Chapters Author's Note
Chapter 2 for you all (I know it may not be Monday for you Americans, but it is here in the UK so I am on schedule). This is a reaaaally long chapter, because it was originally both chapters 2 and 3, but I combined them into one because chapter 2 was originally only about 5 pages long, in comparison to chapter 3, which was many more. Do enjoy, and await chapter 3 next Monday.
Chapter 2
Chapter 2
Let me tell you right off the bat that sleeping on cold wooden floors is not recommended. I woke up as stiff as the boards I lay upon and most of my cell mates weren’t doing so well either. Spinner looked like she hadn’t slept at all (which she probably hadn’t), and Celestia only knows how hideous I was looking after my endeavours. I peered through the bars into the adjoining corridor and scanned the wall for a time piece. A large clock tick tocked softly, its dual arms displaying the time at near enough six in the morning. That is, of course, if it was actually working properly.
I suppose I couldn’t complain. I really should’ve seen that one coming, but I still wasn’t readily prepared to relieve myself in front of three other ponies, never mind the fact that one of them was male. I could wait. Eventually I’d think of something; I’m a very resourceful mare. I caught Spinner smirking out of the corner of my eye and I shot her a cold look, “What’s so funny?”
A few hours came to pass (two to be exact) and there was the noise of a door opening and a greeting from the guard. I covered up my work and resumed my position at the bar doors. I’d placed some old cloth I’d found over the drawings I’d been making on the floor with some spare chalk. They weren’t anything special, just something to pass the time really, but I knew the Scavengers would take the first opportunity to punish me for drawing them. A quick peek through the bars was all I needed to assess the situation. A new stallion had come in, this time a pitch black earth pony with dazzling red eyes, wearing a set of saddle bags and with a bolt action rifle slung over his back. The guard made various mocking remarks, to which the unfortunate stallion made no reply, and then parted with, “They’re all yours. Have fun.”
The stallion unslung his rifle and hung it from the key nail before undoing his saddle bags. He pulled out various items; amongst them was an assortment of fruits and pulses, a weapon cleaning kit and a bottle of what appeared to be plain water. Picking up the key and an assortment of food stuffs, he unlocked the door and threw in what looked like our breakfast. There was a mad rush to grab all of the best stuff, and I saw Spinner give the best of what she managed to swipe from Mr Uptight to Mystery. By the time they were done all that was left was an apple and a few grass cuttings. I ignored the food and focused solely on undermining this new guard. I could be very manipulative when I wanted to be.
“So, what’s your name?” came the question. The stallion merely shot me a bored look and said nothing. I tried again with, “So what’s your job here? Other than guarding us of course?” Still no reply. I could tell that this stallion was going to get very annoying very fast. “I really like your mane. It’s a very nice shade of charcoal.”
Before I could say anything more he shut the door and twisted the key in the lock with a click and an, “I’m not supposed to talk to you.”
He turned his back on me and slunk back to his chair. Yes, he slunk. He was a slinker; he didn’t trot or stride, he slunk around with his head bowed and his eyes to the floor. He looked depressed, dismal, as if his life had lost meaning. I couldn’t help feeling sorry for the poor soul. Then I immediately stopped feeling sorry for him because he didn’t deserve my sympathy. Not after what he’d likely done. He sat and began to strip his rifle, laying the parts on the floor in an organised fashion. Alright, I was going to make him talk, “So, Wraith, do you like your job guarding us? I mean, we slaves need to be guarded or we may escape, but wouldn’t you much rather be out in the field? Putting that rifle of yours to good use killing ponies?” By the looks of things he’d gone back into his quiet mode, as he made no reply or attempt to acknowledge me in any way. He just started pulling through the barrel of his rifle.
As I said, sometimes the quiet ones were the best, but the stubborn ones were the worst. It’s difficult to manipulate somepony when you have no way of judging your progress. The best I could do was rile him up inside, “You must really enjoy you job to be willing to sit here for hours on end whilst we rot in this cell. Unless, of course, you were conscripted here, in which case this must be extremely boring.” This time he snorted angrily to try and deter me, by now I’d gotten under his fur I wasn’t letting go. I chose a new topic which I hoped would make him more willing to talk, “I must be really annoying you right now. I mean, just listen to me rambling on. I never shut up, do I? I bet it really pisses you off. Oh well, guess there’s no point trying to stop me. Unless you have any objections?”
I enjoyed a brief stare down with him, which I ultimately won, before asking again, “So how old are you?”
“Hey Wraith?”
I started searching for things to keep me occupied. The Scavengers must have stripped the classroom of anything useful, but they were bound to have left something behind. Let’s see, there was a bit of chalk that was likely from and old black board that the Scavengers had ripped off the wall, there was a rather tattered Daring Do book that might make a good read, a ream of paper stacked in one corner and a few loose pieces of string. I took my treasures to an unused corner and grouped them together. They were mine now, and the Scavengers weren’t going to take them away from me.
I picked up the chalk with my magic and began to draw on the floor. I wasn’t drawing with any real aim, just to relieve the chronic boredom. I drew my old house, a Scavenger getting shot in the head, various diagrams of stitching techniques and so on. I was quite content for a while, ferreting away in my corner as the stick of chalk gradually got shorter and shorter. I’d covered quite a lot of the floor and some of the walls in my drawings before suddenly becoming aware of a presence behind me. I peered over my shoulder and saw Mystery gazing at my chalk sketches. I released the stump from my magic and let it clack to the floor and swivelled around to face the filly. She didn’t say anything at first, but finally asked, “Whatch’ya drawing?”
She started to drag the chalk over the wooden floor boards in what seemed to me like a series of random lines, but likely brought her much comfort. I leaned against the wall, content to just watch her draw. There are two ways to piss a pony off, one is to insult them in some way. The other to act particularly smug and optimistic at every opportunity. I glanced at Spinner across the room. I shot her a charming smile and pushed my hat over my eyes, crossed my legs and started to snooze. It wasn’t a deep sleep, just a light nap to rest my eyes.
***
I was pulled out of my blissful rest by Mystery tugging on the sleeve of my jumper. I pushed my hat onto the crown of my head and yawned before looking over at the filly. She was beaming broadly and it pleased me to see that she was happy for the first time in a long time. She stopped tugging my sleeve and said in an excited voice, “Look, I drew you!” I leant to my side slightly to get a better look. What I saw was a little stick pony wearing a hat talking to a larger stick pony with a particularly frowny face.
She bounced excitedly, pointing at it, “That’s you, see? You’re the one with the hat. And that’s the meanie guard that you annoyed.”
I was glad that I could help Mystery. It wasn’t exactly breaking her out and helping her to freedom, but it was freedom in some sense. I’d given her cause to realise that there was still some good in this politically unstable hell hole of a world. I’d built a couple bridges that had been in a poor state of repair, but most importantly, I’d given her a friend. Not the kind of over protective ‘thinks they know what’s best for you’ king of friend like Spinner, but a friend who was happy to play games with her, be like a mother to her. I’d given her something that she’d not known for a long time, and it made me feel warm inside. Kindness, everypony, is a quality that will always be rewarded.
I stretched my legs and clambered to my hooves, picking up a few of the threads that I’d found earlier. I brought them to the middle of the room, where the light hung down. A lonely yellow bulb that would flicker occasionally. I fixed the threads to various parts of the light and the nearby ceiling, and at the ends of each one, I tied a little piece of the chalk. They all hung at various heights, but that was the point. The whole process took me about half an hour, and when I finished I felt rather pleased with myself. It was a sort of mobile that cast interesting shadows against the wall, and would sway if one blew on it, changing the shapes for a brand new adventure.
It was only then that I realised that I’d exhausted a large number of my treasures. Now the only thing left was the ream of paper, which still stayed stacked just on the outskirts of the drawings Mystery and I had made. I decided that it would be a shame to waste it, so I trotted up to the door and glanced through the small window again. Wraith was still there, rifle re-assembled and slung over the back of the chair. He wasn’t doing anything. He was probably sleeping, although he didn’t seem to be breathing. I called out to him, “Hey, Wraith?”
Wraith groaned, then turned to look at me, “What could you possibly want?”
Well no shit. What I’d meant was, was there any paperwork or forms that needed filling out? Did he need to pay anypony? Did he need to get parent’s consent or some bullshit like that? Evidently Wraith had misinterpreted me. I pulled myself away from the door and looked at Mystery, who stared back. I grinned, “The meanie guard’s being mean again.” She smiled back at me. Looks like that was going to be our little inside joke. Or at least, it would so long as I wasn’t taken away by some Sadist. I could feel a knot form in my stomach. I didn’t want to have to leave Mystery. Sure I’d likely be brought back here, but I didn’t want her to go through the pain of losing me so soon.
I spent several hours nervously waiting for the arrival of the Sadist, holding my hat against my chest and gingerly stroking my mane back every now and again. I decided that I needed to make a bad impression. Bad enough to make him not like me, but not bad enough to convince him to punish me. Mystery had come over to ask me what was wrong, and I simply replied, “It’s nothing for you to worry about. The meanie guard is just inviting one of his meanie friends around for a play session.”
There was a jangle of key s and the sound of the lock sliding out of place. The door opened and in stepped Wraith, rifle on shoulder, looking rather tired. He stood to attention and gave a brisk salute as the superior ranking Sadist stepped in. He was a very large pegasus stallion. His wings arched across his back in a way that made them look almost mechanical, and he had a stern look on his face. He had so many knives strapped to his tunic that I struggled to see any of the underlying material, and for a cutie mark he had an eyeball with a knife protruding from it.
“Unfortunately I’m not really looking for that kind of slave. I need somepony who’s good at weapon maintenance. Do you know anything about that?” I shook my head. “Well how’s your dexterity?”
The Sadist rounded on him, “Is that so. Tell me slave, do you have a master already?”
“Why would you do that?” What? Oh the stallion that I’d framed.
“I’m sure it’ll be okay. He won’t sell you on immediately will he?”
The next thing I felt was my hat being pressed gently onto my head. When I opened my eyes I jumped backwards when I noticed Mystery’s face so close up to mine her eyes were almost all I could see of her. She laughed and I rubbed my spine where I’d fallen, “Don’t surprise me like that! I could’ve hurt myself!”
We played our game, which I played little attention to but she enjoyed, whilst I pondered my existence. So far this place had proven escape proof. However, if there’s one thing I’ve learned from reading various escape novels it’s that no prison is escape proof. There had to be a way to get out of here, all I had to do was figure it out. This is where my encyclopaedia of everything would have come in handy, but it had been confiscated by crimson cute butt pony and only Celestia knew where it was now.
Mystery let out a childish cheer of joy as she won and I flung my arms up into the air in defeat, “Not fair! You must have cheated!”
He pulled away from me, “I can punish you for whatever the fuck I want! You’re the prisoners here!”
I heard a loud slam as the door behind me swung shut. I glanced over my shoulder, and Wraith glanced over my other one and both of us saw a young filly standing between us and the now closed metal door, “If we have to stay then so do you!” Wraith pushed me aside and, me being me, I fell over with a loud thump as Wraith advanced, pistol at the ready, towards Mystery. He picked her up by the hair, prompting a squeal of pain, and pushed the firearm under her chin. He held that pose for a while, the only sign that he was still alive being the slow rise and fall of his ribs as he breathed.
I heard him growl, and then he dropped both Mystery and the pistol simultaneously. The weapon clattered loudly on the hard floor, and I rushed to grab it and point it at his head. I had absolutely no idea whether or not I could bring myself to pull the trigger, but he didn’t know that. For all he knew I was a ruthless psychopath. Mystery scampered back into the corner, evidently quite shaken, but still with a determined look on her face. Wraith covered his face and fell to his knees, his breathing erratic and arms shaking. I picked him up by the collar of his tunic and pushed him against the door.
“All right. I haven’t been in here anywhere near as long as the rest of these ponies, but I sure as hell need to get out of here! Now what you’re going to do, is…”
The stallion replied first by saying, “I’m quite content here, thank you very much.” Spinner scowled, “I’d be much better off without you, but somepony needs to stay to take care of Mystery. She can’t go; she wouldn’t be able to defend herself.”
She smiled and I smiled back. Then she threw her arms around my neck and hugged me tightly. She buried her face into my neck and murmured softly, “Please don’t go!”
She unravelled her arms from around me and sat back. I tipped my hat and bid farewell to my fellow and soon to be past cell mates and patted Wraith on the head, “All right old friend, get me out of here.” He said nothing and proceeded to silently open the door and step out with me in tow. He shut the door behind him and locked it. It felt great to be free. Ish. I was free-ish. I still had to get out of this hell hole. And I still had the pistol. I could threaten this stallion, take his uniform and get out of here on my own and not have to follow his rules. On the other hoof, I had no idea of the surrounding area, or of how to effectively use a firearm to properly defend myself. On top of that, Wraith’s knowledge of the Scavenger encampments and operations in the area could come in very useful. I decided to follow his lead at least for now.
“We’re going to go to the armoury first. There we will get you a better weapon. Then we’ll go to the storage warehouse and recover your property. Then we walk out of the entrance, where I will pretend to be on my way to execute you. Once out of sight we can make our break. Do you understand?”
“So, which one’s the armoury pal of mine?” He didn’t answer me vocally but merely pointed with his hoof at a large building with two guard ponies standing outside the main entrance. He started towards it and I followed, taking in my surroundings. The town was actually quite pleasant, with various small shops lining the streets and the proud church standing in the centre. There was a tree on every street corner and benches in the street for resting. It had probably been a very nice place to live before the Scavengers had come and turned it into what it was today.
We passed two ponies making out on a bench and when I looked up towards the church spire, I saw a unicorn levitating a very large looking sniper rifle in front of his right eye. I began to feel very exposed. The Scavengers never ceased to amaze me when it came to their tactics. They seem chaotic, but they are very clever. Whilst it looks like all of the windows are boarded up, upon closer examination you can see ponies armed with rifles and machineguns sitting in second story windows and anti-tank guns and rocket launchers around street corners. What I originally saw as an empty town was actually a very heavily defended tactical location. Smarter than they look really.
I was snapped back to the present when I was halted by one of the guards standing by the door. He was a large pegasus with a pastel blue coat and black hair, a shotgun slung over his back and ‘Come at me’ written on the side of his helmet. The other guard stopped Wraith, “Whad’ya want, Quiet Type?”
The armoury was large, with racks of weapons organised in neat rows on racks and shelves all along the sides and in the middle of the room. There was a desk at the back where one would sign a register if they took anything out of the armoury and many, many shelves of ammunition of every shape and size on the back wall. Behind the desk a mare with a chalk white mane and steely grey fur sat on a chair, her hind legs resting on the desk, reading what appeared to be a ‘Playpony’ magazine. There were several lights hanging from the ceiling, casting a white glow onto everything and letting out a constant low hum which quickly got annoying if you focused on it.
Wraith pulled me close and whispered softly to avoid attracting the attention of the pony behind the desk, “What weapons are you proficient with? Pistols, rifles, machine guns, what?”
He holstered the new firearm and added the ammunition to the pouches in his tunic, nodding his head and turning back to me. The mare called, “That’ll cost you a fag per round.” Wraith nodded, then took hold of me and pulled me out of the door behind him. We went on our way quietly as one of the guards called over, “Make sure to tell me what colour her brains are!” which we both ignored. I had to begin a light trot to keep up with Wraith, and I soon asked him where we were now headed.
We entered the store house without a hitch, and saw it to be in a similar layout to the armoury, with everything that the Scavengers had looted on display ready to be checked out. On the back wall this time was something titled ‘Slave Exchange’, which (amongst some vulgar graffiti) had a long list with names of all of the slaves currently owned, awaiting trade or in holding and their masters or mistresses. There was a shocking number and I made a mental note to free all of them if I got the chance. I noticed my name amidst the ‘awaiting trade’ group and saw Mystery in the ‘in holding section’. The whole idea made me sick to my stomach.
Wraith pulled me around the building, making me point out everything that was mine or that I felt I needed. I managed to get back my saddlebags, my books, some extra books (I would have more space in my saddlebags now) and my canteen, still filled with water. Wraith checked all of it out at the register, the pony this time was a very young stallion, one could almost call him a colt, who told Wraith how he was planning to specialise as a Sadist when he’d done his first year. Wraith wished him luck; I wanted to spit in his eye. I avoided the temptation to ruin his vision with my saliva and instead slung the saddlebags over my back and filled them with all of my other equipment.
Now all we had to do was get out of the camp, into the nearby forest and be gone. I was waiting with held breath. I was so close to regaining my freedom I could almost taste it. Nothing was going to take this way from me now, nothing and nopony. Except, maybe, the perimeter guards. We were halted by the same stallion that I’d met when I was first brought here, and many of the other ponies on duty I recognised too. The guard pulled Wraith to one side, “Where do you think you’re going, Quiet Type?”
One of the guards picked me up and threw me out of the gate. I fell in a heap and immediately attempted to pick myself up and straighten my hat, but the stallion who’d thrown me planted a hoof in my spine and held it there. The guard captain pushed Wraith out after me, “There, you’re outside the perimeter. Blast her brains out!”
Two ponies (one stallion one mare) came to the position of attention and awaited orders. Cinnamon (a beige coloured earth pony stallion with a brown mane) sported a heavy looking assault rifle and several knives, whilst Customs I recognised as crimson cute butt pony from when I’d been captured. She looked down at me and with a grin said, “Oh, it’s you. Thought I’d be seeing more of you. Bad slave!” She slapped me in the face. I wanted to punch her so hard in the slit she’d taste my hoof in the back of her throat but I resisted the temptation. The captain laughed and pulled Custom over, “Make sure that Quiet Type does a good job. I want that pony deader than his sex life, got it?”
With that I was hauled to my hooves by Cinnamon pony who spouted a, “Quick march, kid,” and with that we began our journey towards the tree line. We quickly separated out, with the guards at the front and me and Wraith behind. I leant over to him and whispered a quick, “What do we do now?”
We finally made it to the trees (it was deceptively further than it looked), and Wraith was immediately struck in the face by Cinnamon, who brought the butt of his rifle to his jaw. In panic I drew the pistol, but Customs wrestled me down and disarmed me before I even knew what was happening. Credit where credit is due, the Scavengers are incredible at hoof to hoof combat. Wraith was fortunately still conscious, but with a severely bleeding jaw and in no fit state to make any rescue attempts. Crimson cuffed all four of my legs and stood me up again, making me look like one of those mannequin ponies one would see in a clothes shop. Custom was about eye level with me, and she grinned an evil grin that only a Scavenger could manage. I heard Wraith call out, “What are you doing? We’re supposed to be executing her!”
He was quickly struck again by Cinnamon, this time with less force, but enough to stop him talking, “Shut it Quiet Type! Live up to your name!”
I braced myself for what was to come, but the colossal boom of a rifle sent blood spattering over my back and onto Custom’s face. I felt a heavy mass of pony fall on top of me and I assumed it to be Cinnamon. Crimson moved to draw her pistol, “Why you little bast…” She was cut off as another round passed through her skull, Wraith having reloaded and taken aim. Custom fell backwards and as she hit the ground her magic dissipated. She was still alive, but only just. Wraith rounded on her, his rifle by his side, “I never liked you anyway,” he said, before bringing a hoof down on her head, hard. Her skull caved inwards with a loud cracking noise, brains and blood and bone fragments staining the grass as Wraith repeatedly stomped on her head until there was no way that she could still possibly be alive. I shook Cinnamon off my back and asked Wraith if he could undo my bonds. He was quick about it, unlocking both sets of cuffs and clipping them to his belt, “Search Cinnamon for food, water, ammunition, anything that’s useful.”
I resisted the urge to throw up again as I started to search the pockets of the dead pony. All the time I muttered to myself, “I’m sorry! I’m sorry! I’m sorry!” He had tried to rape me, sure, but he still had a life that he lived, ambitions to strive for, mistakes he’d made. He was just as much of a pony as I was. Except that he was a Scavenger. With that in mind I made quick progress. In total I found one water canteen, three bars of chocolate and two clips of ammunition. I also took one of his knives just in case. I gave the ammunition to Wraith and he inspected it, “They feel like two full clips. Seven point nine two millimetre. Same calibre as my rifle,” He pocketed the ammunition. “So you’ve never fired a weapon before?”
And on that order we ran. The forest wasn’t dense in its foliage but never the less I hit my head several times and tripped on roots or leaves more times than I care to remember. We hadn’t run very far when I heard shouts of rage and calls of, “Get ‘em!”
We ran faster. If the Scavengers caught us now then our chances of survival became nill. After what seemed like hours of constant running we finally emerged from the forest. Wraith vaulted a fallen tree and brought his rifle to bear on the forest. I followed suit with my pistol resting on the tree and a sizeable rock floating next to my head. There was no movement in the tree line, but still we waited with our breath held. We must have waited for a good half an hour for the Scavengers to appear, but there was nothing. Not a stir. They must have given up. Still, we didn’t let our guard down. We turned about and continued on our journey, but neither of us could help the odd glance over our shoulder or pulling the other into cover as we thought we heard them coming.
The area beyond the forest was lush and green. Bushes grew in abundance and there were very few hills, making the going a little lighter. Despite our best efforts though, we failed to make it to the Wanderers by nightfall. Wraith hastily gathered wood for a fire and we camped in the cover of some foliage. We sat on opposite sides; the orange glow that seemingly random movements of the flames cast on Wraith’s face highlighted his features, making him look quite impressive. When you got a good look at him as a friend, he really was quite dashing. He looked quite wild, with his mane strewn all over the place and a certain fire in those scarlet red eyes of his. I felt myself staring probably more than I should and I saw him quickly get uncomfortable.
He took out a bayonet and played around with it, spinning it on the end of his hoof. He looked at me, “Have you at least fought somepony before?”
“I’ll teach you.”
I raised my knife and moved to bring it down into his chest. Before I knew what had happened he’d dodged out of the way. I stumbled forward and received a hoof into my spine. I fell to the floor and Wraith lifted my head, holding the blade of the bayonet against my throat. I panted, waiting for him to let me go. He did and pulled me up. I brushed myself down and straightened my hat. Wraith sheathed his blade, “You were too aggressive. Don’t underestimate the strength of your opponent. Also, don’t over compensate. You put too much force behind you swing and you stumbled. Scale your strength with the strength of your enemy. Skirmish first; gauge their skill and their strength. A good fighter will be able to disguise most of their experience. Treat whoever you’re fighting as superior and you’ll gain an advantage over less experienced opponents.”
