus on his hooves, kept him occupied with something other than his thoughts, of which he was sick of. To a pony that genuinely felt uncomfortable around others found it slightly frightening to remain idle whilst surrounded by unwanted company. Company was preferred to be at the other end of a his gun.
Restock and replenish, he rehearsed his worn mantra, no trouble gets none back.
He shrugged under his ragged but well maintained trench coat, the contents of his large brown saddle bag clinking in response. Adjusting the hostler at his side, a 10mm pistol situated within, he gave himself a little reassurance that he was in good hooves if things went sour. With little more than a sigh, he was off, down the road and right into the center of town.
Most places and settlements don't pay much mind to a lowly wanderer. As long as no threat was present, they could care less. Pax knew this more as a fact than anything else, but he'd always get the sensation of cold stares digging into his backside from weary common folk. All seemingly sensing the good, the bad and the ugly about him with a few dirty looks. Though the actual reality was him being swept in a mess of a crowd, he could never shake the feeling.
Paranoia is all. Sure, sure it is.
And thus came the blunt end of his saying. "Restock and replenish" included food, water, radiation countermeasures, first aid, and caps.
Caps.
The word seemed to present a mix of need and dismissal, mostly due to the fact that his primary source of income was doing odd jobs around a settlement. Anything that shelled out the universal language of all wastelanders was game, though preferably ones that had him in and out. Learning early on that long mercenary gigs were to ask a lot of Pax's mental endurance. In other words, quick jobs equal caps, and caps equal everything else.
So, thinking back to his past experiences he decided, much against his own free will, to ask around for any leads. He started with those on the sidelines, away from the traffic and who were just relaxing with nothing better to do. After a few minutes of digging, his search landed him outside of the Weathered Wagon. The inn, much like the rest of the town, was primarily composed of wood and sheet metal. Even duct tape could be found, holding what few glass panes the building had to its frame. It was a sad little construct, but it seemed to have a rather hearty reception inside. Music, laughs and stories being shared by many within, most of what seemed to be the brutish type.
Pax inhaled sharply, noting his objective and survival needs. With little hesitation, he pushed past the metal door to greeted by the now voluminous roar of a packed house. He scanned a bit, the inhabitants paying him no mind as they swapped stories and tales of most likely exaggerated heroism and adventure. The pegasus scoffed inwardly, as many of these ponies didn't seem to bear the will, fortitude, or basic equipment of an "adventurer". The very word brought about images of false bravado and proposed riches. All ending with a bullet between your eyes, your head rolling or being mutilated by blood thirsty raiders.
Take your pick...
Nobody paid him any mind as he pushed his way past packed tables toward the bar situated at the back of the restaurant/lobby area. Pax was seeking the owner of this establishment, under the assumption of a few strangers that he had work available.
Pax grunted as he tried to find a place to situate himself at the counter, with it being lined with more ponies than it could handle. Regardless, he finally was able to find a seat near the middle of the hardwood furnishing, resting his hooves on it’s rough surface. He looked at the shelves of spirits, mouth almost watering at the image of a bottle of hard whiskey. Though the apple variant was abundant, he never liked it, finding the harder, and rarer grain sect much more rewarding in regards to taste and alcohol percentage.
The sting of a shot of that, he savored the thought, hmm, could keep me goin' a long time.
Feeling enough time was spent on ogling the wares, he tapped on the counter to get some reception. The bartender was busy with other patrons but relieved himself quick enough to tend to Pax.
The silver unicorn wiped his forehead. "Howdy," the younger stallion said in a surprisingly enthusiastic take. "Name's Gin Flask! Now, what can I get ya?"
Pax genuinely mulled over the proposition but quickly brushed it aside. "Heard the owner of this place has work available. Know where I can find him?"
The bartender's age seemed to speak against Pax's implication.
"He be me stranger," Gin answered, no loss in enthusiasm, "But, can ya give me a moment? Tendin' to the guests and all. Wait on the porch, I'll be out soon."