I nodded, “Okay. I’m ready to go again.”
I groaned in frustration. Fighting was harder than I gave it credit for. Wraith helped me up again, “Better. Remember to always be aware of where every individual part of your opponent is. If you’re too close then take a step back, take in their stance and strike where they are weak. An opponent will do whatever it takes to kill you, so don’t rely on a strict combat strategy. Be flexible, adapt as they adapt. If they step forward take a step back. If they lunge then dodge. Don’t follow a strict pattern. Learn the moves and learn their counters.”
We continued in such a manner for what must have been a good two hours more. I was by no stretch of the imagination an expert by this point but I was still able to keep a sparring match going for a good couple of minutes before I finally made a mistake and Wraith was able to nail me. I’d tried to use magic against him, trying to trip him up or disarm him, but it turns out that live ponies provide a considerable counter force and only a very experienced unicorn can effectively use magic in combat. Never the less, he was very pleased with the progress I’d made in such a short space of time. He said that I’d picked up the art faster than anypony he’d ever seen before. He said that it must have been his good teaching, but personally I think it was just that I was a good student.
He promised to teach me how to shoot when we finally made it to the Wanderers, but for the rest of that night we rested. Wraith introduced me to the idea of sentries. He explained that whilst one of us rested, the other would remain awake and make sure that nopony tried to attack us. He volunteered to go first and I got a few well needed hours of sleep before he woke me for my shift.
I’ll start by saying that night sentry is one of the most boring things that one can possibly do. All you do is sit there scanning the landscape for anything that moves whilst all of your body heat seeps out of you and you start to yawn more frequently than you breathe normally. Part of me actually wanted the Scavengers to attack just for something interesting to do. I spent a large portion of my shift staring at Wraith. Whilst in hindsight I can see how that’s a little creepy, he looked so adorable when he was sleeping that I just couldn’t help it. He was a front sleeper, with his head always tilted to the right, his breathing slow with one hoof under his chest, the other by his side. He didn’t snore either, which was great news for me. Had he been a snorer then I’d probably have punched his harbour lights in by now, as such things very quickly annoy me.
Chapter 3
I felt a little guilty that morning when I woke to find that I’d fallen asleep on sentry. I was still up before Wraith though, so he thankfully didn’t notice. I gave him a shake to wake him and called, “Wake up, sleepy head. We’ve got a big day ahead of us.” He groaned and sat himself up, flinging his saddlebags and rifle over his back and yawning. He shook his head and pointed in our direction of travel, “The camp shouldn’t be more than a few miles away now. We’ll be there in a few hours.”
The guard sniffed derisively before nodding his head and turning his back on us, “Follow me, please.” We did so and he took us to the largest of the three buildings, pushing the door open and letting us in. The hut consisted of a single room, which was very large but felt smaller due to the vast amounts of clutter. The focal point of the room was a large desk, upon which were stacks of paper, documents, quills and bottles of ink. A little out dated but who was I to judge. There were also several filing cabinets lining the left wall and on the back was a large board with maps and various documents tacked onto it. There were bins of items all over the room, including cameras, toys, clothes, scrap bits of wood or metal and numerous other things besides. Behind the desk sat a mare with a black mane and a tannish coloured coat. She was an earth pony, garbed in the usual Wanderer attire, but with a strap over her breast, containing a knife and a small pistol.
She sat forwards when we entered and pressed her hooves together. The pegasus unslung his sub machine gun and placed it on a hook beside the door. He bowed to the mare behind the desk and introduced us, “My lady, this is Bucky of the NSA and Wraith of the Scavengers,” he spat as he said the word ‘scavengers’. “They have come here requesting shelter and information. I trust that you will make a good decision.”
She smiled and leant back again, “Please take a seat,” she gestured to two chairs before the desk. “I assume that you’ve had a hard journey here.”
I looked down into my lap. The memories hurt me badly and brought back many memories that I’d been trying hard to forget. I took a deep breath before saying, “My town was raided by Scavengers. My parents had long since… perished and I was on my own. I didn’t want to die so I ran, but they caught me and enslaved me. That’s when Wraith set me free. Please, Mayor, he risked his life to rescue me. He’s not like the rest of them, please don’t look upon him like you do the others.” She chuckled. With a hoof she beckoned Wraith forward. He took three large steps to come level with me. He bowed his head slightly in respect, but made no comment of his own.
Mayor Stylus gestured towards him, “So, Wraith I do believe you’re called, you’re friend here tells me that you risked your life to rescue her. Is that true?”
He said nothing at first, as per his usual self. Then he shuffled awkwardly and glanced off to one side before saying, “I just didn’t like the way they treated her, that’s all.”
She ceased her questioning then went silent for a short while. Then she smiled again, “Well I suppose that we can make an exception. There are some empty beds in our barracks that you can use and we can give you some maps of the local area, but you’re going to have to pull your weight and earn your keep. For you, Scavenger, that means patrol duty. Go out there and tell Tenner that from now on you’ll be patrolling in pairs. Bucky, I’m afraid that you might find yourself doing more work than you’re used to.”
When he did I turned back to the Mayor, “Thank you so much, miss! I promise that we won’t let you down and I’m willing to…” She waved a hoof in the air to silence me.
I thanked her again, before pushing back my chair and walking over to the door. I was about to leave but I glanced back over my shoulder to ask, “Where exactly is stores?” She chuckled.
The first thing that I noticed about him was that he had no mane. He was a pegasus with black fur and no cutie mark. I thought he was a bit odd, and then he turned to look at me. It took all of my strength not to recoil in horror. The stallion was missing his left eye. In its place was just an empty socket with a large scar running through it. Covering the right side of his face was what looked like a heavy metallic gas mask. It covered his muzzle and had a red eye that glowed slightly and had several pipes and wires covering it. On closer observation one noticed some rather nasty burns over where his cutie marks were supposed to be.
He stood up. He was about as tall as me, with covers over his hooves made of the same black metal as his half-mask which clanked against the floor when he walked. He stopped just short of me and stared into my face. I felt extremely awkward. He sighed, “Don’t worry, I really don’t mind if you stare.” His voice dripped sarcasm and I quickly apologised. Another of the wanderers (a mare about my age with a tomahawk at her hip) chuckled.
I took them all in. It was a pitiful display. Tritium with his missing eye and implants was the worst but they were all pretty bad. Eagle had scars all along her back and Sparks was missing several teeth. Big Guy was perhaps the best of them, with just a large scar running the length of his face. Eagle shook my hoof, “Big Guy’s the only proper wanderer here. His ancestors were apple farmers and he’s sort of carried on the tradition really. The mayor is his sister actually. Us? We all have our own stories. I was enslaved by the Scavengers at one point. Fortunately the LRSA invaded and I escaped during all of the commotion. Big Guy found me and I was all too happy to tag along. Tritium we found wandering the wastes. He attacked us at first but I scored a lucky hit and severed the antenna thing on his helmet. Then it was just a matter of getting it off.”
She took a deep breath before continuing, “And Sparks? She’s had a pretty rough time too. She’s an electrician by trade but here she maintains our weapons. Her mother and father were both Scavengers. They didn’t really want her so they had her enslaved. Sold her on to a Sadist who was just a barrel of laughs. He eventually got bored of her though and just ditched her. Then we picked her up and took her in. So yea, that’s all you need to know about us really. Have you met anypony else?”
After that I made my way to the stores hut. Inside were shelves upon shelves of weapons, food, clothes, miscellaneous items and so on. Walking up and down the aisles, levitating various items above his head, was a stallion with a light grey coat and chalk white hair that stuck up in strange directions and was longer in some places than others. He laughed when he saw me and dropped everything that he was carrying. I greeted him with a simple, “Hi,” and he leapt on me, pinning me underneath him. I began to panic but my fear soon subsided when he picked me up again, “Sorry about that my friend. I get a little excited sometimes and I lose control. Can I get you anything? Anything at all?”
I gave him the whole spiel that I’d given everypony else and told him that I was here to work. He seemed rather excited by this and immediately gave me a list of things that needed doing. For the next few hours I busied myself with stacking shelves, making lists, checking monitors and metres, polishing surfaces and various other mundane tasks. I was relieved when the door opened and Wraith stepped in. He looked at me and beckoned me over, “I’m going to teach you how to shoot now. Do you have your pistol?” I placed a hoof into my saddlebags and pulled out the firearm. “Good. Grab yourself a holster and a belt from here. You’ll need it to carry your weapons. Meet me around the back of the apple orchard in five. Drop your saddlebags off in the barracks.” He turned his back on me and walked out.
I found myself a belt and holster that fit my pistol and checked them out with Inventory. They were both made of brown leather and I quickly managed to fit the holster to the belt. I fit it around my waist and tightened it until it fit snuggly, then I slid my pistol into the holster. I was quite exhilarated by all of this. I felt like a new mare with this pistol by my side, even though I had no idea how to use the bloody thing. I thanked Inventory and he quickly decided that he was a dog and started to lick my face and bark loudly. I left with haste and returned to the barracks to drop off my saddlebags.
Eagle immediately gave me the bunk next to hers and flung my saddlebags into the locker next to it. She giggled and lay back on her bunk, spreading her arms out on either side. She rolled over and looked at me, “So, you seeing anypony?”
The sun was now low in the sky. Not sunset low, but still pretty low. Wraith was sitting on the fence with his rifle in his lap swinging his leg back and forth. He saw me approach and stood himself up again, “So you finally decided to show up. I said five minutes and you took six.”
He pulled out his own pistol and a clip of his own and showed me the ammunition, “This is 45 calibre. It fits into the grip of the pistol like so,” he slid the clip into the grip and it clicked. I looked at the ammunition in my magic field and frowned.
I grinned and pointed the pistol at the fence. Wraith had lined up several glass bottles which I assumed would be targets. We took several steps back and turned to face our enemies. Wraith raised his pistol and took aim. He fired off a single round which shattered a bottle on the fence and hit a tree. I raised my pistol and closed my left eye. Wraith guided me until the sights on the weapon lined up and told me to fire. I tried but not a single round would leave the barrel. I groaned in frustration, “Wraith, my gun’s broken!”
I steadied myself again and took aim. I pulled off a shot and the recoil jarred against my foreleg. I lost my grip and dropped the pistol. I looked to see if I’d hit anything but the bottles remained standing. I’d missed. I groaned again, “I’ll never get good at this!”
I steadied my breathing and took time to line up the sights. I made sure that the target was in line with the weapon and held my breath. I pulled back on the trigger a little, but not all the way. Then I released the breath and pulled the trigger all the way. The shot rang out and the pistol recoiled but I countered it; the weapon staying in my grip. I looked up and saw one less bottle standing on the fence. I laughed a cheered, “Yes! I did it! I fucking did it! For the first time I’ve successfully shot something! Ha ha!” I punched the air and whooped, grinning with delight.
I repeated the operation until all the bottles on the fence went down. I had two more misses, but I felt a lot more confident with my weapon now than when I’d started. My weapon. My pistol. My trusty travelling companion. I felt like a god. Wraith was very pleased with how quickly I’d managed to grasp the concept. Then he made sure that I could make the weapon safe to carry again, “Release the magazine like so. Place one hoof on the bottom of the clip and use the other to press on this lever here. Slide the clip out like so and place it in your belt somewhere. That pouch ought to do fine. Now there is still a round in the chamber which could go off if you pull the trigger, so cock the working parts back like this and see the round fly out. Pick it up and return it to your pouch. Now point the weapon in a safe direction and pull the trigger. Do you here that click? That’s the hammer going forward and pushing the firing pin forwards. Now the weapon cannot be fired unless it’s cocked again. Apply the safety catch... yes like that, and the weapon is now safe to be returned to your holster without the risk of it going off. Here, here are the rest of the clips. Put them in that pouch and take care of them.”
I turned my back to walk back to the barracks but Wraith put a hoof on my shoulder and turned me around. He stared into my eyes, “Remember; never point a weapon at anypony, loaded or otherwise, unless you intend to shoot them. You may know that it’s unloaded but they don’t and they may fire back at you in defence. Keep the weapon in its holster unless you’re going to clean it or use it. Understand?”
I sat on my bunk with my belt and holster on top of the locker beside my bed. Eagle was busy eating and I had gladly accepted a few of the apples that she had next to her. I hadn’t eaten all day and I was starving. As we chewed on the apples we talked. Well, I say we talked; Eagle did most of the talking. It was difficult for me to get a word in either way. She talked about a lot that I didn’t really care about or listen to but then she asked me for my story and I was forced to pay attention for a while.
I told her all about my parents. She had a lot of questions about life with the NSA, the answers to which I was happy to provide. I told her about my encounters with the Scavengers and it became something that we both connected on. I told her about Mystery and she listened with interest. She sighed, “I wish the place I’d been imprisoned in was as good as yours. When they captured me, our cells consisted of old confession boxes with bars welded onto the front. They were fucking horrible! The only time you were let out was if your master wanted you, which meant if you needed to take a piss you were forced to just grit your teeth and either wait to be released or just do what most of us were forced to do and get used to the smell of your own urine.” I shivered. To me that sounded like the worst possible form of punishment.
“Anyway, we had this one guy with us, Keeno we called him, and he was such an ass kisser. He would do anything that the Scavengers asked him to do and I mean anything! They all loved him. They didn’t even keep him in a cage because he was so fucking wet! We all hated him and he was always there to make fun of us in our cages. He would poke us through the bars and call us names but I would much rather have been in my cosy little cage than do the sort of shit he did! You know when I said he did anything? Right, well, one day this Scavenger, we all knew him as the Key Keeper because he, well, kept the keys, came in and he must’ve been really horny or something because he grabbed hold of Keeno and just…” I recoiled a bit and stopped chewing my apple. In comparison my time with the Scavengers was like living in luxury. I was pretty glad that I wasn’t amongst that lot. It was about this point that I zoned out again, but judging by her hoof gestures and the look of shocked disgust on Tritium’s face as he walked past, I’m going on the assumption that something naughty was happening.
I chuckled, “That is really disgusting,” I assumed.
I must’ve fallen asleep at one point because the next thing I remember was waking up at what felt like the middle of the night and it probably was. I groaned and rolled over, trying to fall asleep again, but then I hear voices outside. They were quiet, as if trying not to be heard. I sat up and looked around. I couldn’t see very much in the dark, but there was a faint orange glow piercing the cracks around the door. I could see Eagle next to me, lying on her back with one hoof on her chest. I felt it my duty to investigate the voices, so I strapped on my new belt and hopped down from my bunk. I crept as quietly as I could towards the door but ended up kicking a bucket which clattered loudly. I froze but no-one stirred, so I carried on.
It was crisp outside and the sky was still inky black. I drew my pistol from its holster but kept it unloaded for now. I located the source of the voices and as a result the orange light. It was coming from inside the orchard. I investigated, trying my hardest not to make any noise until I saw whom it was that I was dealing with. I crouched low and peered into the orchard. There was a fire, around which sat two figures; one tall and slim, one shorter but also slim. They both had rifles, but I couldn’t make out their identities. I took a clip from the pouch on my belt, sliding it into the grip on the pistol. I heard the soft click that announced that it was locked in place. Then with the weapon brought to bear I charged into the clearing and held it at the nearest person.
I was quickly caught off guard when they grabbed my outstretched arm and flung me over their shoulder. I hit the ground hard and the air was forced out of me. The pistol was wrestled from my grip and I heard the clip slide out and the weapon cock. I glanced up at my attacker, who promptly said, “Always fire with two hooves. It greatly improves your accuracy and controls recoil.” It was Wraith. He helped me back up and I graciously accepted the pistol off him, securing it in its holster. Wraith sat back down and gestured for me to do likewise. I then quickly identified the other pony to be Tritium, the half-cyborg.
I cleared my throat before making a quick apology, “Sorry about all of that. I heard voices and assumed they were hostile.” Wraith only sighed.
It was about the size of the average assault rifle, and about that shape too, but it had various veins of pulsing lime green light strobing across it from the butt to the end of the barrel and a clip that looked more like a large battery. It had what appeared to be a telescopic sight fixed to the top which also glowed a faint green. I pointed at it and inquired as to what it was. Tritium picked it up in his metal clad fore hooves and held it up to the light, “It’s a Plasma Carbine. Developed by the Factory for standard usage. It uses a cold fusion battery to generate ionised plasma, which is magnetised as it leaves the barrel to prevent it from scattering. It makes little noise, shoots over a long distance and hurts like shit if it hits you,” he placed it back in his lap. “Maybe someday you’ll see one in action, and you better hope that you’re not on the receiving end.”
I think now would be a good point to explain the Factory in a little more depth. The Factory was founded shortly after the revolution as a scientific testing facility. It was one of many massive facilities, stretching to about a kilometre long and several stories high. The facility in question specialised in robotics and engineering. After a while, the scientists there kept developing new and improved modular armour systems and weapons that they fused with their bodies. Over time they became heavily depended on their implants to function at full capacity and went mad. They lost all independent thought, instead being controlled by one combined hive mind, like an organism in its own right moving its fingers about. They began to kidnap others and fuse them with machines, expanding their power and connecting ponies to their mental grid. Some gave up their independence willingly, others were forced. Now they are a small faction compared to the Scavengers and the LRSA and are rarely seen outside of their facility, but when they are then it’s not a good sign. They don’t eat, sleep, drink, fuck each other or any of the things that most ponies do, so they’ve become more machine than pony. However Tritium could be considered living proof that the process could be reversed, despite the dangers.
And so we three stayed up and talked into early morning. We talked about various things, the Scavengers included, and we ended up turning in at what must have been about three o’clock in the morning. I got back to my bunk and slid myself under the covers, resting my head in an attempt to catch some sleep before the next morning. I gazed over at Eagle. She was nice, good to have a chat with and I felt upset to have to leave her at some point. She was fun and above all else funny and care free, something that was seriously lacking in the Wilderness. Eventually I managed to drift off to sleep.
Only to be very rudely awoken the next morning by Tenner. He’d dragged himself out of his bunk earlier than the rest of us and we were abruptly awoken by him banging on a metal pipe, “Come on! Come on! Let’s go! Up and attem, we’ve got work to do! You there, get up before I drag you up!” I cast him a cold glare and fixed my belt around my waist. Pulling my hat down over my eyes I joined the rest of the Wanderers outside. Eagle had already gone off on sentry duty, as had Wraith, and Sparks was making maintenance checks on the electrics and Inventory was opening stores up for the day. Big Guy and the rest bar Tritium, Tenner and Mayor Stylus were busy working the orchards. The Mayor supervised, directing their efforts and coordinating the work whilst also lending a helping hoof here or there where it was needed. Tenner quickly slipped in to the Mayor’s office and Tritium sat with various bits and pieces attempting to put them together. I went to meet Inventory at stores to complete my daily work.
The rest of the day went without a hitch, with nothing interesting really happening. Then came my shooting session with Wraith. My accuracy had improved since the day before and I knocked down every target that he set up for me. He was so impressed by my progress he asked if I wanted to start working on rifles, but I politely declined. All I needed was my trusty pistol and I would be good. That was followed up by another lesson in melee combat, which ended in several humiliating defeats until I finally managed to pin Wraith to the floor, “Good job. You’ve definitely improved.”
So we went to visit the Mayor in her office/building thing. She was there, sitting quietly in her chair whilst Tenner stood on the opposite side of the desk. He had his head bowed slightly and his ears drooped, hanging by the side of his head which made him look rather pathetic. He was murmuring quietly about something that I would have loved to have caught but sadly didn’t. Mayor Stylus stood up, her hooves planted firmly on her desk, “Alright Tenner I’ve heard enough. Listen, this is a harsh world now. It’s not like the era of harmony that we once had. Now-a-days every other pony you meet wants to either kill you, rape you or steal your food so when we come across somepony who still has some good left in their heart then we take them on board so that they don’t have to go through any of that. I know you have your issues but that’s how we operate here under my rule, and until my rule comes to an end, you are to follow my orders. When something annoys you, you hold your tongue; otherwise you may as well leave now. No, Tenner, I’m sorry. That’s the way it is. Now get out of my face.”
Tenner bowed his head further and with a quiet, “Yes ma’am,” he turned and stalked out of the office, throwing both Wraith and I a dirty look as he walked past. Mayor Stylus fell back into her chair, her arms by her sides. We approached her desk and she perked up.
Wraith bowed his head slightly as a sign of respect, “We want to see some maps of the surrounding area. We plan to leave tomorrow.”
I was actually clueless. I hadn’t planned this far ahead. I had no idea where exactly I wanted to go so I simply asked for a place that would provide us with a place to stay until we’d formulated a proper plan. Stylus frowned, “Well, you may try lodging with the LRSA base here but that might be tricky depending on who’s running it. On the other hoof there is another village here but it’s a lot further away. I’m afraid we don’t have much beyond that. What do you think?”
I thought for a moment about things I’d likely need. I would need some more ammo. Food and water would be essential so we’d have to stock up on that. Weapons we were okay on, clothing was doing alright. The only other thing that I felt that I needed was a piss but I wasn’t exactly going to ask to be excused at that moment, “We’ll need some more ammunition and some food and water.”
So we both retired to our bunks (after I’d taken care of necessary business) and prepared to sleep. I was lying on my bunk facing the ceiling, deep in thought. I was thinking about that fateful night when the Scavengers invaded my town and ruined the safety that I’d spent my entire life living in. I’d been in the wilderness about a week now, if not slightly more, and already I’d been enslaved, taught to shoot, made plenty of new friends and generally learnt to take care of myself in the wide scheme of things. Despite it all though, I felt more alone and vulnerable now than I ever did.
Something pressed up next to me and whispered softly into my ear, “Hey, Bucky? Are you awake?”
“Bucky?”
Eagle smiled to herself. She nodded once, “Well at least I got that out there. Thanks for understanding.”
It was a sort of restless sleep though. I felt like I woke up feeling worse than when I’d gone to sleep. I dragged myself out of my bunk and put on my belt and saddlebags. I looked over at Eagle who was still asleep. It felt wrong to just leave her after what she’d said last night, but I couldn’t delay this any longer. I put my hat on my head and pushed open the door, stepping out into the cool morning air. The air was crisp and there was a light breeze that caused the leaves of the trees to rustle quietly. There must have been a bird singing in one of them and the sun was still quite low, making everything seem almost unreal.