Pax nodded and obliged, rewarded with the younger stallions presence after a few minutes of waiting outside.
Gin seemed to be in a bit of a huff, wiping his sweaty face down with a dingy cloth before referring to Pax. "So," He tucked the fabric into his vest pocket. "Here for work eh?"
"If any is available, yes."
Pax stood a head taller than the inn owner, and possibly a couple of decades. So it felt kind of odd for the pony to eye him, as if judging his character.
"Seems like you'll be up for the task," the smaller pony announces, smile coming to fruition. "But I assume you want to hear of the reward?"
"If any," Pax responded, sarcasm dripping from his words. He never really liked any company or social interaction, but found it rather easy to conduct himself under such circumstances.
"Well, the payout is three hundred," he said, sensing attention had been drawn. "And three nights here at the Wagon. The room optional of course."
The free room and board wasn't an immediate attention grabber, but a nice bed under a somewhat nice roof would be welcome change from his dusty tent. Pax still wasn't ready to agree to anything however, he simply nodded in approval of the payout. "What needs to get done?"
Gin smiled brightly. "Well," he sighed, as if embarrassed to deliver the information. "My pa has a small distillery north of here. And a few days ago, a band of raiders decided to take it for their own."
Gin ran his hooves through his amber mane. "My pa has been gone to do some trading west and I've taken over since then. So, um, I'd like you to clear out the raiders as cleanly as possible. Try to keep the shack intact, and get the fresh batch that is inside before it spoils."
He fished out a small key and extended it magically to Pax. "Should be under a small trapdoor inside. Hoping the raiders haven't gotten to it."
Pax simply nodded, taking the key between his teeth and stuffing it deep into his coats inner pocket. Nothing about this job seemed to be that off putting to the pegasi, it mostly consisting of clearing out this kids problem before his folks got home. Raiders were a dime a dozen, three hundred caps was a great payout, and a place to lay down for a few days was even better. Anything other than yes would be worse than sin.
Gin was brimming with excitement. He quickly stole the larger stallion's hoof and shook it intensely, Pax grunting as he shifted his balance. "Thankyouthankyouthankyou! Daddy'd have my head if he knew about this," the hoof shake lasted longer than the surprised pegasus deemed as normal or comfortable
Pax jerked his hoof away. "Alright kid. Calm down."
Gin was still beaming. "Sorry, I just-" He stifled what Pax assumed to be a shout. "I'm just really excited is all."
The wanderer found it commonplace for job distributors to be a tad ecstatic when met with a smooth deal. Even more so when the job was carried out to the letter, and even rarely granting some kind of extra for the hire. Gin's reaction was a rather exaggerated one, though Pax knew it was very real. Even a bit comical, though submitting to such idea was not advised for obvious reasons.
"So," said a more together Gin, "When should I expect you to come back? The beers not gunna last very long. Same can be said for a raiders unique interior design."
Pax always had a set way for conducting jobs of Gin's caliber. Come up with a plan, a set stratagem that will be sure to outwit the opponent. Have the proper equipment, make sure that all the weapons, ammunition, armor, and first aid that is going to keep you alive are ready, well maintained, and in manageable amounts. This simple method got him through most jobs rather smoothly, with little more than scraps and bruises. To conduct such rituals, mainly the planning, took a bit longer than diving straight in, time dependent on the severity of issue.
But not wanting to instill doubt into his employer, he replied. " Will get it done by tomorrow afternoon."
Gin gave back a simpler, happier reply. "Good."
Outskirts of Neighville
Midnight
Seven.
Pax moved slightly from his original position to get under the cover of a semi large boulder, placing his binoculars atop it and scoping out the scene from a crouched stance.
The night was pitch black, nothing but the ink surrounding the small shack about fifty meters out. The construct itself was lit with a combination of large torches that dug into the dry dirt, and a few multicolored strip lights that draped themselves across the wooden housing. The orange flames and the bright spectrum of colour all seemed rather haunting as the occupants danced around a campfire, most likely in a fit of chem induced euphoria.