Wraith was already up, dressed and ready to go, rifle slung over his shoulder with his pockets stuffed with as much ammo and food as he could fit, two water canteens hanging from his neck. Standing with him was Mayor Stylus and Inventory, who had his face planted into the ground. I went to join them and Stylus greeted me, “You’re awake then? Good. Well I guess this is goodbye. Here, there’s some more ammo here and some food. And take this canteen. Well I wish you both the best of luck. If ever you need a place to stay or need some more supplies then feel free to pay us a visit and we’ll be happy to accommodate you. Well, goodbye then.”
And with a wave of hooves we turned and went on our way. In front of us was what appeared to be mile upon mile of deserted land with the only signs of life being the grass, some shrubs and the odd tree here or there. I felt a little downtrodden by the sight. Equestria was massive, and my plan to take revenge on the Scavengers was getting less achievable with every new group of people that we met. Still, I would never achieve anything by standing still so I put my head down and began on my journey with Wraith at my side and an LRSA compound ahead of us.
Something has gone wrong. We don't seem to have an archived copy of that chapter. Author's Note
Just a word of warning, this chapter may have a few editing errors here or there. I'm not being lazy, but a load of work has been sprung on me at the last minute and I've had a really stressful night. Still, I am determined to bring this chapter to you all on time, so here it is.
More so here than previously, if you spot any glaring mistakes, let me known as politely as you can. I will read back over this chapter later and iron out any kinks in it, but I just had to get it out there before I forget. Hope you enjoy it!
Chapter 5
Chapter 5
Wraith and I both finished what food we wanted for our breakfast and I left a subtle hint to the chef pony to get some marmalade. I made the hint in the form of a loud statement about how much I loved marmalade and how disappointed I was that there was a distinct lack of it. He’d shot me a cold stare and immediately went back to serving the rest of the ponies in the queue. I’m telling you, if there’s no marmalade on that counter tomorrow morning then I’m filing a complaint with the head of catering.
Outside it was now looking like more of a normal day, and by that I mean it was a sensible waking time. Pretty much all of the LRSA personnel were awake by this time and some of the refugees (but most of them were still in their pits). Black clad LRSA ponies were trotting, jogging and galloping all over the campus, doing all of the necessary jobs that kept them running. A Private walked past pushing a cart of laundry towards a small hut that was likely where the washing took place whilst a Sergeant sprinted past with three more Privates in tow, headed in the general direction of the main gate. I felt the urge to pull my weight and do something. What I really wanted was a chance to mix amongst the soldiers and see if I could learn anything that could be useful to me. Wraith was having a similar idea.
I stopped to speak to a Private who trotted past, putting a hoof on his shoulder to attract his attention. He stopped and gave me a look of contempt, “Was? Was wünschen Sie?”
Officers in the LRSA proved hard to find unless they were stopping you at check points. Most of them tended to hide themselves away in the central complex doing administrative work. The only officers we were liable to find were field officers or those in charge of supervision. Wraith and I collectively decided that it would be sensible to check by the main gate as we assumed there would be one stationed there. We made our way in the direction of the entrance, passing various other refugees milling around or playing games and LRSA personnel going about their business. I was rather impressed as a stallion with a very heavy looking machine gun around his neck walked past with a few boxes of ammunition at his sides like saddlebags and a belt across his chest. He was very large and quite intimidating and I was pleased that he was on our side and not the Scavengers. Although the Scavengers likely had plenty of these brutes of their own.
As we turned the corner that took us to the gate I walked right into a black suited stallion. He stumbled backwards and I stumbled forwards with him, righting myself before I fell. He managed to maintain his balance as well and immediately went to straighten his uniform and fix the peaked cap on his head. The stallion was a young officer with a soft face and kind eyes. He was only a second lieutenant in rank so he was inexperienced and relatively new. I immediately apologised in an attempt to save myself from a bollocking but he waved it off, “No, no, the fault is mine for not paying attention. Can I help you?”
The officer placed a hoof to his muzzle and furrowed his brow in thought. It took him a few moments to actually say something.
We both thanked the officer for the advice and he went to leave. I stopped him just as he walked past us. I asked his name. He chuckled and pointed to his name tag, “I’m Otto. I work in intelligence. If there’s anything else you need, just ask somepony around and they’ll tell you where to find me. Auf Wiedersehen!”
There were no guards posted outside this building. Inside were two ponies (both Privates), one operating the machinery that cleaned all of the uniforms, the other folding and sorting them so that they could be returned to their respective owners. They were very pleased to hear that I was willing to help them and they provided me with a needle and thread and a box of fabric that they said was used to make their clothing. It was a lightweight material that was kind of like cotton and handled in a similar fashion. I found cotton to be a very easy material to work with and one of the Privates provided me with a stack of uniforms that needed mending. I set about my work, not paying too much attention, thinking more about Wraith. He seemed very offended by what I’d said; him being my companion. Was it just the term he didn’t like? Maybe I should refer to him not as a companion but as a friend? Or maybe he wanted me to call him something like teacher or mentor? Or maybe it was the exact opposite, maybe he thought that after all we’d been through he deserved to be called more than that. What did he want me to do? If he was trying to drop subtle hints he was being a little too subtle for me.
I picked up the next uniform in the pile. I’d done three so far, all of which simply needed a quick touch up to try and remove scuff marks from the elbows, but this next uniform was different. It had a line of small holes running all the way across the torso from the right hip to the left shoulder. I turned it around. The holes on the back were significantly larger than those on the front, “What happened to this?”
I put the uniform down. I couldn’t bring myself to do any more. I wasn’t going to fix this uniform knowing that some other young colt would only wear it and die too. I thanked the Privates for their time and left without a backwards glance. I had to act. There was no way I was going to sit by and let this murder continue indefinitely. If I was going to die I’d rather die attempting to make a difference, with a pistol in one hoof and a knife in the other. Wraith and I had to speak to the officer in charge. We had to gain access to that central building.
I found Wraith on the rifle range, teaching a young stallion how to hold a rifle properly. I could tell he was getting rather frustrated from the way he ran his hoof through his mane every time the stallion did something wrong. The stallion wore a loose black shirt with the sleeves rolled up halfway and was holding a hunting rifle in his hooves in a very awkward position. Wraith unslung his own rifle and showed the stallion the proper technique, then demonstrated a suitable firing stance. I interrupted their training session just as the stallion asked, “Can’t I just stand how I want? What difference does it make?”
I nodded and turned to leave Wraith with his new student. He almost yelled in annoyance as the stallion asked what I assumed was another stupid question and I afforded myself a small smile. I spent the rest of my afternoon cleaning my Glock as Wraith had taught me to, ensuring that all of the parts were working properly and that it wasn’t going to give up on me when I needed it. I hastily wolfed down my dinner, which consisted of more bread (and no more marmalade) and some form of oat meal that almost made me sick to look at. Night came around soon after and most of the refugees were back in the barracks, and most of the LRSA personnel were preparing for sentry or getting ready for a night’s rest. I had originally planned to spend the remaining time I had in the barracks reading, but the noise drove me away. I had a mild headache and the last thing I needed was the noise of foals screaming all around me. Instead I had taken refuge in the rifle range, sitting on the bench and gazing up at the stars. It was too dark for reading and I was enjoying the peace and quiet.
I leaned back and sighed. My body felt worn out from everything it had been put through. The memories of my old life seemed distant, despite the fact it had been just more than a week since I’d been forced away; since the Scavengers changed my life forever. It hadn’t all been hard knocks and heartbreak though. I’d met Wraith, and Mystery, and Eagle. I’d discovered more about myself than I wanted to know and I’d learnt many new things, forcing myself to adapt. I’d done things, seen things that no pony should have to. I’d taken lives. For some reason I wished that I’d never been born. All I knew was struggle. Death and despair seemed to follow me like a plague. It was like I was cursed. I glanced left, I glanced right. I was completely alone.
I subtly snaked a hoof down to my legs. Cut me some slack, I was a horny nineteen year old who’d known nothing but trauma for the past week, I needed something I could enjoy. I flinched slightly, surprised by how sensitive I was to my own touch. I kind of played around a little trying to conjure up some image that I could use, trying to draw on my recent experiences for inspiration. Then I heard a voice to my right, “There you are.” I yelped in immediate panic, snapping my hoof back to my side and clamping my legs together, a deep blush appearing on my face. I looked to see who it was that had disturbed me in the deeply personal moment and saw Wraith standing at the entrance to the range. I exhaled deeply and relaxed my shoulders slightly.
Wraith turned to leave and when he was out of view I tried to return to my fantasies but found that I couldn’t bring me self to summon up the energy. Frustrated, I yelled quietly to myself and picked myself up, slowly walking back to the barracks before they closed it and I was locked out. Few ponies were around at this time, and the only ones I did meet were LRSA personnel. I passed a group of stallions armed with submachine guns donning a strange type of uniform that made them look like bushes and a set of goggles that looked like binoculars but with green lenses. There were no lights in the compound and anypony still awake by this point had to navigate by vision were possible, and memory were it was not.
When I got back to the barracks the guards were just about to close up and I managed to slip in past them and get to my bunk before they locked the doors. To my amazement some of the ponies here were already sleeping. I couldn’t sleep. I simply lay on my bed, wide awake if anything but with a throbbing headache. Looks like Wraiths surprise had made it worse. I would have laid thinking but my painful head made that impossible, so I just lay there like a fish, not doing or thinking of anything in particular, just waiting to fall asleep.
As is the general cycle, morning came a few hours later. I’d fallen asleep eventually and must have slept for a good few hours, but it felt like I’d just woken up from a five minute doze. It was substantially later than the time I usually woke at (I’d have gauged the time to be about nine o’clock) and I didn’t feel much like dragging myself out of my bunk. However, today was important and I needed to get ready. Today Wraith and I confronted the encampment’s commanding officer about further plans. I wasn’t sure where I wanted to go or what I wanted to do. Originally I was spurred on by the fear of being killed, raped and tortured by Scavengers but it had been a while since I’d seen the dreaded khaki uniform (I hadn’t delved into my saddlebags for the entirety of our stay so I hadn’t even seen Wraith’s) and fear of being captured was what seemed like a distant memory. Just another reason to get back into the fray. There were ponies out there, innocent ponies who just wanted a quiet life, who were being brutally murdered or kidnapped by these savages and I couldn’t sit by on my arse and watch it go on from behind a chain link fence and a cohort of machineguns.
I debated whether or not to wear my belt and decided to just settle for throwing it over my back. I fixed my hat on my head and made my move for the door. I passed a mirror on the way and caught a glimpse of myself as I walked past. Then I back peddled furiously to get a better look. The last time I looked in a mirror my clothes were fresh, my mane and tale were neatly brushed and my fur was well washed, glistening I dare say. As I stared back into my reflection I struggled to accept that it was me I was looking at. My mane was a mess of hair like I’d never seen. The style was the same but odd tufts stuck out and it was a little more bedraggled. My fur was dirty, covered in sand, mud and blood and my clothes were likewise stained. There was even a tear in my pullover that I hadn’t noticed before. The lack of a shower had really taken its toll on me. I also reminded myself how I hadn’t washed my clothes in over a week, or even taken them off for that matter. I immediately felt filthy and made a mental note to dive into the first stream, lake, river, reservoir, fountain, puddle or sink I came across.
The sun was a little duller than it had been in previous days and the air was much cooler, with a slight cold breeze beginning to pick up from the west. I glanced over at the horizon and noticed a large mass of miserable grey clouds looming. Typical that the day I chose to leave was the day that the weather decided it wanted to piss in my face. I half walked half trudged my way to the mess hall and sat down with my toast (still not done right and still without marmalade) and slowly crunched on it. I made a quick mental checklist of all the things Wraith and I needed. We still had plenty of food left over from the Wanderers (who had been pretty generous); we would have to get our ammunition back from the LRSA and water was beginning to run short so that would need replenishing. I couldn’t bring to mind anything else we could possibly need.
I began to seriously consider putting butter on my toast to give it some form of flavour (I actually hated butter with a passion, hence my reluctance) when Wraith joined me. I looked up at him, “Where have you been?”
When I again finished my breakfast and made my anything but subtle complaint about the lack of marmalade (not for my sake but for the sake of everypony that had to eat this tasteless bread without the sweet flavours of the appropriate topping) I put my belt on properly and did my best to make myself look vaguely presentable. This basically consisted of straightening my hat again and not much else. Wraith and I made the short trip to the entrance of the main tower. The door was doubled, with two very stern looking guards outside (and I could have sworn I’d seen a sniper up on the top of the tower looking down on us). The guards didn’t look in any position to let us in but we needed to talk with the commanding officer so I was prepared to do almost anything (the key word here is almost) to get us in.
“Hello fine sirs.”
I raised an eyebrow. Is that so? I smiled to myself. I now had information that I could use to get under his skin. Hopefully I could come up with something that would convince him to let us in. I cleared my throat, “So, you’ve come here all the way from Germany?”
I gave an internal whoop of joy and smiled to myself as the evidently quite flustered stallion tapped a rather long password into a panel next to the door. I heard a buzz and then a click and the stallion pushed the door open. Wraith entered first, without even a nod in either direction, and I quickly followed suit, making sure to give another quick flick of my tail as I walked past. It served me no real benefit now that I’d already achieved my goal but I just liked to mess with stallions. They were so easy to manipulate it was almost laughable, particularly young ones.
The doors closed behind us and I paid attention to my new surroundings. The room we were in was fairly large, with a well polished floor, white walls and a few doors leading off into various side rooms. There were noticed boards pinned up all over the walls with various messages and memoirs tacked to them. The door directly ahead had a plate on it, reading ‘Leutnant Karl Blitzen, Verwaltung’. I hadn’t a clue what it meant but I assumed it was an officer and I assumed it was someone I needed to talk to so I knocked on the door and waited for a response. After a few moments I heard the officer call, “Jawohl?” I pushed open the door and peeped in. The officer was leaning back in his chair and staring at me as if expecting me to say something. He wasn’t dressed in the usual dark uniforms of the LRSA but was instead wearing a metallic grey uniform and instead of silver rank stripes he had gold. He continued to stare at me and I stared back. I gulped.
I thanked him and closed his door. I gestured to Wraith that we should go and he nodded, following me as I pushed open the door to the stairwell and began to climb. By the time I reached the top my legs were aching. It was deceptively higher than it looked and the stairs seemed to go on forever. I pushed open a door into a large room that was similar to the one below but smaller and with fewer extra doors. There was a door that lead to what I assumed was a balcony, a door that was sign posted but in German not English, so I had no idea what it was. The only remaining door was dead ahead with another two guard ponies standing outside. These were both Sergeants in ranks and both armed with shotguns. They also were dressed in the drab grey I’d seen on the officer on the first floor and I assumed that that was the uniform of the ponies in the central tower. The door had a plate on it like the one below which read ‘Oberstleutnant Jürgen Fetlok, Kommandant’. I was preparing to flaunt my ass for the guards again but they recognised us as the ponies who’d been referenced by the lieutenant below and let us in with little argument. I nodded as I entered and was quite impressed by the layout of the room.
The centre piece of the room was a large wooden desk, upon which were pens, paper and various other items of stationery. There were a few paintings adorning the walls and several rows of filing cabinets along the back. There was a German flag draped across the front of the desk with a name plate that was almost identical to the one on the door except in the form of a prism perched on top. The pony behind the desk looked fairly experienced and wore the same grey uniform (which I was beginning to think was a little boring) but seemed to present himself with an air of superiority which annoyed me greatly. The most interesting part of the room, however, was how the mutants cradle on his desk click clacked from side to side. Kind of puts into perspective how neat and orderly (and uninteresting) the rest of the room was. The officer looked up from some riveting looking paperwork in order to address us, “Guten Tag. I am Lieutenant Colonel Fetlok. Please sit down.” I accepted the invitation and to my surprise so did Wraith. This was actually the first time he’d accepted a seat from anypony.
The Lieutenant Colonel clacked his hooves together in thought, mimicking almost the noise of the mutants cradle which still dominated my attention. Eventually he said, “My Lieutenant warned me of your arrival. He said you have information on Scavenger movements. Is this so?”
After several awkward minutes of silence the officer coughed again, “A day or two ago, my operator received a transmission from one of our forward sentries stating that two extra refugees were headed our way. They also warned us that one of them was a Scavenger. Moments later you two arrived. Now that could just be coincidence, but I don’t think so. One of you is a Scavenger. Who?” Shit. I’d forgotten about radios and their ability to convey long distance information. I tried to think of something clever to say that would get us out of having to answer him but Wraith spoke up first.
I nodded to myself. That sounded like the sort of place we needed to go, but I was not overjoyed at the mention of ‘Scavenger territory’ or ‘Factory personnel’. Both were very bad news, “How long would it take us to reach Refuge if we travelled through the forest?”
We concluded our meeting by asking where we could refill our canteens and reclaim the weapons and ammunition confiscated from us. The officer directed us to the armoury, where we would be guided to a room filled with weapons and ammunition confiscated from refugees, where we could reclaim our lost ammunition. As for canteen refills, he suggested we just went to the mess hall. I thanked him (although I wasn’t very thankful at all) and Wraith and I left the room. I was looking forward to turning my back on the place. The LRSA routine didn’t sit well with me and I didn’t like being constantly surrounded by Germans who thought they were better than me.
Half way down the stairs, however, who should I run into but Arno, the stallion who worked in comms that had tried to hit on me. I almost ran headlong into him and nearly knocked him down the stairs. He righted himself and straightened his uniform, “Careful. You could have killed me!”
I skidded on the floor of the main lobby and ran headlong into the door, which failed to open. I ended up hitting it hard with a loud thunk that knocked me backwards onto my rump. The Lieutenant in the room behind me opened the door and looked out, calling something in German. At the same time the doors slid open as the Private poked a concerned looking face into the hall. I stood up, fixed my hat and gave him a coy wink as I walked past. Wraith gave him a look that would have killed him were it able to. I groaned in frustration, “I can’t take any more of this. We need to go. These LRSA ponies are going to drive me to insanity.” I would actually go so far as saying that my time with the Scavengers was more pleasant. At least in the cell I had Mystery to talk to and I was left alone most of the time.
Wraith and I refilled our canteens at the mess hall and, having checked that we had all of our equipment, made our way to the armoury to reclaim our ammunition. The armourer was another Lieutenant, his name tag reading ‘Leutnant Augpolitz, Waffenschmied’. He was a little kinder than most of the other ponies we’d encountered and immediately agreed to take us to the room containing all of the refugee’s ammunition. He located the boxes that matched our details and handed them to us. We filled our saddlebags and pockets with the loose rounds and clips before I piped up in confusion, “Hang on, where’s my bayonet?”
Something has gone wrong. We don't seem to have an archived copy of that chapter. Chapter 7
I sat on the first floor of the café, a blanket wrapped round me, shivering feverishly. I now had a large scar under my left eye and my mane was more dishevelled than before. I looked over at the body of the stallion with hate. Wraith had stabbed him in the neck with his hunting knife. There hadn’t even been a shout. After that he just had to wait for the ideal moment to rescue me. He had silently waited at the bottom of the stairs, eavesdropping. He heard what the mare had said and, going on the assumption that she would be facing away from the stairs, he’d picked up the biggest knife he could see and crept up the stairs. When he saw the mare with her knife raised above her head, he acted swiftly, ramming his own weapon just to the right of the mare’s spinal column. She had been killed instantly.
After my traumatic torture session Wraith had set about looting the bodies. Our haul wasn’t fantastic. It consisted of a Bizon submachine gun, an SVD Dragunov, a few knives, two sets of hoofcuffs, another carton of cigarettes, what Wraith called a ‘Ghillie Suit’ and several chipped coffee cups. Wraith was, at that moment, rummaging through the café’s inventory, searching for food. When he came back he dropped a box of apples that were still relatively fresh on the floor, helping himself to one. I didn’t feel like eating. I got up and walked over to the window. Well, I say I walked, it was more like a hobble. The pain between my back legs was still terrible. Wraith deduced that I would be in no fit state to walk for at least a day.
I peered through the shutters. It was still raining hard. The lightning had now begun and I could see white arks of electricity shoot across the gloomy sky before hearing a rumble of thunder. I had already looked through the desk, wardrobe and bedside table upstairs. They yielded nothing interesting and I assumed that he Scavenger’s had already looted the useful stuff. Wraith had set about sorting through the ammunition in the cash register. Most of it was just random shrapnel (not quite literally, although there were a few bits of actually random shrapnel in there), but he did manage to put together about a clips worth of ‘tracer’ rounds. He said that they would fit my pistol and there were enough there for a single clip. He explained that, when fired, the rounds would generate a slight glow, helping to track the trajectory of the bullet. He recommended that I replace the last round of each magazine with a tracer, so that I knew when I needed to reload. I did as he suggested, but left the hollow point magazine untouched, still in my pistol.
I was in a very bad mood. I felt ready to stab out the eyes of the first pony that got in my way. Wraith said that the day was getting short and that we would need to sort out bedding. I nodded but outright refused to sleep in the bed upstairs. Mostly it was because of the horrific experience I had had on it (some of my blood had dripped onto the sheets, and it just acted as a solemn reminder of what had happened) but also partly because I was aware of what the two Scavengers had been doing on it prior to my torture. Wraith agreed. He found some loose sheets in the café’s inventory and suggested that we sleep on them. It was better than nothing and it made a pleasant change to sleeping on the cold floor, letting my body heat seep into the ground.
“Do we have to do sentries again?”
Wraith broke the contact and went back to laying out our bedding. An awkward silence fell between us. Wraith coughed, “I can take first shift if you want. You can get some sleep, try and relax and all.” I nodded.
I told Wraith that I was going to look upstairs; see if I could find anything more. He nodded and let me go, staying and trying to figure out how the coffee machine worked. I slowly made my way to the top of the stairs. In truth, I was looking for a toilet (I hadn’t… been for a while), but I was also quite interested in finding something that may be hidden from view. What wasn’t so hidden from view was a door that led off to another room. I hadn’t seen the door before, but I pushed it open anyway. I clicked on the light and felt a brief pang of relief when I recognised the white interior. After my private moment that desperately needed to get done, I searched in the cabinet to see what I could find. I found a packet of what looked like Paracetemol and a small box of ‘blood thinners’. I assumed that the owner of this café was diabetic. I wasn’t diabetic (thankfully) but I did take the tablets just in case. Of… something.