Seven, he recounted the ponies present, seven of 'em.
Any number above one was rather intimidating to just a single pony, especially with a measly pistol and knife. Sticks and stones could have sufficed and brought about the same result, death. Seven snarling, laughing, and screaming ponies closing in on your position, reading their knives and saws for the evisceration upon said demise. Pax only wished this occurrence was an exaggeration.
Despite the rather large number of combatants, the old wanderer knew very well how to conduct himself on the battlefield. This fact needed the required tactics for his objective to be accomplished, such as the layout of the field and the number of enemies. Sure, seven were counted from a simple observation, but anything was possible. Concealed targets were usually the prominent reason for his injury during combat, as surprise is one thing you want to keep exclusively to yourself.
How many of you bastards are hiding from me?
With this possibility, he broke away from the binoculars and dug around in his coat pockets. It took nearly a minute to find what he was looking for, a small, thick tablet like device. The thing was very worn, the leather straps beneath it were a crumbling mess, it’s metal buckle hanging on a thread. The device itself was in less of a weathered state, the steel shell showing signs of wear but devoid of rust. The screen fixated at the right of the device was well polished, but retained a small crack at it's top left corner, the single strand of fracture cutting the screen almost entirely in half. The five buttons on the side were in a rather pristine state despite their intended use, save for a missing button that had no clear function.
The glow of the gemstones within the device cast wicked shadows on Pax's face, the gems themselves trapped behind a thin and flimsy looking great. The pegasus quickly covered the glow in fear it would give away his position. He placed it atop the boulder, flicked a switch at it's side, and the screen came to life with a faint green glow, not powerful enough to be spotted at this distance.
INITIALIZING...
LOADING OPERATING SYSTEM...
Pax waited as the thing booted itself up.
LOAD SUCCESSFUL
He gave an inward sigh as the thing splashed an obnoxiously large logo on it's face, reading "PipBuck 2000" in stylised lettering. With little time to be wasted, he quickly referred to a silver knob, it taking up space in one of it's expansion slots at the top of the device, and flipped it.
Soon, highlighted structures appeared on the screen, that being the lonesome shack and the outhouse near it. Also, little green blips appeared on screen as well, forming a rough circle in close proximity to the distillery. Nothing else seemed to catch on the motion detector, just the raiders and the shack.
Hmm, no, wait...
Another green dot, that seemed to have been overlooked seemed to pop into existence. This object taking it's place near the center of the dancing chem addicts.
Wanting to visually identify the target, he took a look through his binoculars. The frequenting shadows and raiders made it difficult for him to identify this new target, but when he did, it took him awhile to register.
Shit.
Inches from the bonfire lie a small filly, probably no more than eight or ten. She was unconscious, bludgeoned in the head, sticky crimson had spread across her face. The child was bound by her hooves, the rough rope had cut into her faded green coat. She seemed to also have a pouch on her, likely she was out scavenging outside of town. It was a horrid scene, to any pony it struck cord, especially the very unsanitary knives and such only a meter away.
Sons a bitches, he thought, she's just...
There was little he could do, as riding down that hill like any idiotic white knight would get him killed, rather gruesomely. The raiders seemed to be supplied with mainly firearms, varying from pistols to battle saddle ready assault rifles and shotguns. The only thing that this scene was providing Pax was more incentive rather than encouragement to conduct his job. All he could do was hope she lasted a until the morning, when he intended to attack.
Sit tight.
He ripped himself from his optics and tucked it in his bag beside him, swinging the saddle bag onto his back. He grunted a bit under it's weight and went to pick up his PipBuck but stopped cold, staring at it intensely. Something about the logo etched onto the device got his attention, causing him to sigh. Under the stylised and professionally made logo was a rather small eye sore of a metal stamp, displaying the initials "S.C.E.". It seemed to have been worn down to a much greater degree than the rest of the device, as if it was intentional.
Wanting to dwell on the matter no longer, Pax just shoved the thing into his inner coat pocket and walked back towards town. Rest, formulation and more rest would be needed to proceed with his plans, as much more was suddenly riding on his success.
Neighville
Midnight
Neighville was now silent.
The lively and noisy town now seemed to be a rotting carcase, the poorly constructed buildings now dark and eerie. Few emitted light from within their degrading wooden walls, the yellow beams glowing softly from worn glass panes. Chatter can be heard from the inside of these constructs, especially from the Wagon, it being the central hub for visitors and traders looking for a place to rest during their travels. The heavily worn dirt was amuck with hoof prints and tire tracks. The cool autumn wind shuffling the dusty portion of the path about in soft torrents. It seemed dead, this quaint little place, but also gave some blissful silence from the bustling, disorganized identity this place took on during the day.
Pax walked down the main path the cut through the town, with the aid of bright lights that lit up the path, strung up high on thick poles. He found an odd peace with this silence, both of slight terror and slight enjoyment. Both coming together to produce a gentle calm.
This place, he thought, is actually quite nice.
He liked his lonesome most of the time, where he could stray from problems that might find their way to him. Sure, this place was full of what he felt was unnecessary, but it wasn't that bad. Despite the very recent revelations that work had gotten a bit more heated, he found this night to be one of his liking. Besides, it wasn't that he didn't care that a fillies life was a stake, it was just that he saw it as another objective, albeit an optional one. He had seen countless people die, in countless ways, for countless reasons, and of countless attachments. This girl was of no attachment.
Pax just shrugged and continued down the path until he hit a tent city near the entrance to Neighville, off to the side of the road. The appropriately named Tent Town was the sad accumulation of temporary shelters owned by the numerous drifters of the wastes. The most common form of occupancy were the olive green pyramids that took up much of the small dwellings, larger tents seemed to occupy the interior in much smaller numbers. Most of the pyramid tent owners were behind their thick tarps, few were outside conversing with one another and even fewer were silently contemplating. Such activity was much more concentrated as one headed deeper into the dense dwellings, where his own shelter resided.
It took a little bit of doing, at the cost of a few exasperated glances as he pushed past various ponies to arrive at his own temporary home. It was a few meters into the thick Tent Town, and retained a sort of bowl shape, tied down by worn rope. It didn't take up that much room, as it was squeezed between two, much larger tents shared by a visiting caravan group. They all sat around a small fire at their eastern settlement, telling tales and stories, nothing out of the ordinary. The only thing that seemed to catch the pegasus’ attention was the lone earth pony that partly blocked the entrance to his campsite.
Pax would have just brushed the pony away, but he had a deep respect for the elderly, of which this pony was a prime example of the word. It was either that, or the bottle of what seemed to be vodka that rested near the ancient being. Vodka, much like that of apple whisky, never appealed to him in terms of taste, but anything harder than that soft garbage was appealing. Conflict arose inside him to start conversation with a stranger, but he genuinely felt he needed to.
Could really go for a few swigs of that.
Fantasizing about the bottle precious contents in his hooves, he cast the source of his doubt to the farthest depths of his mind as he consulted the old stallion. “Wouldn’t suppose it was out of the question if I took part in your, entertainment?”
It took half a minute, a very long thirty seconds for him to get a response from the earth pony. He lifted his head slowly, his grey eyes full of age, face weathered from time. This guy seemed to be miserable, his weak composure and smile spoke for this assumption.
“Sure son,” he said slowly, gesturing toward the bottle with a head tilt. “Could use the company.” The words stung as they served as equal trade for this pony’s kindness. The least Pax could do was oblige. So, with little hesitation, the pegasus took a seat on the well tracked ground in front of his tent, scooping up the clear bottle and taking a generous gulp. It had been too long since Pax was able to taste the nectar that he craved so intensely.
The pony beside him chuckled half-heartedly. “Don’t choke on it.”