When I got down stairs again, Wraith was examining the small ‘hoof-pistol’ I’d found in the safe. I asked about it. He said that it was a, “Kahr PM9. It’s designed to be concealed easily on somepony’s person.”
As night fell Wraith kept his promise and took up post at the window as sentry. I lay down on the sheets Wraith had laid out and yawned. I needed a good rest. I’d been through quite a lot recently and a solid night’s sleep would be great. Unfortunately, I was to be woken in a few hours for my sentry duty and I wasn’t looking forward to it. Still, I closed my eyes and tried to drift off to sleep, failing several times. All I could do was think about my torture. The pain in my groin still throbbed away and I had a very bad headache. In the end I decided to swallow one of the painkilling tablets to try and dull some of the terrible agony. It worked to a limited degree, about enough to kill my headache and make the pain between my hind legs less prominent. Still, all I could think of was the darkness of my blindfold, the horror I felt as the Scavenger prepared to rob me of my (what I assumed to be rather attractive) rear. I had a restless sleep, plagued with nightmares, the details of which don’t warrant describing, but were quite bad. I can remember waking up more tired than when I’d gone to sleep. Wraith was shaking my shoulder, whispering for me to get up.
I yawned and stretched, “All right, I’ll take my post,” another yawn. “Get some sleep. You’re going to need the rest.”
There was a long silence, which I ultimately broke, “So… uh… Why did you wake me up again?”
Still, he did a good job at making me feel sorry for him. I wrapped my forelegs around him again. He was a very fragile stallion. Like glass, except that he doesn’t break if your drop him. So I guess he’s not like glass at all. I should probably have thought that analogy through a little better. Still, I enjoyed holding him in my hooves, resting my head in the crook of his neck. It was, as he’d said, comforting. After a few moments like that I let him go.
When he woke me up again the first thing I said was, “Is it actually my shift or do you just want me to hug you again?”
One hour ticked by. I was beginning to get very bored. I glanced over at Wraith, not sure whether or not he was actually asleep. It was quite a clear line of sight between where Wraith had laid our bedding. He must have done that on purpose. I still wasn’t sure whether or not he was fake sleeping again. His head was facing the counter, however, so he wasn’t looking in my direction. Still, I didn’t get up. I was determined to spend one full shift on sentry without getting up. But it was hideously boring. I desperately searched for something to do to kill some time. I had my Glock and everything in my belt pouches. I cursed quietly. I’d left my saddlebags on the counter, so I couldn’t get that piece of paper I’d found in my last lodging in Savengerville. I couldn’t get up to use the coffee machine. I didn’t even like coffee anyway. I swatted away a naughty thought. That would be wrong. Very wrong.
But it was very tempting. I made sure that Wraith was definitely not looking at me (which he wasn’t) and took his tunic off the back of the chair. I should just stop before I did something I regretted. But it felt good to be bad, so I put my hoof into his chest pocket. The first thing I took out was an empty shell casing. A little odd to be carrying that around, but I put it back and felt around for more things. I found three loose cigarettes, likely his wages, and put them back in. I wanted to put everything back that I took out, so that Wraith wouldn’t know that I’d been rummaging through his pockets. I contemplated searching through his saddlebags too, but decided against it. It was bad enough that I was looking through his uniform; I think searching his saddlebags would have been a step too far. There were also a few loose bits in there, but not much else.
I moved on from his chest pocket. Oh, this was so naughty! It was exciting though. There were two more external pockets but I knew from looting experience that the Scavenger tunics had one internal pocket. I decided to finish searching the exterior pockets first. I started with the right pocket. In it there was a photograph, folded in half. I unfolded it and saw it was a colour photograph of six Scavengers. I recognised the one on the far left as Wraith, with a very serious look on his face, holding his rifle. Next to him on the right was a magenta pegasus mare with a shotgun, a stupid grin on her face. Next to her was a mare who looked a little older than Wraith did in the photograph. She had a mane that was a similar colour to mine, but with a sort of golden yellow fur coat. She was a unicorn too, and across her back was an assault rifle. Next to her was an intimidating looking stallion holding a submachine gun and a chisel. The look on his face filled me with fear. I could just make out the rank of Tactical on his brassard, but in terms of specialisation, he was a Sadist for sure. Next to the Sadist was a pony that looked even younger than Wraith, wielding a pistol. The colt grinned cruelly, and I was fairly certain that blood was smeared over his hooves. On the extreme right was a rather strong looking mare with a large rocket launcher over one shoulder. She was an earth pony, with a forest green Mohawk and a tooth pick in her mouth. I shivered. Wraith had a nasty looking section. I folded up the photograph again and put it back in his pocket. There wasn’t anything else there.
In his left pocket was a collection of empty stripper clips for his rifle. I suppose they were there so he could re-bomb them, given the chance. There was nothing else in that pocket, which only left his internal one. I put my hoof into it, and drew out what appeared to be a small notebook with a pen stuck into the binding. I debated whether or not to open the notebook. This was about to get really private, and I wasn’t quite sure what I was going to find. Should I, shouldn’t I? This was going against everything I’d been taught was right. But I’d also been taught that stealing and killing and masturbating were wrong, but I’d done all those. Well, if I was digging a hole, might as well see how deep I could make it. I turned the cover and looked at the first page. It was just full of the same two words, ‘I’m Sorry’ repeated for the entire page. This carried on for three pages. It confused me. Why would he write the same two words on every page for about three pages? I flipped to the next page. It was a drawing. It was a very good drawing. I didn’t know Wraith could draw. It was a mare with a cowgirl hat on, looking rather upset, sitting in a cage. It took me a few moments to realise it was me.
I was surprised. How long ago had Wraith drawn this? I hadn’t seen him do it, so maybe it was whilst I was behind bars? I flipped to the next page. Another drawing. This time there was another pony in it, much smaller than the cowgirl pony. The young filly was poking at the ground whilst the cowgirl looked over her shoulder, a defiant look on her face. The filly was Mystery. It was as though Wraith had been documenting my life, from the point at which I was captured. I flipped the page again. Several pieces of chalk hanging from the ceiling by threads, somepony in the distance balancing on one hind leg, fixing another piece to the ceiling. I flipped to the next page, expecting to see another sketch, but being greeted by words. ‘I’ve made my decision. I’m leaving. I’ve had it with the Scavengers. I’m taking the cowgirl pony with me. If she agrees to come that is. She looks like the sort of pony that wouldn’t give up on a good cause.’ That’s all the page had on it.
I was so absorbed in reading through Wraith’s notebook, I had completely zoned out everything else. The lightning flashes, the driving rain, the howling wind; all completely zoned out. I turned the page. ‘On sentry. Cowgirl pony has joined me. She’s called Bucky. Nice name. She’s got the potential to really make a difference. Heh, this is like a diary almost.’ The next page was another sketch, this time of me sleeping. He’d drawn me in a pretty suggestive position, which made me wonder whether I really slept like that. Put it this way, I’m pretty certain my rump was never that high in the air. Maybe, I don’t know, I’m asleep at that point. The next page, more text ‘Can’t stop thinking about Bucky. I don’t know what it is about her that makes me feel like this. Whatever it is, I hope she doesn’t change it.’ Another drawing after that, this time of me sitting on a fence, swinging my legs. At no point had I ever sat on a fence and swung my legs, so Wraith was evidently making stuff up by this point. Oh dear, Wraith, let’s hope you’ve not taken this too far. Hypocrite alert. I was sensing a pattern; Text, drawing, text, drawing, text, drawing. I turned the page, expecting more text.
I wasn’t disappointed. ‘Taught Bucky to shoot. She’s a natural. I’ve never seen anypony grasp the art so quickly. She looks so… I don’t want to write it… ‘cute’ when she shoots. Weird, I know, but it’s true. I don’t know if she’s noticed me looking at her. If she has, she does a good job of hiding it.’ The next drawing was me sleeping with an assault rifle curled up in my hooves. I thought it was quite incredible how Wraith could draw all this from just his imagination. They were a little rough, but they were very detailed. I read the next page intently, eager to learn more about Wraith’s personal life. I shouldn’t be reading this. This is for Wraith’s eyes, not mine. But, I’ve read this far. Might as well keep going. ‘We’ve left the Wanderers far behind. I swear that Bucky gets better looking every day. She looked so proper when she arrived, but she looks a lot… wilder now. I like it. I’m glad it’s just me and her again. She’s almost too good to be true.’ This page simply consisted of a Glock and a hat. No pony in this one, but it was a lot more detailed than the others. He must have spent a lot of time on this.
I’d lost track of what time it was. I peered over my shoulder to see if Wraith was still looking away. He was. I breathed a quiet sigh of relief, turning back to the notebook. ‘Not a second goes by when I don’t think of her in some way. Everything she does is adorable. The way she walks, the way she talks, everything. I couldn’t wish for a better mare to spend my time with. I just hope she feels the same way.’ The next drawing was of me laying against a rock, my hat over my face and my hooves resting on my belly, my hind legs crossed over. I eagerly turned to read more. I knew I shouldn’t, but I had to. ‘I hate the LRSA. There’s nothing that could possibly annoy me more. Their rules and regulations are bullshit. At least I have Bucky here to keep me sane. She vastly out shadows any mare I’ve ever seen.’ Then there was a drawing of me arguing with a German officer. The likeness was so uncanny I could tell which officer it was. It was the one on the second sentry position, just outside the compound. Hang on, how had Wraith managed to get this notebook out of my saddlebags whilst we were in the compound? Had he kept it in his saddlebags until recently or had he been delving into mine when I wasn’t looking? Not that I had anything to hide in them of course. The next drawing was of me laying down on my belly, my rear towards the viewer. I wondered whether Wraith had drawn that from life or whether his imagination was running wild at this point.
The next page was when it got really interesting. ‘Some German thought he could hit on Bucky. She’s mine and I won’t let anypony else have her. Bucky managed to diffuse the situation though, otherwise I would have probably have had to take the German away for a few minutes. She likens me to a companion. Well, at least now I know where I stand.’ The next drawing was of Wraith, looking rather down. It was rather poignant, tugging on one of my heart strings. Had that comment really hurt Wraith that much? I flipped to the next page. Maybe it would get a little cheerier from there. ‘Bucky was showing off to another German. Maybe she doesn’t share the way I feel for her. Well, it’s nice to dream.’ Then there was a drawing of me strutting past that Private from the central building, who was staring at my rear with hearts for eyes and his tongue lolling out of his mouth. Oh Wraith, you couldn’t have interpreted that any worse.
I turned the page again. ‘Only just found a dry place to stay. Bucky looks amazing with her mane wet. She’s so sexy this way. Shame she doesn’t like me as much as I like her. I feel so bad for liking her.’ A drawing of me with my mane wet, giving a sort of coy stare. I’ll admit, if that’s what my mane actually looked like wet, then I agreed; I was pretty damn sexy. The next entry looked recent. It was again another text entry. ‘I got a hug from Bucky. I hugged Bucky! My heart’s in my mouth, I can’t believe it. The thought of it makes me light headed. Maybe she does like me after all! This is incredible! No mare’s ever liked me before.’ A drawing of me and Wraith sharing an embrace. I expected there not to be any more entries after that, but I was wrong. There was another text entry. ‘I just got my second hug from Bucky. Two, in one day! Is it sad that I’m counting? I’ve never felt like this before. No mare has ever made me feel like this. I wanted to hold her in my hooves for ever and never let go. Her body was so warm and comforting. Her breath on my neck sent shivers down my spine. Never have I felt as elated as this.’ I flipped to see if there was a drawing, but there wasn’t. He mustn’t have gotten round to it yet. I prepared to put the notebook back, so that he wouldn’t know I’d read any of it.
The small book vanished from my hooves. What? Where did it go? I hadn’t dropped it, had I? I almost wanted to reach for my Glock and cap myself in the head when I heard a whisper next to my ear, “Enjoying that, were you?” I broke out in a sweat.
You know when you’re digging a hole, just to see how deep you can make it, and then someone on the surface tips all the dirt you’ve dug out back in on top of you? Well, neither do I really, but I can imagine what it’s like, and that’s what I felt like at the moment.
I knew it was wrong, I knew I shouldn’t have done it. I butted my head against the window until I was sure it was about to crack. I rested my head against the cold glass. Why hadn’t I listened to my common sense? Why did I always have to get myself into trouble? I picked up an empty cup and threw it against the wall in frustration. It shattered into several small pieces in front of the door. It did little to make me feel better and I simply rested my head against my chest and sobbed. I was sorry, so very sorry. Why? Why? Why? It wasn’t as though I didn’t have a choice. I shouldn’t have been prying though Wraith’s personal stuff.
I couldn’t hear anything upstairs. I looked out of the window. There was nothing there expect the wind and the houses opposite. That silhouette was back. “Fuck you,” I said under my breath, as a flash of lightning proved again that nothing was actually there. I made a mental note to check in the house tomorrow and see what was causing the shape. I made my way past the counter and slowly began to climb the stairs. I peered through the banister. Wraith was curled up on the bed, sleeping, his tunic next to him and his notebook tucked under him. I made my way up the rest of the stairs. I slowly hobbled over to the bed, looking down at Wraith as he slept. I leant close to his ear and whispered a soft, “I’m sorry,” before kissing him gently on the forehead. For several minutes I stood there, my head drooping down, my ears flattened against my skull.
Than Wraith sat bolt upright as somepony screamed downstairs, “GAH! Fuck! What the hell is all this stuff?” Wraith stared at me for a moment. I blinked. Then Wraith kicked himself into combat mode. He grabbed his rifle by the sling, cocking it once, ready to shoot. I prepared my pistol for firing, ready for a conflict. Somepony had managed to break in downstairs whilst I had left my sentry post. I heard a loud crunch and then another scream, likely from the same pony, who I assumed was a stallion from his voice. I heard a mare call, “Keep your eyes peeled, they’ve booby trapped this place!”
Wraith was already half way down the stairs, rifle cocked and ready. A stallion let out a low whistle, “Holy shit guys, look at this.” I assumed they’d found the bodies of the Scavengers we’d killed. I also assumed that these were more Scavengers we were dealing with. I saw torch beams flickering around downstairs. I heard the mare speak again, “Go search upstairs.”
For further reference, ranks in the Scavengers run as follows. For junior recruits and non-commissioned officers, the ranks start with Recruit, followed by Corporal (Wraith was a Corporal, in fact most Scavengers after their first year are promoted to Corporal), then First Class, then Sergeant, then Tactical, then Second Class (for some reason Second Class was superior to First Class), then Master and then Sub-Officer. The ranks for the officers are separated into three categories: Junior ranks, Senior ranks and Marshall ranks. The junior ranks consist of Raider-in-Training, Raider, and Commander. Senior ranks consist of Assault Commander, Troop Leader, and Group Leader. Then the Marshall ranks, which consist of Vice Marshall, Marshall, Chief Marshall, and finally Supreme Marshall, the highest rank in the Scavenger faction.
The Commander was pacing about the room, kicking at the bedding that Wraith had lain down. Wielding an assault rifle and shining a torch onto the bodies of our last victims was a young looking First Class. He had a garrison cap on at a jaunty angle and appeared to have a katana on his back. Sitting in a chair whimpering in agony was a young Corporal. He was also a stallion and had taken his helmet off and placed it on the table next to him. He was holding out his front hooves to a young mare Corporal with a white armband on. I hadn’t seen Scavengers with white armbands on in the past, but I assumed that she was a medic. She also had a helmet which she had set beside her. The two both had assault rifles which were leaning against the wall. I glanced over at the door. The Scavengers had managed to open the door without knocking anything over with any noise, but there was a pool of blood at the entrance. Some light was glinting from the base of the young stallion Corporal’s hooves. He’d stepped on the shattered coffee cup I’d thrown at the wall and the ceramic shards had gone straight into his hooves.
I aimed my pistol at the officer’s head. She gazed in my direction, the torch on her head temporarily blinding me. The mare shouted, “Hey! There’s one here!” Before charging and vaulting the counter. I fired off a single shot from my pistol. The shot missed its intended target (her head) but buried itself in her right shoulder, the hollow points going to work rending her flesh and almost severing her foreleg. She howled in pain and fell forwards, doing a rather artistic forward roll before coming to a stop on the floor, clutching her shoulder and whining in pain. There was a pool of blood on the floor where she’d come to a stop. All the other ponies were now looking at me. The First Class pointed his assault rifle at me and I ducked behind cover before he fired a burst of three rounds. The rounds went straight through the wall next to me and I swore quietly. Whatever rounds he was packing, they weren’t standard.
I waited for the First Class to show himself but he didn’t. I heard a soft click and I shot Wraith a quick glance before he threw something round the corner. It was the stick grenade we’d found a long time ago. There was a loud bang as the grenade detonated and I peered round to survey the damage. The First Class was had been spattered against one wall, and all items of furniture in the area had splintered. The corpses of the Scavengers we’d killed earlier were nowhere to be seen. I rounded the corner, my pistol pointed at the two Corporals. Wraith came in after me, his rifle pointed at the pair as well. They both threw their hooves in the air. The mare whimpered slightly, “P-please! I’m just a medic!”
I heard a loud scrape behind me. To my amazement I looked over my shoulder to see the blood stained Commander wielding her sledge hammer in her one good fore hoof. She yelled, “Cowards! Don’t surrender! Fight! Kill them!” She arced the hammer towards me in one overhead swipe. I dodged. The hammer smashed into the floorboards and stuck there. I put the pistol into the base of the Commander’s neck. She made an attempt to reach her own pistol but I pulled the trigger before she managed it. The hollow point round blew out her throat in a shower of blood. Her head was hanging from a few tendons as her spine was severed and flesh decorated the floor below her. Her body fell limp, a loud thud announcing her final impact with the floor.
The stallion Corporal who’d stood on the coffee cup had a look of pure terror on his face, whilst the Medic didn’t seem fazed by the gore. Wraith pulled me over by the collar, “What do we do with these two?” He whispered.
The Medic grunted as she carried her wounded comrade up the stairs. I heard her mutter, “Freeloader,” under her breath. She set the corporal down on the bed and stood looking at us. “What are you going to do with us?” I pulled out a set of the cuffs.
I looted the corpses of the First Class and the Commander. I didn’t find many useful items, but I was surprised when I showed Wraith the rounds the First Class was packing and he whistled. He stuffed the rounds into his saddlebags, explaining that they were Armour Piercing rounds. The bullets were tipped with tungsten to ensure that they went straight through a wide variety of armour, including tank armour. That would explain how easily they went through the wall next to me. The Commander was carrying a Glock with her, but it only held standard ammunition. I took it anyway, the Glock and the ammo. I liked the idea of having a back-up Glock. Wraith examined the rifles, “AK47s, the lot of them. Oh, no wait this one’s an AK74. Yea, Soviet weapons. These AK47s are almost indestructible. There’s nothing you can do to these things to break them short of taking them apart or chain sawing them in half.” I wasn’t sure it was possible to make a weapon that reliable, but Wraith was the expert, so I went on his judgement.
“Fuck off!”
Wraith went back to sleep on the sheets (this time with his tunic and notebook kept close) and I resumed my sentry post. Fortunately the little episode had killed a lot of time. I now only had half an hour until morning. I sat and watched the rain. It looked as though it was getting a little lighter. Was the storm almost over? I didn’t want to get my hopes up but some dry weather would really help us make some serious progress. I wasn’t sure how far we still had to go, because I hadn’t seen a map before leaving and I had no idea how far we’d travelled.
Morning rose and the adrenaline that had kept me awake began to wear off. I was a little drowsy and I didn’t want to stand up, but Wraith dragged me out of my chair and threw my saddlebags over my back for me. I politely pushed him away when he moved to tighten the straps for me, much preferring to do it myself. I went up to check on our resident lovebirds. The Corporal had fallen asleep but the Medic was still wide awake, her hind legs tucked against her chest with her tail wrapped around her. I laughed, “Having fun?”
I re-joined Wraith downstairs. I nodded that I was ready to go and he slung his rifle over his back. We carefully stepped over the remaining porcelain fragments on the floor and pushed the door open. I heard the Medic scream before I shut the door and left the two of them to their fate. I asked Wraith which way we were supposed to be heading and he pointed in a direction. We set off walking, prepared for a long journey. At least the rain was clearing up. After about two hours the rain had died down to a light drizzle and the wind was at a level at which I felt safe to put my hat on again. One thing the rain had done for me was give me a good wash.
Nothing really happened for a good few hours. We kept walking, relieved slightly when the rain completely stopped and the first rays of sunshine showed themselves. We decided to take a break, now that the rain and wind had stopped and the sun was out, to rest a little and regain our strength. I parked my rump on a patch of grass and shook off my saddlebags, letting them fall to the floor. Wraith hung his on a branch of a nearby tree. I sat happily munching on some of the food from my saddlebags. Wraith didn’t eat much (he ate another apple) and simply sat and stared into the ground.
I swallowed what was left of the chocolate I had been eating (I reasoned that I could easily walk off the calories) and asked, “What’s wrong?”
He ran a hoof through his mane. His hoof was shaking. He was practically shaking all over. I found it rather amusing how he was so confident when his life was in danger, but terrified when it came to talking to mares. It was ironic really. And it was cute. I shuffled over to him slowly. I rested my head on his shoulder and nuzzled him slightly. I could feel his breathing quicken and his heart rate sky rocketed. He didn’t comment, but he didn’t do anything else either. I turned my head slightly to gently rub my muzzle against his neck. He gasped a little. I glanced up at him and he looked down at me. I clutched his mane gently with my hoof, not sure of what to do next.
We both glanced off to one side. I chuckled awkwardly. I was so new to this. I’d done the whole seduction thing a few times before, but I’d never before actually gotten this close to anypony. Not in this way at least. I gulped once. My mouth was dry. I felt like a fool. I had no idea what to do. I looked back up at Wraith and he looked back down at me. I moved a little closer, practically panting nervously. Our noses touched. I could feel his breath coming short and quick. I imagined mine was the same. Slowly, ever so slowly, I closed the remaining distance between us. Our lips touched. Holy shit, I was kissing somepony! Oh shit… I was kissing somepony. What if I sucked? What if I was the worst kisser in all of Equestria? I didn’t know what I was doing. I was going based on what felt right and what I’d read in romance novels. Hey, I’m a filly, I’m aloud to read that sort of thing!
I pressed my lips onto Wraith’s a little harder. I nervously held the pose, to see if he was going to do anything, but he was about as experienced as I was, so we were both clueless. Eventually I decided to throw all restraints out the window. I gently poked my tongue against Wraith’s lips. I felt him pull back slightly and I was terrified that I’d done something wrong. But this is what they did in all the novels, it couldn’t be wrong! Wraith relaxed again, and slowly I began to push my tongue past his lips into his mouth. I brushed my tongue against his. I was kissing! My first proper kiss.
We spent a few minutes like that, gently playing with each-others’ tongues as we both kissed for the first time. Eventually I pulled away (after remembering how much breathing was important) and quietly panted, trying to gasp in as much air as possible. I was blushing heavily and I was feeling very hot under my jumper and hat. I had the heaviest blush of my life plastered over my face and I looked away shyly, “Well. That was… nice.”
I strapped my saddlebags back over my back and prepared to leave. I had a kind of ‘ohmygosh’ reflex kicking off in my brain, whilst the more logical side of it was trying to regain control. Finally, at the age of nineteen, I had had my first kiss. Oh how amazing it felt. I felt on top of the world. I gave a mental whoop of joy. Nothing could bring my spirits down now; except maybe another storm, but that was about it. Only then did I realise that I was walking. I’d just sort of started to walk alongside Wraith without even thinking about it. I looked around, “Hang on, aren’t we meant to be going that way?” I gestured over my shoulder with my hoof.
Oh, and getting lost. That could bring my spirits down a little too. Basically, Wraith and I were both suggesting travelling in opposite directions. We had no idea where we were, no which direction we’d been heading in previously. We were, quite frankly, completely lost. Lost in the heart of Scavenger territory. I sat down and clapped my hooves to the sides of my head, “Okay, don’t panic. We can fix this! Which direction was that village in?”
Wraith did his best to reassure me that we were going the right way, but as we set off again, I still wasn’t sure. I believed that we were just walking back to the village we’d come from, but Wraith seemed confident that we were on course for Refuge. I didn’t know whether to trust him or my instincts. After several kilometres and no sign of the village, it seemed as though Wraith had been right all along and we were heading for Refuge.
The next thing I remembered was a face full of dirt as Wraith pulled me to the floor. I looked up (rather annoyed) and saw, not very far away, a group of about eight Scavengers standing about in a rough circle. In the middle were two ponies fighting each other. Wraith began to crawl forward on his belly, from shrub to shrub, trying to get a better view. I followed close behind. I wondered for a moment about two things, the first was why were there a group of Scavengers fighting each other in the arse end of nowhere, the second was why there were so many Scavengers. Scavengers usually travelled around in groups of three (although in this area it seemed to be four), not eight or nine.
Wraith and I had managed to crawl within hearing distance, and we were close enough to make out facial features. We were crouched behind a bush, peering through. The circle of Scavengers was composed of eight, ranging from a young Recruit who looked about eleven, to a Raider who looked quite hardy. They were cheering and calling at the two ponies in the middle. One was a large and formidable Assault Commander wielding a combat knife, his garrison cap on at an angle and his tunic open. He had a studded collar around his neck and a set of blood red combat goggles. The pony he was fighting was garbed in Wanderer attire. He was young, but older than me, I’d say about twenty. He also had a combat knife but looked much less skilled than the Assault Commander.
I saw off to one side of the group two bodies. They were both Wanderers. One of them had a deep gash in their throat. They were about the same age as the pony currently in the middle of the circle, but she was a mare. Next to her was a pony who’d had his gut sliced open, his intestines and other organs spilling onto the ground next to him. He was quite a bit older than the other two, I’d say thirty three. On the opposite side of the circle were three sets of saddlebags, likely belonging to the unfortunate Wanderers. My theory was that they had been travelling to Refuge like us, but had been picked up by a (rather large) Scavenger patrol. Now they were fighting for their lives against a very skilled Assault Commander. Well, one of them was; the others had lost.
I saw the Wanderer make a lunge for the officer’s ribs. The attack was dodged with ease. The officer clutched hold of the Wanderer, turned him around and planted a knee between his hind legs. He taunted the crippled stallion, “Come on! At least try!” The stallion slowly raised himself from his position on the floor and made a quick jab, aimed at the officer’s throat. The officer ducked under the attack, grasped the stallion round the middle and stabbed the blade of the knife into his stomach, twisting it horribly to ensure maximum damage. The stallion choked, coughed up a little blood, then fell to the floor, limp and not moving. The surrounding Scavengers cheered in delight and one dragged the corpse off to one side.
One of the Scavengers branched off from the others and headed for the bush behind which we were hiding. Of course he would though, because bad things seem to be attracted to me like iron to a very powerful magnet. The Scavenger lit up a cigarette, a plume of fowl smelling smoke shooting into the air as he did so, and prepared for the necessary business that befalls all living things, mostly animals. I shuffled backwards slightly, which had the undue effect of creating an audible rustling noise that painted a puzzled look on the Scavenger’s face. He slung the assault rifle off his back and started to push aside branches, peering through gaps trying to find us. I held my breath, not to avoid being found but to avoid inhaling his cigarette smoke, but this proved to be an unwise tactic. Eventually I ran out of held breath and had to gasp in more air. I did so silently, but all I could taste was the acrid smoke from the Scavenger’s cigarette, making me cough and splutter.
The Scavenger recoiled in surprise. He reached a hoof into the bush and grabbed hold of my jumper, pulling hard. I tumbled out of the foliage, the Scavenger hoisting me up by my garment. Wraith leapt out of the bush next to him, attempting to land a blow on his temple, but the rustling of the bush alerted him to Wraith’s presence and he immediately brought his assault rifle to bear, wielding it in a single hoof. Wraith froze where he was. The Scavenger seemed a little confused. Wraith was in Scavenger attire, but had been attempting to attack him. The Scavenger called over one of his companions, an attractive young mare in the sense that she had a nice mane. Apart from that, she was nothing special.
The Scavenger (stallion) grasped me around the neck and began to pull me along behind him, “Giddyup! Grab the other one. He may look like a Scavenger but he sure as hell isn’t!” Wraith initially resisted, but the mare pointed a shotgun at his head until he complied, leading him behind me until we were on the outskirts of the circle. Every Scavenger there turned to look at us, including the Assault Commander, who sneered at me. It made him look very unattractive, not that he was very attractive in the first place.
The Scavenger with me in a headlock called out in a sing song voice, “Look what we have here! More meat!” The Assault Commander laughed.
The Scavengers began to cheer again as Wraith and the Assault Commander circled each other, sizing each other up. I couldn’t watch. But I had to! Maybe I could spot something that could help Wraith. The Assault Commander wasn’t letting any gaps appear in his guard, but Wraith was waiting for him to make the first move. For a while nothing happened before the young eleven year old Recruit called out a curt, “Get on with it!” The Assault Commander made a jab at Wraith’s ribs. Wraith parried the blow but the officer clutched hold of Wraith’s dominant right fore leg, pulling on it hard. Wraith stumbled past the officer, who slashed him down the back. Wraith winced in pain, but to his credit he didn’t scream. The officer laughed, encouraged by Wraith’s pain. I gasped in shock, almost wanting to avert my gaze. Wraith was quickly getting his arse handed to him.
Wraith prepared himself to go back on the defence. His wounded back didn’t help his guard though, and he struggled to maintain an upright posture. The Assault Commander jabbed at Wraith’s left hip. Wraith again parried the blow, rightly suspecting a feint. The officer then jabbed at Wraith’s right shoulder with his free hoof. Wraith blocked the quick attack, but hadn’t expected yet another attack, and as a result didn’t catch the officer as he stabbed him in the right shoulder. The blade split his uniform and pierced his flesh, blood seeping out past the blade and down his foreleg. This time Wraith did scream, clutching at the knife embedded in his shoulder. I gasped again, the colour draining from my face. Wraith grimaced, but held onto the knife, not letting the Assault Commander twist it or pull it out. He was stifling the blood flow, preventing massive blood loss.
The Assault Commander snarled, attempting to pull the knife out of Wraith’s mutilated flesh. Wraith quickly stabbed at the officer’s hip as he was distracted. The attack didn’t have much force behind it, his arm wounded and with a knife sticking out of it, but it succeeded in eliciting a yelp of pain. The officer planted his hoof in Wraith’s face, causing him to lose his grip on both knives. Wraith was now completely unarmed, clutching at his wounded shoulder. The officer pulled the knife from his hip and wielded it alongside his other blade. Wraith nimbly dodged an attack, but winced at the pain in both his shoulder and his back. Wraith could keep dodging and avoiding conflict, but only for so long. I had to help him. Fast.
I thought quickly, relying on the one thing I knew would get attention: a stallion’s testosterone fuelled brain. I clutched hold of the collar of the stallion guarding me. He immediately began to assume I was attacking him, attempting to push me off. I flicked the cigarette from his mouth (it was annoying me greatly) and pulled him down to the floor, a coy look on my face. It was a façade, but he didn’t know that. His sex drive immediately kicked into overdrive, and a stupid grin crossed his face as he clutched hold of my hips, eagerly. I was determined not to let him get too frisky, so I swung one of my hind legs up, hard and fast, catching him in the groin. He winced, he groaned, I pushed him to one side as he lay in a heap clutching at his mutilated crotch. I say again, there are some serious disadvantages to being a stallion. The Scavengers that formed the circle hadn’t noticed, too intent on watching Wraith dance around the Assault Commander as he made attack after attack, getting very annoyed.
I rushed over to my belt, grabbing my pistol from its holster and checking my magazine. Satisfied that it was loaded, I flicked off the safety and swung around, pointing the pistol at the officer. He turned around as Wraith made a quick dart to one side. He looked up at me. Wasting no time I pulled the trigger, a shot ringing out and sending a hollow point round through the left lens of the officer’s goggles, shattering it before passing through his eye and shredding his brain. He stumbled backwards, dropping both knives to the floor. He fell back, hitting the floor with a thud, blood dribbling down from the shattered lens over his face. The Scavengers in the circle looked at me unanimously, as did Wraith, clutching his shoulder. Before anypony reacted, I shot another Scavenger, trying to narrow down the competition as much as possible. The shot caught the Scavenger in the heart, dropping them before they even knew what had hit them (a hollow point round).
The Scavengers kicked into action, grabbing at their weapons and preparing to shoot me down. I saw (and heard) a Sadist call out to his companions, “Catch her alive! I want to make her suffer!” I gulped. I’d been tortured once by a Hunter, I didn’t want to be tortured by a professional Sadist. The nearest Scavenger to me pulled a strange looking pistol out of his holster, preparing to fire at me. Before he could I shot him, the bullet hitting his sternum and shattering it. He collapsed to the floor, then I ran, the remaining Scavengers giving chase. The eleven year old Recruit was surprisingly quick and led the way.
I didn’t get very far before I felt hooves grab at my hind leg. I looked back to see the young Recruit grabbing at me, trying to drag me back. I used me magic, taking hold of my pistol and butting him in the head with it. It wasn’t lethal, but it stunned him and got him off my leg. Almost immediately I was grabbed by another Scavenger. I swung my pistol into his stomach and fired a shot. He stumbled, clutching at his belly, before falling back dead. Another Scavenger with a pipe wrench held above her head rounded on me. I quickly bucked her in the face and she fell back, clutching her muzzle. She hit the ground with an odd crack, and I saw she’d hit her head on a well concealed rock, cracking her skull and killing her almost instantly.
I yelped as a ball of fire crashed into the grass next to me, singeing it black. I spun around to face my assailant, a unicorn summoning fire with her horn. I was amazed; I didn’t know such magic was possible. The unicorn prepared another fiery projectile and launched it in my direction. I leapt to one side to avoid it but the end of my tail was still caught in the blast, igniting it. I stamped it out quickly before it could burn too much of my tail and then looked back up to see the Sadist from earlier standing next to the mare. He raised his submachine gun and fired three shots. The first one shot over my back, but missed. The second one was more accurate and caught me in the rump, embedding itself in my flesh and crippling movement in my rear left leg. I yelped as the pain shot up the left side of my body and I fell to the floor. I looked back at the wound. It was bleeding quite badly and I could see the hole in my flank, just to one side of my cutie mark (but fortunately it had caught a little of it). The bullet hadn’t gone all the way through but had fortunately been stopped by my flesh. Say what you like, I don’t have a fat ass! The third bullet missed, whizzing past where my leg had been before I fell.
The young recruit leaped at me, wielding a meat cleaver and brandishing it menacingly. I lit up my horn, encasing the rock the unfortunate mare whom I’d bucked in the face had fallen on. I flung the rock at the colt, striking him in the temple and knocking him down. I saw a dribble of blood seep from his nose. I chocked. Killing other ponies was bad, and I’d only recently gotten over that. But killing a young colt? He was practically a foal! He didn’t deserve to die, surely? I couldn’t justify it. I just couldn’t. There was no way in all of Equestria that that was right. I sobbed. I looked down at the now lifeless body of the colt, not moving, not breathing. I was shaken beyond my limits.
I didn’t even notice as the Sadist who’d shot me fell from a bullet to the back of the head. I didn’t see the unicorn mare get engulfed in fire and debris as a grenade exploded nearby. I didn’t see the well-armed and armoured Wanderers rush towards me, a wounded Wraith slung over the back of a medical pony. I didn’t hear them ask me if I was okay. The reason I managed to get all that in writing is because Wraith would later tell me what happened. In any case, the first I knew of their presence was when the leader slapped me in the face. I looked up at him, tears in my eyes.
He was in the usual Wanderer attire, expect he had riot armour protecting his body and a steel helmet with a visor on his head. Next to him was an assault rifle with a vicious bayonet slung underneath. I only half listened to what he was saying, “Are you okay? You have a nasty looking wound there. Give me your hoof, I’ll help you. We need to get you out of here before the Scavengers raise the alarm, come on!”
The stallion shook his head. He tossed his rifle to a nearby Wanderer; he clutched the sling in his mouth. The stallion slipped a hoof under my bulk and flung me onto his back. He started to trot at an alarming rate, making resting over his back rather uncomfortable. Plus, I had to share the space with his bulky riot armour, which was less than pleasant to lie on. I could see Wraith being escorted close by. There were five Wanderers in all, all of which were covered from head to foot in old riot armour. The commander and the stallion I assumed to be the 2nd in Command both wielded assault rifles. The medical pony (also a stallion) had a white helmet with a red cross painted on the front, as well as the same red cross on the chest plate of his armour. He had a submachine gun at his hip. A youngish mare walked slightly ahead of us. She was a unicorn, with a belt of grenades around her waist and a grenade launcher held in her magic. The other Wanderer (who funnily enough was also a stallion) had a scoped rifle slung over his back, leading the way.
I was still in shock. I imagined that my hair had turned white, but it hadn’t. I turned my head to try and talk to the stallion carrying me, “I killed that colt.”
Chapter 8
Refuge was quite an impressive feat of engineering. I remember seeing it for the first time and thinking ‘What is this? A fortress?’ The city was completely surrounded by a wall of brick, well-constructed by some pretty skilled builders. There were towers every one hundred metres or so, likely erected by some very powerful magic users. In each tower were three guards, a sniper, a machine gunner, and somepony to operate the searchlights that had been hoisted up. The gate was constructed of what appeared to be several smaller gates welded together, operated by two pulley systems that ultimately made them swing inwards. Outside the gate were two sentry positions, composed of several walls of sandbags, with barbed wire strung along the exterior to stop invaders getting too close.
The Wanderer captain (as I shall now call him, I wasn’t sure if the Wanderers had a rank structure and I’m still not) stopped at one of these sentry posts. In a chair on the other side of the wall of sandbags was a mare, a rifle over her lap. Also in the post were two other ponies, one pony operating a field telephone, the other cooking on a small stove. I mean a really small stove; it was like a small cuboid with a fuel that looked suspiciously like cocaine, but probably wasn’t. I don’t think cocaine is that flammable. Anyway, the captain flashed identification and the mare nodded, “How many in your party, sir?”
The captain stood to one side of the sentry post, counting in each member of his crew. He’d laid me on the floor next to him so he didn’t have to hold me whilst he did so. He first counted the medical pony as he walked past, letting the guard know that the Scavenger was actually a friend and not a threat to them. The guard nodded, but didn’t seem overly convinced. He counted the grenade totting mare as she walked past, then the sniper pony, then his 2IC. He finally counted himself. He turned to the mare, “All present and accounted for. What of the survivors from the scout party?”
The gates opened slowly, creaking slightly as they did so. When they’d been fully opened, the mare nodded, “Okay, you’re good to go through. Remember to sign in with the Border Office.”
The mare with the grenade launcher handed her weapon to the sniper pony, before accepting me onto her back. She smiled, “You okay up there?”
The medical ward was thankfully quite close to the entrance. Outside were several ponies, stallions and mares, in white clothes with red crosses adorning their chests. They were all either milling around, carrying medical supplies on their backs or bearing stretchers between two of them, a wounded pony laying upon them, or just empty and waiting to receive more. I noticed that the building looked like a professional hospital, and decided that there must be some very skilled ponies living there. The hospital had full electricity as well and they looked to be stocked up to the eyeballs with medical supplies. They likely had a few professional doctors on campus too.
Shrap carried me through the main doors and placed me in a chair. I yelped in pain, so she quickly lifted me up again and lay me on a sofa to one side. That was far more comfortable, and I sighed as I relaxed on the fabric seat. The main lobby was large, with doors and corridors leading off to several different departments. Shrap went over to a desk and a receptionist wearing what in my opinion was a very sexy nurse’s uniform smiled at her and said something I couldn’t catch. Shrap gestured over to me and the receptionist nodded, picking up a telephone and dialling a number. A different receptionist (wearing a much less sexy nurse’s uniform) spoke to Truman, who was still supporting Wraith.
I was surprised when, in a few minutes, a nurse poked my shoulder and asked, “Are you the mare called Bucky?”
The nurse took me into a room which was only about half full and laid me on a bed. It was rather comfortable (deceptively comfortable actually, the mattresses looked like slabs of marble) and I felt quite relaxed. It was just like the sort of medical beds you see in television programmes, with the clipboards on the end and the low tables to one side. I was disappointed when I realised I didn’t have a heart rate monitor or one of those long pole things with the blood bags hanging from them, but hey, you can’t have it all.
The nurse smiled at me, “We’re quite under staffed at the moment and we have a lot of casualties to treat, so expect quite a wait before a doctor comes to look at you. In the meantime I’m going to treat your wound to stop it getting infected, okay?”
As I lay waiting for the doctor Wraith was brought in and laid on the bed next to me. The nurse helping him was a little less friendly than mine, and she didn’t add any of the smiles or ‘are you okays’ that mine had. It was probably on account of his uniform, and I’d heard several Wanderers refer to the Scavenger uniform as ‘Bastard Khaki’. When she left, Wraith fell asleep almost immediately, which was fine by me. He needed rest. I decided to take the opportunity to scope out who else I was in the room with.
The room was about half full with ponies, medical staff and patients alike. There were two doctors in the room, who were scanning the ranks looking for ponies that needed more urgent aid, before pointing them out to some stretcher bearers who would carry them off to an operating theatre to get treated. The room smelt strongly of antiseptic, but that wasn’t much of a surprise. There were nurses scurrying about conducting various duties. After a while I managed to figure out who the head nurse was, a young stallion who had a red armband on his left leg, as well as the usual white garb with red cross. He was patrolling up and down the room, monitoring the activity of each nurse under his command and directing them where they were needed. Most nurses were busy either helping patients who had already been treated back into their bunks or provided basic first aid to those who needed it. There were a few that sat in chairs and happily chatted with their patients, but they usually weren’t there for long before the head nurse redirected them else were.
In terms of patients, there were quite a few. The ones closest to the door had already been treated. Most of them had bandages on, around their waists, chests and heads, stemming the blood flow after bullets and shrapnel had been removed. Some had slings around their forelegs, supporting broken bones whilst other had crutches for broken hind legs. Some had eye patches where they’d either lost an eye or been blinded by gas or shrapnel. It was actually quite a well-known fact that the Scavengers had previously deployed gas and other chemical weapons in combat, and several ponies had been harmed for life by the weapons. Some ponies had bandages covering whole sides of their body, encasing half their face or wrapping around their entire leg where they’d been burned by incendiaries. One poor mare had a set of crutches and a bandage around a stump where her right hind leg had once been.
I did find it quite amusing when I noticed a Scavenger and an Equestrian LRSA soldier in adjacent beds. One (the LRSA soldier) had a bullet wound in his shoulder which had been bandaged; the other (the Scavenger) had several bandages along one leg where he’d been hit by shrapnel. They seemed to be having a rather heated debate, and after eavesdropping for a few minutes, I found out that they’d actually been in the same firefight before being wounded. They were both insisting that their respective sides had won the fight, but none of them seemed to be making any head way.
I lay in my bed for about two hours, watching the other patients or just relaxing with my eyes closed, letting my imagination flow. I hadn’t slept in a while, but the pain in my rear was preventing me from drifting off, so I just dozed. I couldn’t get over the fact that I’d finally kissed somepony. It’s childish I know. I shouldn’t go on about it but it was so exciting at the time and it was dominating my thoughts, demanding my attention. And I was more than happy to devote all of my attention to it. I’d always known it would be fun, that it would feel good, but I’d had no idea that it would have been that good. I recall in my early adolescent years (after I’d started to become really interested in stallions) sitting watching the colts about my age walk past, going about their daily duties. Some of them I liked and had a bit of a crush on, most I didn’t. In an NSA compound, most of the colts aren’t anything special. A lot of them end up joining the militia or the guard, and they were the really boring ones. I always fancied the ones who planned to be merchants, scientists, architects and so on. Most of all I liked the ones who insisted that they were going to go and explore Equestria, searching for wonders that had been lost after the Revolution.
Actually there was only one stallion like that, and his name was North Point. Oh, he was such a dreamy stallion. He was a pegasus and he was the colt that all of the fillies my age were really in to. He was good looking, smart, charismatic and adventurous. His father was in the guard and had actually been a member of the Engineering Corps of our town. As an engineer he’d travelled to several NSA towns to do maintenance work and every time he came back to our district he would tell North stories about his travels. North would then pass those stories on to anypony that would listen. I can remember sitting on a bench one afternoon and eavesdropping as he told a group of three fillies about his father’s trip to Canterlot (which was the biggest and best NSA town; anypony who got there was either minted or very good at their job), “Apparently all the houses there are three stories tall! There are shops on every street corner and the streets are so clean they shine! The guards there where gold uniforms and they carry guns bigger than any we’ve got here. The ponies there are all very wealthy and spend their time oblivious to the horrors of the wilderness, instead looking though shop windows or sitting in cafes sipping coffee.”