It took a bit of his will to tear himself from the bottle, cringing at the sharp liquid. “Ooh! Ho ho!” he exclaimed, extending the bottle back to the old stallion. “ Been too long since I’ve had a hard drink.” It felt as if a sense of ecstasy was gripping the pony, likely from the alcohol’s reintroduction into his system after such a prolonged period. He couldn't help but smile, warmth cutting the chilly weather only amplifying his enjoyment.
A smile, he thought in disbelief, just feels so, foreign.
There was little to make some one in Pax’s position happy, as seemingly endless walking would do a number on any ponies spirits. Even if he’d done this wandering for years, his days of bleeding hooves and borderline insanity behind him, he was always bored. One of the only things that could comfort him and soften his virtually never ending traveling was the silver drinking flask he always had filled to the brim with his favorite whiskey. Only now has his scavenging had come up dry with this prized elixir, this being over a month ago. Pax knew he had a “problem” to some extent, but after such a long probation he had it under control. Somewhat.
The kind pony took the bottle. “Forty can be a bit too much for a young stallion such as yourself.”
The pegasus could see how someone of this ponys age can consider him young, but age had struck the traveler as while. Pushing fifty six, signs of his age was his lightly wrinkled face and greying mane. His body was still incredibly fit however, the only thing that hadn’t succumbed to time.
Regardless, Pax took it as a joke and gave dry laugh. “I don't know about young,” he said as he watched eagerly as the other pony took a swig. “Gunna be sixty in a few years,” as he spoke, the revelation that the sentence provided without thinking was rather off putting.
I’m gonna be sixty in a few years, damn…
The earth pony shrugged. “If you're able to keep yourself alive,” He extended the bottle back to the pegasus, who took it in a much more contained manner. “Your young in my book.”
He gestured toward the group that was situated a meter or so away, “They keep me alive.” the way he delivered those words, the tone, was that of depression. The terrible feeling of being nothing but a liability to those who needed to survive and were able to do such without aid. Staying alive is one thing but having others keep you alive was another.
This was a bit awkward for the younger pony, as he drank his spirits nervously. Comforting someone was hard for said comforter who displayed traits of being, to some degree, socially inept. So he decided to change the pace of the his forced conversation.
Pax broke away from the bottle, giving it back to the depressed pony, who took it in a lax manner. “So, dont mean to pry, but where you from?”
The questioned didn’t seemed to mind, “North,” He took a swig, disconnecting in a satisfied sigh. “Place called Fillydelphia.” He passed the bottle back to the pegasus.
“Damn,” Pax replied in disbelief, taking the clear bottle. He knew what Fillydelphia was from old maps and books he read as a kid, and it was far. A few months travel far. “You've come a long way then.”
Pax took a swig of the near empty bottle, placing it on his lap. “What brings you here?”
The old traveler quietly contemplated the question before responding. “I really don't know,” He scratched his bald scalp, “I think, one day, I just decided to just leave. Don't know why, either cause I can’t remember or it was for that simple reason. To be some adventurer or some BS like that.”
He slowly turned his head to face Pax. “How about you?”
“Everywhere,” he responded a bit quickly, now toying with the near empty bottle. “Just, everywhere.”
The other pony scoffed.“You have to have come somewhere. You native?”
The pegasus thought the vague answer he provided would suffice in some way as he prefered to keep his origins hidden. As revealing said location had the potential of raising his profile, something he really didn’t want. Despite him bringing up the topic, he felt this pony was trying to get something about him, which the old stallion really wasn't. What Pax was, before his traveling days, was something he regarded as highly personal and confidential.
Pax coldly passed bottle. “A village south of here,” he lied. “In the Badlands. Nothing but ashes now.” Despite being a fabrication, silence befell the two for a solid few minutes.
The earth pony gave a weak smile. “Not going to lie,” he broke the silence, staring at the vodka bottle, “Don’t know how to respond to that. Sorry son.”