The fillies would swoon as he cast them a coy wink and I would feel my heart flutter. I wondered if he’d ever take me to Canterlot too. He never really noticed me, far more interested in daydreaming about the adventures he’d have than mares. Still, I can remember imagining what it would be like to kiss him. I didn’t know much about kissing, but from what I’d seen on park benches I knew enough to fuel my fantasies. I can remember talking to one filly who’d actually been privileged enough to get to that stage with him. I remember asking, “What’s it like?”
I’d listen in to his stories, listening intently as he went on about great cities like Manehattan, Canterlot, Fillydelphia, Trottingham and so on. I would remember choice phrases that he’d say to other mares like, “I can only dream of how wonderful you’d look in their clothes.” Or “I’m sure that that would suit you marvellously.” He was so refined in the way he spoke. Then when I was alone in my parent’s house and all I could think about was him, I’d cast my mind back and remember those phrases, imagining he’d addressed them to me. “Yes, Bucky, someday you and I will see all of Fillydelphia!”
Oh, but I shouldn’t dwell on past crushes and fantasies. If I just went on about all the things I conjured up and all the stallions (and admittedly a few mares) I wanted to make out with, I’d be here for months. I was awoken from my rather pleasant doze when a doctor shook my shoulder, “Hello? Are you awake?”
I was carried down a well-lit corridor, the lights blinding me as I looked at them. I looked to one side instead to save my eyesight. The doctor held a door open for the mares, who thanked him and carried me inside, resting me on an operating table before leaving the room. There was only one other pony in the room, a stallion with a surgical mask. The doctor thanked the nurses and shut the door, before turning back to me, “My name is doctor Blood Drop, but a lot of patients find that a little intimidating, so you can just call me doctor, or Stan.”
The last thing I remember about the operation was a mask being placed over my muzzle, then everything going blurry, then blackness. When I woke up, I was back on my bed, only a slight ache in my flank. I glanced down at it. Stan had done a god job, removing the bullet, cleaning the wound and finally stitching it up with orders to ‘let it rest so it can heal properly’ (that’s what the nurse told me he’d said). There was also a dish on the table next to me. Not a big one, it was quite small, so I picked it up and looked inside. I laughed. Stan clearly had a sense of humour. Inside the dish was a small, rounded lump of metal, washed clean. It was the bullet from my wound, and next to it on a separate piece of paper was a small note reading, “Be careful next time! Regards, Stan.” I kept that bullet. I still have it. I’ve kept it to this day, as a reminder of my first real war wound. The funniest aspect of my situation? North never did get to explore the wilderness. He never went to Canterlot, or Manehattan, or Fillydelphia, or Trottingham, or even Appleloosa. He joined the guard when he reached the right age, and only after my surgery did I recognise the NSA stallion on crutches, with his perfect mane, flawless coat and stunning smile. It was all rather ironic really.
***
I spent the rest of that day, plus the entire of the next letting my wound properly heal. Stan had come to visit me on the second day to check on my progress and said that I should be able to walk by morning the next day, albeit gingerly. I would have to wait another one or two days for my walking ability to be fully restored, at which time I was to come back to have the stitches removed and any remaining wounds healed by some magic. Why not use magic to treat the wound as it was? Because it was found out during the Revolution that magic was only a temporary fix for larger wounds. It would heal over the visible areas, but put too much strain on the wounded area and it would split open more severely than the original wound and several revolutionaries had been killed through such faults. As a result, it was agreed that proper medical equipment would be used first, and then once the wound had almost fully healed, magic would be used to tidy up and trim round the edges.
When morning came the next day, I carefully hauled myself out of the bunk, immediately noticing how stiff my wounded leg was. It hurt to move it, but with some effort I managed to make a few lengths of the room, only twice getting in the way of the head nurse. I was relieved to be able to walk again, even if it was a little painful. I looked over at Wraith, sadness striking me like a baseball bat. There had been some bad news. Wraith’s back had become infected, and there was a chance that the infection would leave him paralysed. The thought of Wraith being unable to move for the rest of his life hurt me more than any bullet wound. The doctors had treated it to the best of their ability and had given Wraith a powerful dose of antibiotics, but now only fate would tell. He was still resting, his wounds far more severe than mine. He had made a huge sacrifice. I only wished I could repay him in some way. Short of throwing myself in front of a moving train to knock him out of the way, though, I wasn’t sure precisely how.
I decided I’d had it with this hospital, with its sterilised rooms and smart arse doctors (all though it did have some nice nurses). I asked to be discharged that very day, and after Stan came by to check on my condition, he authorised the discharge. He said I would be okay if I was careful and didn’t put too much strain on my leg. He advised against strenuous activity, and suggested I took it easy for a few days, perhaps visit one of the town’s bars, of which he said it had many. I thanked him for all he’d done and he smiled, bowing his head and modestly putting it down to his brilliant skill as a doctor, and not even mentioning the fact that it was hardly a severe wound.
I waited a few minutes whilst a Wanderer brought all my equipment over from the store house, and I happily accepted it off him, glad to have my saddlebags back on my back (despite how heavy they were) and my belt around my waist, my Glock at my side. I limped out of the hospital and took in a breath of unsterilized air. The Wanderer that had brought me my gear put a hoof on my shoulder, “You’ll need a place to stay. If you have the bits, you can rent yourself out a room in one of the inns or a hotel if you’re really well off. If not, you can always go to the Immigration Officer and they’d be happy to accommodate you. If you’d rather stay in a room of your own and not share with thirty or so other refugees, you’re always welcome to stay with me, should you need to.” I thanked him for the advice, now glad that I’d scooped up those bits at the café.
I waved the stallion goodbye before slowly but surely setting off down the street, looking for a good inn. I stopped a mare in the street, who said that there was an inn called “The Flamethrower” just around the corner that had good food and drink and had modest prices for some pretty good rooms. I thanked her by sliding a packet of cigarettes into her chest pocket. She smiled and thanked me for the gift that I was only too happy to pass on. Like I have said before, I hate cigarettes.
I found The Flamethrower after a brief scout about. It was hard to miss. It was quite a large building, the name of the inn scrawled over a large wooden sign that hung over the door. It also had a picture of a Wanderer pony wielding a menacing weapon spewing flames in a wide arc, what looked like an oxygen tank on his back, but which was likely fuel for his weapon. I pushed open the door and was immediately greeted by a glorious smell of proper food and the sound of upbeat music reaching my ears. It had been a while since I’d been anywhere this hospitable (apart from the hospital, but that was cheating) and I was excited at the prospect of actually having a good time.
The inn was full of ponies, mares and stallions alike, sitting around circular tables with mugs of drink in their hooves, drinking and laughing together. The bar was on the far side of the room, behind which stood a mare with a bright red peaked cap on her head, slanted sideways. She was attracting a lot of looks from hopeful stallions, but she paid them no heed. She must have received a lot of tips. There was a stage on the left side of the room, relative to the door, upon which stood a mare in a drab green uniform with a tin helmet on, singing into a microphone. To one side of the stage a stallion with a hat that made him look like he was directly out of the seventies played a slightly out of tune piano with the help of his horn’s magic. There was a fire in the room too, or more accurately there was a fireplace, but no fire. It was far too hot for that.
I made my way through the packed inn, eventually reached the bar, sitting on a stool and waiting patiently for the barmare to pay attention to me. She had just popped out from behind the bar to deliver a tray of drinks to a group of four young stallions sitting around a table near the stage, one of whom made some form of either sexist or immature comment, which warranted a slap in the face. The mare placed the tray on her back and said, “Excuse me, sir, you shall not refer to me in such a manner, or I’ll have you barred.” There was a chorus of ‘ooooh’ and the other three stallions began to tut and waggle their hooves at their friend, who fended them off by shoving his hoof in the face of the nearest stallion. The barmare turned around and shook her head, rolling her eyes before returning to the bar.
I raised a hoof to try and attract attention, but she was distracted by a different mare who ordered a drink. I sighed and waited my turn, watching as the barmare filled a mug with a frothy liquid, before passing it to the mare and charging her two bits. There was an exchange of coins, a ching from a cash register and then a call of, “Who’s next?” A field of hooves went up, but the barmare decided to pay attention to me first, “Hey there. How can I help you? I haven’t seen you before.”
I was a bit flustered from the long list of drinks I could potentially be ordering, but I blinked myself back into reality and said, “Oh, uh, yea I’ll have a room please, and maybe just a tap water.”
The barmare smiled, “Thata girl! I knew I could convert you! That’ll be thirty two bits in total.” I fished around in my saddlebags looking for the bits from the café. Locating them, I counted out thirty five bits and placed them on the bar. The mare counted them, “You’ve given me three extra bits. Is that ‘keep the change’ or a calculation error?” I winked at her and flashed her a smile.
I picked up the key and put it in my hat. I didn’t have any pockets in my jumper and I didn’t want to put it in my saddlebags. I’d just have to fish it out again later. I wrapped my hoof around the mug, gazing into the liquid inside. On second thoughts, maybe I should have started with a simple cider as opposed to this ale. I felt a little nervous having never drank alcohol before. I’d never even had a sip of champagne at weddings. I picked up the mug and swilled around the liquid. Oh well. I’d paid for it already, I might as well drink it. I placed my lips around the edge of the mug, tipping my head back slightly and letting my first sip of alcohol slip down my throat.
It had a bitter taste, which I didn’t like. But it had subtle fruity undertones which I did, and the bitterness took on a rather appealing taste after a while. The liquid wasn’t very thick and quite mild, but it was refreshingly cool and made me feel fuzzy. I smiled to myself. This stuff was good. Why’d I never had any of this before? I took another sip of the ale, relishing in the oral cacophony of flavours before settling down again, ready for my next taste. I was aware that alcohol was addictive, but it was nothing I couldn’t handle.
The singer on the stage bowed to a round of applause from the drinkers, several wolf whistles going up as she re-joined a group of mares at a table towards the back. The barmare went over to the stage and spoke into the microphone, “That was a wonderful performance there. Does anypony else want to come up and share their talents with us? What about you lot at that table there? Yeah, come on, you look like you’ve got some skill! Hey, if you don’t you’ll at least give us all a laugh! Come on, get up here!” The group she’d pointed out stood up and made their way to the stage to a round of applause. They were all dressed in the standard wanderer outfit, but they all had the same golden pin on their shirts. The group consisted of four ponies, two stallions and two mares.
One of the stallions (who had a sky blue coat and black mane) requisitioned an acoustic guitar and quickly tuned it. One of the mares took the place of the pianist, making a few test taps at some of the keys. The other stallion picked up a bass guitar from the back of the stage and checked it was tuned, whilst the remaining mare set up behind a makeshift drum kit, producing two sticks from under her tunic. The lead stallion walked up to the mike. I would have joined in in the next round of applause but I had my ale at my muzzle and was enjoying its flavours once again. I’d already drank about half of the mug. The stallion put on a charismatic smile, “Hey chaps. Um, well we’re not exactly brilliant but, we hope you enjoy our performance.” The stallion had an accent that definitely wasn’t Equestrian. He sounded British, but I couldn’t tell where exactly from. He was well spoken, and seemed to know how to win over a crowd. He quietly counted to four before strumming softly on his guitar and singing into the microphone.
I finished my ale and slammed it down on the desk, licking my lips. That had tasted great. My head felt like a bubble bath and my vision blurred slightly. I blinked and it cleared but I definitely felt a little dizzy. It was nothing, surely, I was just tired. The perfect thing for me was another ale, just to take the edge of my fatigue. Yes, that sounded like a good idea to me. I signalled for the barmare and asked for another Remedy. When I went to say ‘please’ I was a little amused when it came out as ‘pleashe’. The barmare chuckled, “Wow, this isn’t even a strong ale. You’ve only had one mug and you’re already tipsy. You really are new to this. There you go, but that’s your limit, okay? No more after that.”
The British pony had picked up the song a bit. Now he was jumping up and down and strumming enthusiastically on the guitar as the pianist stood up and strummed out a kick ass solo whilst the drummer bashed away and the bass player stood there casually plucking at his strings. I threw my free hoof into the air and yelled a loud, “Woooooo!” The stallion looked over at me and winked, as the piano solo ended and he went back to singing. He had a heavenly voice, so rich and soothing. He was pretty hot too. No, I was loyal to Wraith. Wait, were Wraith and I… going out? Were we marefriend and coltfriend yet? Is that what one kiss made us? Was I ready for commitment like this?
Who the fuck cared? I had my ale and some pretty killer music and I was pretty damn pleased with myself for no reason at all. The song ended and I joined in the applauding, letting out a wolf whistle as the four of them bowed in unison. They left their instruments at the back of the stage (where applicable) and a rather disgruntled pianist re-joined his rightful place at his piano. Three members of the group veered off back to their table whilst the sky blue stallion who I fancied came over to the bar and sat next to me, ordering four drinks. The barmare smiled at him, “That was a pretty cool performance.” The stallion shrugged.
The stallion grabbed hold of me and helped me back up, “Careful there chap! Watch where you’re putting your limbs.”
The barmare was taking her time with Francis’ drinks, making sure to clean each individual mug several times before slowly filling it, adding little drops very slowly to the top as the liquid slowly filled. She was watching me talk to Francis, obviously quite amused. Francis tapped the bar, patiently waiting for the drinks to finally arrive. He returned to talking to me as he waited, “You just got out of hospital. Was you’re wound bad? Did they fix it okay?” I thought for a moment about what he’d said, trying to remember how to speak English. When I’d figured out what it was he’d actually asked and remembered that I had indeed been wounded, I burped loudly before answering him.
I yawned again, giving a slight hiccup before swinging myself off the barstool and yelling a little louder than I probably should have, “I-I can make my way up the shtairs perfectly well, taaaaaa!” I stumbled towards the stairway before looking back at Francis. “I don’t need you to show me how to climb shtairs! Good night!” I threw myself onto the stairs, missing a step and tripping slightly before righting myself. Eventually (after much stumbling) I made it to the top of the stairs, where I promptly struggled to get the key into the lock. Once I finally managed it, it took several attempts to get it twisted in the right direction before the door flung inwards and in I stumbled. I pulled the key out of the door, slammed it, locked it again, then threw myself onto the bed where I laughed to myself. It felt good to be alive. I threw my newly fixed rump into the air and stared at it, “I’m all better,” I slurred. “All… all… b-better.” With that I fell asleep, my rear high in the air.
Most of this I was told by the barmare, but the last bit I recall from what little memory I still possess of the night.
When I at last did wake the next day, I had a splitting headache. I clapped a hoof to my forehead (which actually made it worse), and swung myself off the bed lethargically. I didn’t want to get up, but I felt I had to. I gazed at the wall clock in the room. It was one o’clock in the afternoon. I groaned. When I’d mustered the energy to move again, it was very slowly and unsurely. I pushed my way into a side room which turned out to be a bathroom (with a full bath and everything). I nodded, this was good. I promptly threw my head over the toilet and threw up violently. After some seriously painful retching, I gathered my senses. Last night I’d felt on top of the world, this morning (afternoon) I felt like the world had kicked me in the forehead. I cleaned up lazily before leaving the room (after only just remembering to pick up the key before I did so). I locked the door before going downstairs.
The inn was slightly less packed now than it had been the night before. There were far fewer ponies sitting around tables and next to nopony sitting at the bar. A few of the ponies were in a similar state to me, clutching their heads or rushing into the nearest water closet to empty the contents of their stomachs. I saw that Francis and his friends were still at their table, now all feverishly scribbling on pieces of paper which looked like official documents. I wondered briefly how they were all still awake after evidently not sleeping (their manes were rather dishevelled and their eyes were bloodshot), but then quickly stopped thinking as my head throbbed angrily.
I sat down at the bar, and the same barmare as last night greeted me with a kind, “Good afternoon. What can I get for you?” I looked at her, annoyed by her cheery personality. She didn’t look like she’d been up all night; if she had then she was good at hiding it.
I hit my head against the bar with a loud thunk (bad idea) and winced. So the alcohol had induced this. Okay, I wasn’t going to drink too much ever again; this was worse than getting shot. I pulled myself back to attention (in a way) and sighed, “Fine. I’ll have a tap water please.”
Fifteen glasses of water later I felt a little better. My headache had subsided a little and I felt a bit more hydrated, in that now I wasn’t scared that my piss would be a darker shade of brown than my fur. I promptly returned to my room, where I splashed my face with water to try and wake myself up a little, grabbed my belt with Glock in holster, shoved about ten of my remaining eleven bits into a pouch and then left, shutting and locking the door behind me. I walked down the stairs and straight out of the inn, sunlight flooding my vision. At least now it was definitely looking a lot nicer. On the downside, I was rather sensitive to bright light in my current state and so I cringed and had to push my hat down almost over my eyes to make seeing bearable again.
I walked down streets of ponies happily chatting or buying things, with foals playing in the street and the occasional armed Wanderer walking past. This was so much more pleasant than the almost fascist ways of the NSA. Back in my old compound, the streets were relentlessly patrolled by Militia or Guards, there was no such thing as a ‘nice café’ and playing in parks was discouraged as it ‘spoilt the pleasant silence for other ponies’. Here young foals could chase each other all they liked. There were ponies sitting in buildings with large front windows sipping on hot drinks and the armed Wanderers were actually friendly. They would occasionally stop to chat with other ponies in the streets or occasionally they would be stopped by a group of foals who wanted to stare at their armour or weapons, marvelling as the Wanderer would place a bit into the pocket of one of them before striding off on their duty. I actual dare to say it; this place was… nice. It was just generally nice. I actually felt safer here than I did in the LRSA compound.
Eventually I arrived at the hospital, where I promptly asked to see Wraith. The receptionist (a stallion with a brilliant purple mane) nodded and called for a nurse to escort me. He arrived promptly and walked alongside me down the lengthy corridor, passing rooms full of wounded ponies. We reached Wraith’s room and I couldn’t help noticing that, after one night, what had previously been a half full room was now completely full of wounded ponies. My bed was now occupied by a Russian LRSA soldier. He’d already been treated, but judging by the nature of his dressings I assumed he’d received a nasty spray of shrapnel to the face. If he’d been a looker before, he certainly wasn’t now.
I took my attention away from the pony I didn’t know and turned it on the pony I did. Wraith was still asleep, sleeping in the way he always did, with Stan standing at the end of his bed, reading the chart. He noticed me and smiled. I smiled too when I realised he was the bearer of good news, “Good news!” yes he started like that. “Your friend has managed to beat back the infection to a level where it doesn’t seem too serious. Once his wounds have healed up he’ll just need a course of antibiotics to clear away the infection, but we’re no longer worrying about that. We expect him to be ready to go back to his normal life by the end of the week, if not sooner. You must be relieved.”
I pulled up a chair next to Wraith’s bed. Despite his uncanny ability to fake sleep, I knew he was truly knocked out. His breathing was heavier than usual, and there was a small strand of saliva hanging from the corner of his mouth. I found it rather amusing, so I chuckled softly. He’d been through a lot. I could see it in his persona. His reluctance to speak to others, his secluded personality, his wounds both physical and mental. It was a miracle he was still breathing at all. I knew he couldn’t hear me, so words were useless (as was everything else, really), so instead I simply kissed him gently before rising to leave. I left a message with the receptionist, basically saying that when Wraith was discharged he was to go to the inn called Flamethrower, where I was lodged. The receptionist made a note of this and assured me that it would be passed on to him when he was discharged from care.
Chapter 9
The rest of the week passed uneventfully. I spent my time reorganising my saddlebags, which I need not tell you was one heck of a chore. I had taken things out of my saddlebags that could be added to my belt, including the remaining bits, some spare bullets, and the large pistol from the shack. The pistol didn’t have a holster of its own, so I fashioned one out of some scrap material. They were only makeshift and rather shoddy looking, but they got the job done. The stitching wasn’t particularly durable either (a combination of poor material and terrible thread) so I double fastened the pistols to my belt with clips already present. That way, if the holsters failed, the pistol would still remain attached.
After I had finally sorted out my saddlebags (resulting in a much lighter pack), I spent the rest of my time scoping out the town. I found a nice looking store that sold decent looking supplies, including food and canteens of water, and I also managed to locate an armourer. It wasn’t as impressive as the ones the Scavengers had (because all the best weapons were probably in their main armoury) but it did sell a variety of weapons, ammunition types and armour. I paid particularly close attention to the armour.
The memory of my wound still fresh in my mind, I was now aware of how serious a bullet wound could be, so I was looking for something that would protect my more important areas. They had a full set of police riot armour, consisting of padded body suit and helmet complete with visor, and it was a reasonable price, but way out of my price range. Everything was out of my price range. I didn’t have many bits left. Also amongst their collection was a set of pre-revolutionary combat armour worn by the Equestrian Military and a greyish-purple uniform and garrison cap. The combat armour looked very durable and was designed to be light weight. It had several pads composed of composite materials (that is metal, ceramic, air, ceramic and metal, in that order) across the chest and around the joints. I was particularly pleased to note that it came with pads that extended to shield the rear from fire, which would have come in useful a few days ago. The set included a combat helmet that looked a little too large for me. As for the purple tunic… well, it just looked silly. Who would wear such a uniform? I left the armourer without making a purchase, much to the armourer’s annoyance.
I returned to the hospital a total of three times. Twice to see Wraith (who was recovering marvellously) and once to have my wound fully sealed by magic. I was annoyed to see that the wound hadn’t ruined my cutie mark, which I still hated. Why couldn’t it have been something cool instead of a bloody plate? I’m going off on a tangent again, I’ll stop. Wraith had been sleeping both times I went to see him, but that didn’t surprise me. He needed the rest. I made sure that they still remembered my message and, on confirmation that they did, I left to await Wraith’s arrival at the inn.
It was another day before he showed up. I was sitting at the bar absentmindedly cleaning my Glock (for the third time that afternoon) when somepony sat on the stool next to me. I looked up and saw Wraith, the last pony I’d expected to see, his uniform torn and bloodied where it had been sliced open. He had a serious case of bed-head and probably needed a little more time to recover full control over his legs having been bed ridden for almost a full week, but mostly he was fully healed. I was pleased to see him, nay, I was overjoyed. Ecstatic. We’d not been together in a while and I was beginning to get quite lonely on my own. The first thing I did when I recognised it was him was throw my fore legs around his neck and lock him in a tight embrace. Wraith chuckled nervously as the hug went on a little longer than he would have liked (and probably a little longer than was safe), but eventually I granted him full control of his body again.
He leaned onto the bar, “What have you been doing whilst I was away?”
He eventually brought himself to pick up the drink and ever so carefully sipped from the top. He sputtered and coughed and immediately set the drink down again, “No. No, that’s horrible.”
I looked over my shoulder at Francis. He and his crew were still there (having had little sleep over the course of the week), filling out forms, reading maps and going through records. I was intrigued by their activities and wanted desperately to know what it was they were actually doing, but they were very good at covering it up every time I tried to get close. It was strange. They didn’t look to me like Wanderers (despite their garments) and they talked and acted more like the LRSA. But the LRSA didn’t field spies; they didn’t have the manpower, nor the skill of subtlety. The Scavengers did field spies, but their spies worked alone and were often more like assassins, trained to take down key enemies. The pins that Francis and his cohort wore were likewise intriguing. They were all identical, and seemed to me to consist of a spear and two swords through a circle. The swords were crossed, but the spear was upright. It was an odd emblem that I hadn’t seen before in the wilderness, but was likely of importance. I’d asked the barmare and several other ponies about it but none of them knew what the symbol meant, nor what the ponies were doing here. They’d just arrived one day and said they were waiting for somepony.
When I was done staring at the covert ponies, I noticed that Wraith was now drinking from a glass of tap water. A thought struck me. I didn’t have anywhere near enough bits for a second room. That, on its own, wouldn’t have been a problem. The problem arose when I considered the fact that there was only one bed. Sleeping arrangements would be complicated (and likely turn into a drawn out game of ‘no, I insist’). I did feel, however, that Wraith should be allowed to have the bed, what with his bad back and everything. Still, I didn’t much like the sound of sleeping in the floor. Could we… share the bed? No. No, no, no, no, no. Naughty Bucky! Don’t think about such things! Somepony might begin to think you actually have sexual urges! As if I’ve been doing a good job of hiding it thus far.
I pondered, silently turning over possibilities in my head. Eventually I formulated my plan. I would simply have to put up with either sleeping on the floor or on a stool at the bar. Unless Wraith could come up with some better plan, that was what I was going with. I looked over at Wraith. How much had he changed since I’d first met him? For a start, I’d never have imagined getting into a relationship with him. He’d not changed much physically, but mentally he’d improved. He was more open to conversation, less awkward around others and more open to his sense of humour. It was good to see him being a little more… open. Then again, maybe it wasn’t that he’d changed, maybe I was just finding out new things about him.
I suppose I’d changed quite a lot too, though. I’d killed ponies now. I had that to deal with. I’d killed a young colt and that was only just beginning to sink in. I’d become a lot more tactical, more sceptical, more cunning. I’d developed traits that the NSA had suppressed, like the ability to seduce the ponies with as many brains in their testicles as in their skulls, and skills in shooting and CQC. Physically I’d changed as well. I was a lot dirtier now (naughty Bucky, bad thoughts) due to lack of proper showering apparatus. My mane was longer and less tidy, and my tail was a little burnt. My clothes were beginning to get quite worn as well and my jumper had become horribly threadbare where my saddlebags had been chafing me. I’d lost weight as well, but in exchange I’d developed more muscle, which I was quite pleased with. I’d never had a problem with my weight, and I was never overly conscious about it, but it felt good to see myself in the mirror and smile at how amazing my figure was. To me, anyway. And I’d figured out that I was bi. Oh what an adventure that had been!
Now let’s quickly steer away from that topic. Wraith was talking to the barmare (curse her, stealing my stallion) so I swung myself around on my stool and once again surveyed the area. The four spy ponies (as I call them) were busy playing around with a small radio set, inaudible over the noise of the chatter, and still boring. I checked the time. Roughly midday. I was beginning to get very bored sitting around, and the thought of cleaning my Glock again made me want to put my head through a wall. I asked Wraith if he wanted to go for a walk, to which he replied, “Nah. My back’s still killing me. Where’s our room?”
Walking is good for ponies. It helps to clear the mind, and aids in lateral thinking. It also helps to keep one fit and active. It can aid in discovery and encourages exploration and is generally a good overall activity. That was, word for word, a quote from our minister back at the NSA. However, it can get quite boring when you do it for seven or so hours. I’d ultimately decided to take a walk around the entire perimeter of Refuge, looking for anything that could possibly be of use to us. Don’t ask me why, ponies do strange things when they’re bored. There were many cafes and inns. A few hotels were dotted about. Some weapon and armour shops here or there. A youth hostel. A small doctor’s clinic. I think I also saw a sex shop. Not that I went anywhere near that of course. I wouldn’t give these ponies any ammunition to use against me later if I could help it.
Night began to fall abnormally soon. Maybe the days were just getting shorter, as per the usual for the time of year? Whatever the reason, I eventually had to make my way back to the Flamethrower to catch some sleep before my next riveting day of activity in Refuge. The streets at night were actually quite poorly lit. Lampposts were not a common sight along the streets, and all buildings were required by local law to close their blinds at night. The only light in the streets were from the torches fixed to the armour of the garrisoned soldiers. They would patrol in pairs. From what I could tell, there would be one patrol ‘leader’ who carried a rifle, shotgun, or sub machinegun. The leader would constantly be on the lookout, following a predetermined route. With them would be a patrol ‘soldier’ who carried a smaller weapon, like a pistol, and sported a set of radio equipment. The patrols were not exactly frequent, and they would always stay on the same side of the street, meaning that the entire of the other side was almost constantly swathed in shadow.
I decided to move along the shadowy areas. For one, the torches of the patrollers kept blinding me every time they turned around. For another, I thought it made me look cool. I would slink along in the shadows and pretend I was an elite agent, tasked with making it back to the inn undetected. As a result, I was constantly hiding behind bins or mailboxes whenever some patrollers turned to move in my direction. It was actually quite fun, and I ended up having quite a good time doing it.
At one point, I snuck into an alleyway to avoid some guards who turned around a little too quickly for my liking. I was nearing my destination, and actually I was quite close to the barracks. I’d have judged it to be just on the other street. I honestly had no idea, and for all I knew it was on the other side of town. Well, I plastered myself against the wall and waited patiently for the guards to pass, ready to make my next daring move which involved me dashing behind a chalkboard outside a café. There was a faint scuffle of hooves behind me, and somepony said something in a low voice. I turned. Who was down this alleyway? Thieves, homeless ponies? More guards for me to avoid?
I could vaguely make out the outlines of three ponies, huddled together and crouching down in front of the barracks wall. They looked a little shifty to me. I moved to get a better view of them. From my new vantage point, I could make out individuals. One was crouching and fiddling with something I couldn’t quite make out. He had a strange sort of field cap on his head, and a scarf that extended to cover his muzzle. To one side, a mare crouched low, cradling a sub machinegun. She, likewise, possessed the strange cap and scarf. The final pony, armed with a long rifle, was flattened against the wall and scanning the streets for movement. This was all very mysterious. I readied my Glock.
The stallion crouched down by the wall rose and nodded at the mare, who nodded back. The ponies began to slowly make their way towards me, crossing the streets and watching for guards. I frowned. I didn’t like these ponies. Glock ready for shooting, I stepped into their path and raised my pistol. What was I doing? They vastly outnumbered me, by two, which isn’t exactly very vast, but they most certainly outgunned me. I yelled at them, “Hey! What’re you doing?” My intention was to attract the guards. It worked, and I heard the scrabbling of hooves and a shout from down the road. The ponies froze and looked at me. I kept my pistol on them. They didn’t seem prepared to attack me, as none of them made any move to raise their weapons.
Suddenly, my vision juddered and I felt something blunt make contact with the back of my head. Everything went blurry as I crumpled to the floor. I looked around in a daze. Another of the mysterious ponies was standing behind me, wielding a truncheon and staring down at me through a set of pitch black combat goggles. I noticed, pinned to his uniform, a strange looking cross that glinted slightly in the moonlight. I counted two more ponies behind him, wielding weapons of their own. Six, in total. Six mysterious ponies that seemed intent to cause harm.
But then my vision was shot by a colossal boom that shook the ground violently and sent dust flying into the air. The entire street was lit with bright yellow light as flames began to lick around the buildings. I saw one of the six ponies fall as shrapnel hit them in the back of the head. The other ponies immediately bolted. I heard two shots fire and two screams before the raiders vanished entirely. Guards began to flood the streets, buckets of water clutched in their mouths. Civilians began to scream as they left their houses to see what catastrophe had befallen them. A siren went up and soon soldiers appeared, hefting assault rifles and donning full riot armour. I could hear the baying of hounds as the city suddenly became full of ponies, all on the hunt for the saboteurs.
A guard crouched down, picking me up and yelling at me. My vision was still swimming and I felt sick. I turned my head to one side and heaved, my head throbbing with pain and the guard stumbling back slightly. I wretched again, more blinding agony shooting through my head before I blacked out, the world falling away from me as I hit the floor once again.
***
I remember waking up briefly several times, only to fall back into a state of blackness. I can remember seeing ponies scurrying around, brief snippets of conversation, medical staff all around. Every time I woke up my vision would swim, my head would throb, I would vomit violently again and then blackout once more. This happened time and time again, each time I fought to stay awake.
It was after several desperate attempts to remain conscious that I finally managed it, but only barely. I felt like throwing up again, but the last few times I’d awoken all I’d managed to do was dry heave a few times, so I fought to control the feeling. A soldier bearing a red cross on his helmet sat next to me, and the minute he realised I was awake he reached out to support me. I thanked him in a hoarse voice, and he gave me two tablets and a canteen. I swallowed the tablets (with difficulty), fought to control another heave and simply sat up with my head in my hooves.
At last, my headache began to clear (the tablets were some sort of aspirin) and I was able to think clearly again. The medic explained that he was concerned I’d been concussed, what with my continuous blackouts and throwing up. I waved him off, insisting I was fine, but my head kept swimming and when I tried to stand up I fell over, hard. The medic shook his head, “No, you’ve definitely got something wrong. Lay back down, you need treatment. Do you remember where you are?”
The medic sat me down on some bedding. I refused to lay down, so he eventually just let me sit, then rushed off to find me those painkillers. The fires still raged on, and the street had essentially become a makeshift triage centre. All along the streets were medical ponies and soldiers. Next to me on either side were ponies with head injuries, victims of shrapnel, burn victims, and so on. Across the street, I could see a series of closed up bags, each of which contained the body of a Wanderer. I counted eight in total. On top of six were helmets and weapons, and behind all of them were monuments made out of wood. Upon them were likely the names of the deceased, but I couldn’t read them from my position.
I looked around for Wraith. I couldn’t see him amongst the disorganised chaos. I did see Stan, though, donning his doctor’s overalls and a combat helmet, treating some of the ponies further along the line. The medic returned to my side, handing me some more tablets, which I took. They quickly helped to numb some of my pain, but my head still hurt. At least I was beginning to get my memory back.
I decided to try walking again. I shakily got to my hooves, and the medic moved to catch me, but my legs held. I began to shakily make my way down the street, looking from side to side and gazing at the terrain. The building I’d seen the saboteurs crouching before was now only half standing, and still smouldering. There were ponies inside it, helping to shift rubble and look for any ponies trapped inside. I only now recognised the building as a barracks. The two buildings on either side had gotten away mostly undamaged, but there was a large gaping hole in one of them and the other had been scorched up one side. There was also a small crater in the road and several large faults now split the ground.
What had happened? How had those ponies gotten in? Why had I tried to stop them? Why did I have so many questions? Why were my thighs and belly soaking wet? Actually, I didn’t want to think about that. I found my hat (which had fallen from my head when I was struck) and perched it back atop my mane, now feeling a little better. I stumbled slightly, still not quite right, but I was at least able to function at a respectable capacity.
Soon the sound of echoing gunshots drifted my way and I looked about in confusion. I saw a Wanderer come pelting down the road yelling something, inaudible over the sounds of chaos. When he got close enough, I could just make out him saying, “The Scavengers are attacking!” before three bullets buried themselves in the base of his neck. He fell and tumbled, doing a small forward roll before he came to rest several feet away. The armed Wanderers around me soon kicked into action, scampering into alleyways, dragging the wounded into cover and preparing themselves for a fight. As I squinted through the smoke of the fires I could make out the dancing silhouettes of oncoming combatants, and above the crackle of flames I could make out cheers and snide remarks.
Another thing that was quite prominent after that was the sound of gunfire and the whistling of bullets passing by me. I ducked down quickly and grabbed a sub machinegun from a nearby Wanderer (dead), essentially flinging myself behind the nearest solid object that could provide me with at least some cover. As I cowered behind the rubbish bins (which evidently hadn’t been emptied recently) I heard the Scavengers approaching, drawing ever nearer. With each thud of their collective hoof strikes on the ground they became a little clearer through the smoke. And a little easier to pull a shot on.
With one swift motion I rose up into a firing stance, resting my weapon on the bin lids and keeping my head as low as possible. Before any of the Scavengers noticed me I lined my sights up with the nearest of them and let loose a five round burst. Immediately I heard shouts from the oncoming invaders as they scampered away from my hail of bullets, and I saw one of the figures collapse where they stood as they succumbed to the lead sent their way. I heard return fire, and crouched back down into cover as fire from two different sources shot past my cover where my head had been.
Why did I always manage to get tangled up with the Scavengers in some way, no matter where I went? It was as if they were hell bent on hunting me down, and they wouldn’t rest until I stopped them, by putting the biggest spanner in their works that I could find. As another bullet shot past and pinged off the concrete, I saw the Wanderer’s up the road prepare for a counter attack. As if on cue, three Wanderers poked their weapons out from cover and unleashed death on the Scavengers. I counted one sub machinegun and two assault rifles. All in all, the burst managed to cut down another Scavenger and I heard the reassuring scream of another one being wounded.
As the wounded Scavenger continued to scream, I prepared myself for another burst. This time I peeped around the side, so that if a Scavenger had his sights trained on my previous position he wouldn’t see me. I looked for silhouettes or the revealing muzzle flash of firearms, but I saw nothing. Only when I heard a slight scrabble on a loose bit of debris did I think to check my flank. Sure enough, the Scavengers were advancing slowly and quietly up both sides of the streets, sticking to the walls and keeping low to hide their shadows. Eager to pull off a shot before they reached me, I picked a small alleyway slightly further down towards my own lines and made a dash. As I ran, I clutched the sub machinegun in my magical aura and pointed the barrel of my weapon down range at the nearest Scavenger and let loose.
The sub machinegun was difficult to control when you made any sustained bursts. The recoil seemed to double with every bullet that passed through, but I controlled it. I fired a good, long burst right down the Scavenger’s advancing line, shredding the nearest one and silencing the next. The next Scavenger along ducked their head and made to fire back at me, but by that point I was already hidden in the alleyway, swearing as I fought with my weapon. One unfortunate drawback to automatic weapons was their tendency to jam, and it seemed that everything had to go wrong before fate would be satisfied with me.
I struggled to clear the weapon; two rounds had tried to load themselves into the breach simultaneously and thus it had blocked. All the while I was aware that the Scavengers were getting closer. I heard my Wanderer friends provide another volley of fire, and I heard Scavenger return fire, but I couldn’t tell which side was doing the screaming by this point. At last I cleared the blockage, but in doing so I’d had to remove the magazine, so I was currently holding a useless firearm. I motioned to reinsert the clip, but a Scavenger decided to come in line with me at that point and move to take cover in the same alleyway.
As our eyes met in the smoke filled alleyway, the sounds of gunfire and war raging around us, time seemed to stop. I stared into his deep, crystal blue eyes as he stared back at me. It was as though we were the only two ponies in the world. His mane flowed down his neck like a river; he gripped his weapon in those strong hooves of his with such confidence. As we moved a little closer, I…
Smashed him round the head with the butt of my weapon and knocked him out cold. The force of the swing jarred against my hooves painfully, but he’d slammed his head against the wall as he fell so there was no chance of him getting back up any time soon. I’ll admit, I felt a little sorry for him, but maybe he should’ve, I don’t know, not joined the bad guys? Giving up on the useless sub machinegun, I picked up his assault rifle and readied myself, preparing to put it to good use. It was substantially heavier than any weapon I’d used before, so I was expecting it to have some kick.
I rounded on the Scavenger closest to me as I swung the weapon around the corner. The mare had been lining up to take a shot and my sudden presence had startled her. As she went to readjust her aim, I put a single bullet into her head at close range, knocking the helmet clean off her head and throwing her backwards. Another Scavenger prepared to hurl a grenade at me, holding the explosive in a magical aura and leaning backwards to put more force behind it. I didn’t give him the satisfaction of blowing me apart, and I put two bullets into him before he even made the forward throwing motion. It was quite amusing watching the grenade fly backwards through the air and watching a group of Scavengers scrabble out of the way to avoid the blast. The grenade went off with an almighty boom, showering the nearby Scavengers in debris and knocking one of them to the floor, his shotgun clattering against the road as he fell.
I cast a brief look back at the Wanderers fighting to protect their land. There were several of the ponies lying dead on the pavement, their weapons at their sides and large holes in their helmets and body armour. That riot armour was utterly useless! I could see Stan in his white coat and combat helmet, wielding a small handgun and shakily leaning on a wall in an alleyway. I heard him yell something about being a doctor, and his purpose being to heal ponies, not kill them. I also noticed that a fallen Scavenger lay no more than a few feet away from his position. Had Stan killed them?
Exposition time over, I made a hurried dash back along the street towards the bulk of the defending forces (who were doing an admittedly admirable job of holding the Scavengers off). You know that feeling when something you used to believe in is suddenly completely outclassed by something you considered worse at the time? That’s what it feels to realise that the Wanderers, a non-military group of peace loving, agricultural ponies were better at defending themselves than the NS-fucking-A. I was beginning to seriously doubt my allegiance to them by this point. Maybe I should convert to Wandererism?
I darted behind a small pile of rubble and began making a quick search of the dead Wanderer next to me. I took his ammunition and the binoculars from around his neck, using them to peer through the smoke and spy on the Scavenger movements. Most of them were ducking down in cover to avoid being shot by the defending forces, but I could see a group of three Scavengers slowly making their way up the frontline, a very large looking weapon carried between them. I pointed the group out to any Wanderer that was within earshot (which turned out to be none) and prepared to fire on the group.
Unfortunately, the smoke made accurate shooting at range difficult, and my first burst seemed to have no effect on them. They all dived into the crater in the ground created by the grenade and began setting up shop. The weapon was brought to bear; resting on a bipod whilst one of the other crew members went about loaded the weapon with a sizeable box of ammunition. The third crew member started to spray down range with a sub machinegun, hitting nothing and ultimately just wasting ammunition.
With a colossal tearing noise like somepony ripping a ream of paper in half, the weapon opened fire. The machinegun filled the entire street with stray bullets, not killing anypony but keeping our heads down and preventing us from making counter fire. The machinegun let off another stream of bullets, this time bringing down two Wanderers who had tried to fire on them during the lull. I waited for my moment, not knowing exactly how long it would take for the group to start reloading. I peered at them with my binoculars, keeping myself as small as possible and trying not to draw attention to myself. The group was still busy hosing down the street ahead of them, but this came at an advantage to me. With the street so full of crossfire from the machinegun, most of the Scavengers had stopped moving to avoid being caught by a stray round. All I had to do was wait.
Waiting turned out to be troublesome as the machinegun seemed to never run out of ammunition. On three occasions I was sure that they’d be reloading, only to be forced back into cover by another burst of rapid fire. The Scavengers had moved very slowly forwards and were getting closer. Something had to be done about that machine gun or I’d be in some rather serious trouble. The heroic thing to do would have been to throw myself over the rubble, charge towards the weapon, spray into them with my assault rifle and then use the machinegun to mow down the remaining Scavengers, but I wasn’t really in the mood for suicide.
Instead, I picked my shots, switching to semi-automatic fire and waiting for lulls in the shooting. Every time the machine gun stopped firing, I very quickly poked my head out of cover and fired a single shot at the nearest approaching Scavenger. The Wanderers who could see me quickly adopted the strategy as well, firing during lulls and hoping to knock out the weapon crew of the machine gun. It had a very demoralising effect on the Scavengers, and I could see them getting more and more reluctant to move. Before long, the machine gun ran out of ammunition and the crew hastily began to reload.
By the looks of things, the Wanderer captain in the street took the opportunity to initiate a charge. With a loud cry of defiance, he and all of the remaining Wanderers in the street took to charging the Scavenger position in one last act of self-sacrifice. It was actually a very impressive display. I joined in, charging alongside my Wanderer allies, narrowing the distance between the two parties that had been fighting for the past multitude of minutes.
A Wanderer to my right hurled a grenade at the machinegun, and I could hear as well as see the entire group become engulfed by flames as they were permanently put out of action. There was a series of firecracker like noises as their remaining ammunition caught fire. With their machinegun now out of action, and with a wall of defiant Wanderers advancing rapidly towards them, I could see the Scavengers beginning to falter. They were slowly moving backwards, firing less frequently, getting less and less accurate. All it would take was one more backbreaking move and the lot of them would be in retreat.
That one more backbreaking move came in the form of three soft thumps. From behind me, three Wanderers armed with grenade launchers fired onto the Scavenger lines, the explosives landing hard and knocking down a large number of the remaining Scavengers. The effect was instantaneous. In a Mexican wave of sorts, the Scavengers turned and fled back down the streets, some dropping their weapons as they did so, most of them screaming about how they weren’t ready to die and how this was supposed to be an easy operation.
There was a resounding cheer of, “Oorah!” from the triumphant defenders, who all held their weapons or helmets in the air, jeering at the broken invaders and embracing each other. It felt good. For me, it was my first significant victory against the Scavengers, and it felt bloody good! As the reality of my achievement dawned on me, the grin on my muzzle began to grow wider, until I was openly beaming. With a roar I flung my hat into the air, letting it drift slowly downwards on the battle ravaged street. I watched it fall. I watched it sway from side to side, mesmerised by its movements.