“Don’t,” Pax sighed, feeding the lie. “Happened years ago. I only know about what happened from what my parents told me.” Not an ounce of guilt overcame him as the he was given back the vodka bottle, though surprise was abundant.
“Bet it was a nice place.” He said warmly as the pony beneath him took the bottle, nodding in thanks. From then on, silence had once again gripped them until the ancient stallion got up from his seat.
“Well,” He said in a rather buzzed haze as he condensed his wooden chair. “Think its about time I get some shut eye.”
Pax had to admit, even through his own haze as the forty percent alcohol content of his recent beverage was now becoming apparent, he could go for some sleep.
“Good thinking,” The pegasus yawned, rising to his hooves. He looked down at the bottle that lie on the ground, the nectar he craved was still abundant enough for a final swig. Fighting his need for the substance, he reached into his saddlebag, and recovered a red rag which he stuffed into the mouth of the crystalline bottle. Taking the bottle in his mouth, he nodded the kind stallion a good night, him receiving the same gesture in return, the old earth pony retiring in a tent beside his own.
Pax did the same, bottle in tow, a wide smile spread across his lips. The source of his happiness ginger clenched in his maw.
Today, he silently admitted, today was a pretty good day. Got a job and something to dull my spirits, so yeah, it was a really good day.
With this he was able to drift off into his sleep.
Author's Note
Errors may still be present, reporting them in the comment is a great help. Many thanks.
Gin I
Autumn
Neighville
Early Morning
“ If you're listening to this,” Gin spoke with a nervous demeanor, “To those traveling south on the Life’s Blood, divert to the south east once you reach Steelton. A distressed caravan is…”
Gin looked to his right, finding a carmel unicorn, Kernal, fixing him a cold stare. One of sympathy, but stern and subtly demanding nonetheless. Situated by the tavern entrance, the large pony seemed to dwarf the very frame, the swivel-doors barely covering his chest. Despite this, little deterred the younger, smaller unicorn to resume, clearing his throat, sputtering, “...A d-distressed caravan is speculated to be located somewhere in the Deep Woods. Last known broadcasted coordinates are, forty l-”
Suddenly, the hulking mass was towering over him, causing Gin to jerk away in shock. No word was uttered, the walkie talkie in Gin’s veil dropping to the worn, wood floor. Before Kernal’s charcoal magic could envelop the device, a defiant silver hoof slammed it down.
“ Don’t you fucking dare.” Gin growled, half surprising himself with the anger in his voice. He hated that impassive look of the giant, whether caused by time or trauma, he would never know what this tribal thought. He wasn’t going to budge, Gin knew this full well, leaving them in a futile stare down. Armed with childish malice and persistence, his opposition with unnerving, and seemingly unending indifference.
A full minute of this battle pasted, ended with a small utterance from the tribal, “You send brave stallions to their death everyday. Stop.”
“ FUCK OFF!” Gin spat, on the edge of tears.
Kernal maintained a steady stare.
“ I-I can’t do this,” the silver stallion stammered, wiping salty sadness from his cheeks. He tugged talkie toward him, only to have Kernal tug right back. In a sudden surge, Gin whipped from his position, hoof flying toward the towering figure.
Exerting little energy, Kernal pushed to impact away, sending the youngster tumbling behind him. Covered in dust, the silver unicorn rose to find himself in the still, indifferent gaze of Kernal, walkie tucked in his working saddle bag. Before Gin could muster some strength for another strike, the tribal barked, “ Know your enemies, Mr. Flask!”
Took aback, the pony in question found himself rather exposed, still in stance for combat.
“ Patience is all you can afford!” the caramel unicorn roared, pulling the fought for device from his bag, waving it in the air, “Speed will not be found here. You must-”
“ S-someone will find him! He’s not…” Dead. He is not dead, repeated the distressed Gin repeated, with growing disbelief.
“ I am not one to doubt you, “ Kernal spoke, in a more somber tone, “I merely ask you stop this, this torture.”
Gin, in the mists of his rage, regret filled him. What was he doing? Trying to get his father home in the only way he knew how, yes, but it had been so long. Was he even...
“He will return to us,” the monstrous pony softly but sternly spoke, aligning himself with Gin, “ Even if the worst were to have come, the spirits speak kind words of your father's achievements.”
Utterly emotionally numbed, Gin’s burning eyes looked up to meet the tribals. Working at the Wagon merely to pay off his debt to his father, Kernal never left once he never returned. He stayed because he respected his father, at least that's what Gin told himself as the tribal never spoke his motives. Usually spouting off about the spirits, the silver stallion saw little in the gentle giant. As of late, Kernal served more as a guide than anything else. For better or for worse.
“You are a capable leader, Gin,” the carmel pony stated, making way for the door, “ The Dreamland’s speak nothing of his demise.”
Soon, the young stallion found himself alone with the orange dawn light warming him slightly. Kernal was an odd fellow, but he spoke the truth. It didn't make his position any less stressful, or manageable. Serving as the Wagons proprietor came with so much weight, including sway with the locals. Something Gin felt he lacked the influence, or the aptitude. Leaving him vulnerable to these breakdowns every now and again.
He was alone. For the first time in his life, he was alone.
In the mists of emotion and registration fog, it took a moment to recognize the large leather bag set in front of him. With a tired head, he turned his head to see the pegasus he hired the yesterday day. A better time obviously too good for the torn Gin.
***
“ Gone? Are you sure?” Gin questioned, working the buttons on his silk vest while sifting through the backroom. Pax stood just outside, adorned in worn combat armor, trench coat folded neatly over his back. He seemed remarkable alive for this time, even well groomed with his mane and coat clean, showing no signs of battle.
“ Bugged out before I got there,” Pax replied, adjusting the holster at his side, “Likely headed back to whatever camp or band they came from.”
Fishing out a small tin box, Gin levitated it onto the bar, unlocking it to reveal the Sparkle-Cola bottle caps within. He took half a minute to count out the promised sum, tossing them into a small pouch from his vest, and setting it between them.
Pax reached for the pouch, but Gin placed a hoof over it, “Any sign of where they went? Where their camp might be?”
“Kid,” the mercenary sighed, “ I did what you wanted, just pony up the caps.”
Reaching a bit more, Gin compensated by dragging it toward himself, “ It’s just a simple question.” Pax could sense a strange bit of concern in the young stallion's voice.
The pegasus merely smiled, “Fifty an-” Before any other word can be uttered, the additional funds spilled onto the countertop.
“Speak.”
With a notable distaste, Pax said, “ Did a bit of recon of the area at midnight. Seven had taken the place, a disorganized band with little on them. So, likely divergent or scouting party. How many days ago did they take over? Exactly?”
“ Two days ago,” Gin supplied.
“ So, it was a scouting party,” Pax corrected, “ They might not be the last, but I wouldn’t count on it. Chem reliant raiders tend to be the more savage of ‘em. Disorganized. Weak.”
Gin looked at him questionably, “What makes you so knowledgeable?”
Pax smirked, “I just am.”
In a bad spot previously and the threat of raider attack unnerving, Gin had little tolerance for a merc’s audience let alone his attitude. Still Gin dug a bit more, saying, “That’s it?”
The pegasus’ smug demeanor soured to a more subtle, serious one, “Hostage. They have a filly hostage.”
Gin took a moment to process, before asking, “White coat? Black mane? Blank?”
“Nope,” Pax replied, before becoming stern at the questions implications.
A full minute of chilling silence filled the Weathered Wagon, Gin taking a noticeably worrisome look. Not of sadness, grief or indifference, but more akin to that of annoyance. The implication stood without response, Gin pushing forward the mercenaries payment, “You have the room if you want it.”
Pax hoped to respond, but thought better of it as the silver unicorn stormed out of the bar.