It came to rest in the small ditch that had once been the refuge of the Scavenger machinegun team. With a slightly annoyed grunt, I went to retrieve it. Along the way I walked past the corpses of the unsuccessful attackers, who had fallen in so many strange shapes and forms that one could call them a modern art piece. That is, of course, if one was twisted enough to do so. For a second there I questioned my own sanity, before letting my concern die. I was still perfectly sane. These ponies were getting what was coming to them.
The ditch was not massively deep, but there was enough rubble around the depression to provide decent cover from fire. Unfortunately for the three Scavengers that had once inhabited it, grenades were its Achilles heel, so to speak. The ditch actually made my stomach turn slightly. I’d seen some pretty horrific things up until this point, but the carnage in this small hole in the ground was unlike anything I’d ever seen. There was a pony that was missing both of his front legs, his helmet nowhere to be seen and his uniform in tatters. Another (on the other side) was missing half of his face, as well as a large section of his midriff. His uniform was in such a state it may as well not have existed. As for the third pony (the gunner), the only parts of him that remained in the ditch were his fore hoofs, one of which was still resting on top of the weapon. The ditch was a small slice of hell, and my hat had landed right in the middle of a small patch of shredded muscle and flesh.
It had taken quite a bit of effort to not heave again, but I managed, mostly by imagining that I was playing that popular Nightmare Night game, where somepony’s mother hands around a bowl of things that feel like body parts. It worked well enough, and I managed to retrieve my hat, returning it to my head. I threw the assault rifle into the pit and made my way back to the Wanderer lines. Whilst heavier firearms like rifles and shotguns were very destructive (and rather fun), I still preferred my pistol. That may have been a decision drawn from bias, or maybe it was just the right firearm for me, who knows?
I heard a thud and turned my attention to a sudden brilliant explosion that had gone off a few streets away, followed by a furious exchange of gunfire. Evidently we hadn’t won just yet. Still, I carried on my way, pleased with my own efforts. I kicked aside a Scavenger helmet as I walked past, the steel bowl clattering loudly as it rolled off in an awkward direction. I noticed that most of the Wanderers that had been fighting in my street had vanished, likely shifting their position to counter the Scavengers wherever they were making their counterattacks, but some still remained to act as sentries. Most notably, Stan was there, treating some of the wounded. He was visibly shaken, and I got the feeling that this was his first time in active combat. I pitied him. Your first time is scary enough, never mind when it’s with Scavengers. I just realised that I could’ve phrased that a lot better.
I was intent on celebrating the victory with the Wanderers, but before I could I was pulled along down an alley by somepony else, clearly in a hurry to get me somewhere. As we emerged into the next street, I felt saddlebags find their way onto my back and then a slap on the back of the head. The pony set off in front of me, moving at a brisk pace. Only now did I recognise him as Wraith. He’d brought his own saddlebags as well, with his rifle slung over his back in its normal place. I remained motionless for a while, admittedly rather confused. He didn’t even stop, but instead just looked over his shoulder a called back to me, “Come on! We’re going. We can’t stay here. Not anymore.”
I did as instructed, not wishing to get left behind. I had to trot slightly faster than normal to catch up with him, and then keep trotting just to keep pace. He was a quick walker when he wanted to be. And he had a lot of stamina. Admittedly, I was a little concerned. Where were we going? What would become of us? I didn’t know. Still, I had to go. I couldn’t stay here in Refuge whilst Wraith was off exploring the world. For a start, it wasn’t fair. I was the one that wanted to bring down the Scavengers, it was my family that had been torn apart by the bastards, so it should be me that did the bringing down. Selfish? Maybe. But I didn’t see anypony else doing it, so why not me?
Wraith took me to the other side of the town, where there was another, much smaller gate that I hadn’t noticed before. It was already open, as if they’d been expecting us, and I saw a few Wanderers standing around, manning the mechanisms. Wraith led me out of the gate, and I heard it shut behind me. I actually felt a little upset to be leaving the safety and security of the friendly Wanderer town. I was going to miss the quaint atmosphere of a little town in the country. I was going to miss the Flamethrower, with its Remedies and its barmares that I never got the opportunity to drunkenly chat up. Maybe Wraith would take me somewhere with more security, more alcohol and more attractive barmares. I inquired.
“So, where actually are we going?”
He fell silent after that. We walked off in a seemingly random direction for a while. I silently fumed. I still felt like I was betraying the Wanderers. I thought of Francis, and of the barmare, and of Stan. All of them would die at the hands of the Scavengers. And I would have to live with that. I could live with killing, if given time. I could live with killing a colt, if given more time and a lot of alcohol. But I couldn’t live with the feeling of betrayal. It was the worst feeling, and it made me sick to my stomach. Do you know what felt worse? Actually, it felt quite weird. I felt like I was more loyal to the Wanderers than the NSA. In fact, ya know what? Fuck it. I was changing my allegiance. From this moment on, I’m not a refugee from the NSA, I’m a Wanderer. Well, that’s odd, I was expecting to feel something there. Nope, nothing, didn’t feel a thing. Not even a shred of remorse.
Having finally (but admittedly rather quickly) come to terms with my alliance shift, I turned my attention on our destination. Three more times I questioned Wraith, and all three times he refused to reply. It was as though he was hiding something from me, something he didn’t want me to know. I was beginning to get a little suspicious of him. It was true, I confess, that I loved him. He was good looking in a rugged, outdoorsy kind of way, and I found all his little quirks cute and his secluded personality gave me a little project to work on, trying to get him to show his true colours. But whilst love is a powerful force, it wasn’t powerful enough to stop me worrying about him. Was he trying to betray me? Had he already done so? He was being very quiet as he led me into unknown territory. It’s true, I wanted him to show his true colours. I just didn’t want those colours to be fifty shades of khaki.
Chapter 10
“Alright, stop!” I stamped my hoof into the ground hard, demanding Wraith’s attention. He halted, but did nothing else. I was… I suppose I could say extremely angry. And frustrated, and tired. When you walk for a day without substantial rest periods, or any sleep, you start to get like that. Wraith had said very little, but now I needed to know what was going on, and why we couldn’t stop. Wraith turned to look at me.
Wraith was quiet for a moment, before sighing and saying, “I suppose now would be a good time.”
A lot to take in at once, but at least it was something. I processed all that Wraith had said, before reaching my own conclusions. Basically, he’d made a decision about my future without consulting me first. How did we know Francis could be trusted? How did I know Wraith could be trusted? Despite how much I wanted to ignore it, I couldn’t shift the feeling that he was betraying me. I wasn’t going to voice my concern, in case he turned on me, but from now on I was going to keep a very close eye on him. Maybe I’d catch him whispering into a radio set or passing notes with a spy. Maybe. I went on to ask, “So we’re headed for the rendezvous point now, then?”
I could do little but look at Wraith with a look of incredulity on my face. To sum things up briefly for you, the Factory would utterly annihilate us if given the chance, and the Ruins were a no-go area for anypony who wasn’t in the LRSA or the Scavengers. Even then, the average life expectancy for a fresh soldier was one week. The Ruins, for those who don’t know, are the remains of one of pre-revolutionary Equestria’s diplomatic hubs, Ponyville. It started as a small village, but then it started growing and growing until it became a metropolis to rival Canterlot. Then, post-revolution, it was taken over by the NSA, before being lost to Scavengers. Turns out that the NSA in the area had forgotten to lock down the heavy artillery guns that were kept in the sector, and the Scavengers nicked them. Then they proceeded to reduce the city to rubble, before taking it over themselves. Now, it’s heavily fought over by battle hardened Scavengers and units from the Equestrian, French, and Russian LRSA detachments.
Quite simply, it was suicidal and stupid.
“You haven’t thought this through very well, have you?”
I would have carried on ranting, going on to talk about how I knew something like this was going to happen, and about how I should have just taken the risk and gone alone after my initial escape, and how I should never have trusted a Scavenger. I would have done all that, if Wraith hadn’t started crying. That was honestly the last thing I had expected him to do. I had expected him to throw himself at me and try to hit me, or even to point his rifle at me, or to reveal that he was, in fact, a traitor, and all of a sudden for a contingent of Scavengers to appear from nowhere, ultimately leading to a massive battle in which I would escape by the skin of my teeth, coming back to take my revenge with the backing of the LRSA against the Scavengers, of which Wraith was now the leader, finishing in one huge crescendo where I have one final showdown with Wraith to determine the fate of Equestria. Actually, that’s a pretty good plot line.
But no. None of the above. He just stood there and started to cry. I stood there and just looked at him. What does one do in this situation? I don’t know, I’m not a mother! He wasn’t making any sound, but his eyes had glistened over and there were tears adorning his face. In a very quiet, rather pathetic voice, he murmured, “I’m not stupid.”
He shook his head, gently, then more vigorously. I could see him barring his teeth and soon I could hear him growling, “No. No, you don’t understand. I’m a Scavenger because everypony hates me, not the other way around. You don’t know what I’ve seen. If you did, you’d understand.”
Wraith growled at me angrily, before he calmed down enough to be able to make more placid sounds. After a very long period of silence, during which I contemplated whether or not he was actually going to say anything, he started speaking in a voice that was hard to hear, even in such close proximity, “I suppose I’ll start by saying I wasn’t born a Scavenger. Some are. Their parents are both Scavengers, so they are born to be Scavengers. Not me. I was a Wanderer for most of my early life. My parents were both hard working earth ponies, and they both lived in a small agricultural community that grew wheat. As such, most of my early memories are of the wheat farm my parents tended to.”
“Naturally, being the only son of two farming ponies, they had me working hard to teach me the essentials of the work I was to do. Every morning I was to be awake by five, and I never went to bed earlier than eleven at night. In between those hours there was never any time for play. Whilst my father showed me how to sew wheat seeds or taught me how to fire a shotgun, all the other colts and fillies of my age would be busy running around and playing with each other. Not me. I never had any friends. Nopony ever spoke to me, so I never spoke back. My parent’s didn’t like noise very much, so I was never allowed to talk unless ordered to. Most of my time I had my lips sealed.”
“That wouldn’t have been so bad. I could have dealt with that. But my father was quick to temper. If I made mistakes, or spoke out of line, I would be punished. Punishments were nothing new in the community, and the residents used a wide variety of different techniques to discipline their foals, but my father took no prisoners. If I did have to be punished, he would hoist me up onto a cross and tie me in place, leaving me there for the rest of the day and overnight to act as a scarecrow. Other times, when it was more convenient, he would just hit me or yell at me. He forbade many things, including chocolate, any drink that wasn’t water, any book that wasn’t about farming, but most of all, he forbade me from ever talking to mares.”
“Naturally, there came a point when I was fourteen when I wanted to start meeting a few of the fillies of the community. Most of them were nothing special, but I did really like one of them. She was an only child, like me, and she was a very gifted craftspony. She was the same age as me, and she would always stop at my father’s farm every Thursday to mend anything that needed mending. I started to eagerly await her visits, but, as I said, my father would never let me speak to her. In fact, I wasn’t ever allowed within ten feet of her. He said that I shouldn’t like a mare for her looks, and that I should save myself for somepony who would be able to help on the farm, sewing seeds and harvesting crops.”
“But I was intent on getting my way. I began to dream up fantasies, and I took up drawing. I taught myself, stealing paper and pens from my mother to work with. Every Thursday, when she arrived to fix the broken things, I would sit on the little section of roof outside my bedroom window and draw her in some pose or other. I had my dreams as well. When I went to bed every night, I was kept awake thinking about her. I can remember coming up with an extremely detailed plan to kidnap her, steal some supplies and then run off with her somewhere far away where we’d never be found and where we could be alone together. I can still remember the secret code that I came up with to keep my writing from looking suspicious.”
“But, as with all good things, my dreams had to come to an end. It was a Thursday, like every other, and she’d come round to fix our water tank, which was leaking. After months of mental preparation and planning, I snuck out from the house and hid amongst the wheat, using it to conceal my movements. I navigated my way around until I came across the water tank, and there she was, crouched down with a determined look on her face as she examined her collection of tools. She started as I drew close, giggling and commenting on how she hadn’t heard me coming. I told her that I liked her. She said she’d never heard me speak before, and that she’d assumed that I was a mute. I chuckled in response, now extremely nervous and not sure what to do. I suppose she took the lead from there.”
“It was only a few minutes or so. Very nervous and very unsure of what to do, we both embraced each other tightly. I can remember her laughing as she commented on how tightly I was gripping onto her. I said that I was scared. She told me not to be scared. She ran a hoof through my mane, and as I calmed down and loosened my grip, she moved back slightly and kissed me. I had no idea what I was doing, but then again, neither did she, and so we ended up making a complete mess of our first kiss, but we enjoyed it none the less. We were about to kiss again, but then my dream come true was quickly shattered.”
“Needless to say, my father was not happy. He’d come to check on her progress with the tank, and instead he’d found us together, committing what he considered to be the greatest crime I could have committed. She was told never to return to the farm, and I was punished more severely than I had ever been punished before. My father ransacked my room, collecting everything that I had drawn and everything that I had written, piling them up outside and setting fire to them all. All of my dreams, and all of my passion, just… gone. Reduced to ash. And he’d done it as easily as he’d spat in my face and disowned me. From then on I was to sleep outside, and I was never, ever to leave the perimeter fence for any reason. I lived for two years like that, up until I was sixteen.”
“But then everything changed. The Scavengers came. The community had been pretty quiet for years. The Scavengers had never really bothered about it until now, and when they came, they came in force. The first we knew about it was the scent of smoke as they set fire to our wheat crop. Then it was chaos as bullets were flying everywhere and fires raged, ponies screaming all over the place and the Scavengers laughing maniacally as they slaughtered the populace. They stormed my house, and my father attempted to fight back with his shotgun. He took one down, before he was subdued by a blow to the head.”
“And then they found me. It was a sadist, and he was big and fierce and very frightening. He dragged me outside to the main plaza, where all of the survivors of the attack had been rounded up. They were all under armed guard, the Scavengers ready to put a bullet into anypony who ran. My father and mother were amongst them, and so, to my despair, was my only childhood romance. The sadist asked me whether I wanted to join my family, or whether I wanted to join the Scavengers. Without a moment’s hesitation, I accepted the garrison cap he held out to me and fit it onto my head. From that moment my fate was sealed.”
“There was a resounding cheer from the Scavengers as their newest recruit beamed with pride. The Wanderers being held prisoner looked on me with contempt, but as I realised that it was just the same look that they’d always given me, I turned my own heart into ice. They pulled forward my parents, and shoved them down before me. I remember growling at them and saying, ‘Who’s in charge now?’ The sadist laughed and pushed something into my hoof, before taking a few steps back and watching. There was silence as every Scavenger and Wanderer watched and waited, all staring at me and anxiously awaiting my next move.”
“I looked down into my hoof. I clasped the pistol tightly, the metal feeling cold and smooth in my grip. I looked down at my father, who looked up at me, fury in his eyes. He said one thing to me, ‘I always knew you were just a stupid young colt.’
“Then, before I could say anything, there was a series of resounding cracks as the Scavengers all cocked their weapons in unison. With a deafening roar they opened fire, gunning down every Wanderer that stood before them, including the only mare I had ever loved, and the only pony who had ever loved me. But when I looked into her eyes in her final moments before the Scavenger bullets pierced her flesh, I did not see fear, or hatred, as I had expected to see. I saw only sadness. But I did nothing to try and save her. I just watched her die, like all the rest. I saw her chest explode as she was filled with lead. I saw her eyes lose all life and her face lose all expression. As she crumpled to the floor to lie in a bloody heap, something drifted down to lay atop her corpse. It was something that she always had with her, at all times.”
“A black, homemade cowgirl hat.”
Chapter 11
Wait, Wraith had been a farmer? Sorry, that’s probably not what I should have drawn from that, but I wouldn’t have placed him as the farming type. Still, what it did do for me was give me a good opportunity for reflection. Now everything made sense. The reason why Wraith freed me from the Scavengers, the reason why he journeyed with me, the reason why he was so adamant about keeping me alive, even putting himself in harm’s way to do it. And the reason he’d tried to keep me from the invading Scavengers. He saw me as a chance to do right what he’d done wrong in the past.
“So you see,” he sniffled. “It’s not because I’m a Scavenger that everypony hates me, it’s because everypony hates me that I’m a Scavenger!” In what appeared to be a fit of rage he drove his fore hoof so hard into the ground that it kicked up dust and left a deep imprint. He was avoiding eye contact with me (despite how many times I tried to cunningly manoeuvre myself to catch his gaze), and despite trying to keep himself together, I could see his eyes glistening over with tears again. It was strange. I’d always known that Wraith was an emotional pony, and his emotions could swing on a bit and were often rather extreme, but I’d never once imagined him actually crying. It was such a pure expression of his inner turmoil. It had been made quite apparent to me that it took a lot to make him cry. Even when he’d been stabbed through the shoulder he’d kept a stiff upper lip. It was beautiful to see him in such a state of sadness.
It was strange, but I feel like I can honestly and truly say that everything that had happened between us up to this point was for null, because it wasn’t until that moment that I’d seen what Wraith really looked like. He was tall, strong, rugged, and handsome in a very outdoorsy sense, as I’ve said before. He had brilliant red eyes and a fine black coat, and a char grey mane and tail, both unkempt, but the way they both flowed made it look oddly deliberate. All of these external things are all superficial. I confess that, before, I’d loved him for his looks. But now that I’d gotten the opportunity to glimpse into his inner persona, I realised that there were better reasons to love him. He was emotional, and beneath his harsh exterior personality was a kindness, and a tenderness that I knew he possessed, but had had suppressed by the Scavengers. In his eyes, and in his tears, I could see a pony that longed to be free, a pony that was smart, and only wanted to do what was right. It was still Wraith, but it was the Wraith that he’d never let anypony see.
His tears were infectious, and before I could react I felt moisture accumulating at the corners of my eyes. In a blur of flailing hooves and series of hurried apologies and hushes, I had my hooves around his neck. I was amazed by how shallow I could possibly be. My parents had raised me better than that, for the period of time in which they’d been alive. I buried my face into the crook of Wraith’s neck, the muscles tensing from the contact. His legs were beginning to buckle under the extra weight (shut up!) and before he collapsed I released him and fell back onto my rear. He did likewise, and spent the next few minutes sniffling and wiping at his eyes. I found it both amusing and upsetting every time he growled and swatted at his tears, indignantly trying not to show his sensitive side. I wanted to tell him to stop and to just let himself be sad, but I knew he wouldn’t have it. For so long he’d been told that sadness was a sign of weakness, and even now he stood by those values of concrete resolve.
For I dare say a quarter of an hour we sat in near silence. I didn’t know what I was supposed to say. I’d judged Wraith before I’d properly gotten to know him, and I hated myself for it. I’d never look at him the same way again. From now on, I would see him not as a companion, or as somepony to help fuel my night times fantasies, but as my coltfriend. I mean properly this time, and not just that superficial shit that I’d previously claimed was a relationship. Now I was serious. Now I was going to act like a grown up mare, as opposed to letting myself live with the mentality of a sixteen year old. Wraith had feelings, and I had to respect that.
As time dragged on, I became conscious of the fact that we had to get to moving again. If we stayed for much longer, we’d have burned half the day. I tentatively tapped Wraith’s fore leg in an attempt to stir him. As a tensile spring shooting back into place, Wraith snapped into alertness as if I’d just hit his ‘on’ switch. In the expanse of our silence he’d reverted back into his cold, military precision character, and in no time at all was back on his hooves and marching in the direction of the Ruins. Without even looking back he called for me to follow, which I did. I made haste, attempting to catch up with him and his absurdly large stride.
Unfortunately (or arguably, very fortunately) nothing of particular interest happened during the next few days of our travels. The sky became overcast and we were beginning to worry that it was threatening rain, but none fell. I do remember, however, feeling a distinct bout of homesickness. It was just as I was bedding down for another cold night on the hard dirt with tears in my clothes and an aching leg, that I made the mistake of casting my mind back to my family. When I thought of my parents, the usual wave of emotions came over me. I felt nothing for my father beyond the need to avenge him, but for my mother I felt that sense of despair hit me like a rifle butt to the head. I thought of my old home, the one that the Scavengers had overrun in an act of brutal savagery, and I felt anger, but mostly longing to be back under the protection of the NSA, to be back in the boring, controlled lifestyle that I’d spent most of my life in. Sure, being out here in the wild was fun and all, so long as you weren’t getting shot at, but even that came with its own sense of adrenaline. I’d met some amazing ponies, like Eagle and Wraith and the baremare (that I didn’t get the name of, shit), but life had been so much easier behind the white and blue screen of NSA Watchponies and militia. But then I had to remind myself that I wasn’t an NSA brat anymore. I was a Wanderer, and that meant I could be whatever I wanted. I could be the most colossal bitch that Equestria had ever known! Should it so please me.
I didn’t get anything more out of Wraith. The first sign of actual emotion from him came when we saw the first of the skyscrapers of the Ruins, just peaking up over the top of a hill. Wraith and I stopped and gazed in silent awe. Never before had I, nor Wraith I presume, seen a building so big before. Each one must have been a hundred stories high, with windows on ever floor covering every square inch of the impressive structures. At least, there should have been windows covering every square inch of the impressive structures, but most of them had been shot out by bullets or artillery fire. There was smoke rising from certain choice buildings, and a fire or two raged amongst the canopy of the mighty metropolis.
It was at about that time that Wraith and I ducked our heads and covered our ears as a massive, earthshattering boom sent loose debris bouncing slightly. Seconds later, an explosion the size of which I had never witnessed prior tore out a huge chunk of one of the skyscrapers and sent it hurtling towards the streets below. I felt sorry for anypony who was trapped beneath that. I looked at Wraith for reassurance that what we were doing was not something akin to putting a pistol in our mouths, but he looked about as confident as I did. As in, not at all.
We decided not to venture into the Ruins without some clear plan as to what we were doing (I had taken the opportunity during our journey to try and hammer the importance of planning into Wraith’s head), so we set up temporary camp and started brainstorming. Admittedly, brainstorming was difficult when, every once in a while, the pounding of long range artillery interrupted what would have normally been a pleasant silence. By late afternoon I was grinding my teeth in frustration. How did anypony rest in this place? How had I not heard these guns all the way back in Refuge? My heart went out to all of the LRSA ponies forced to endure such torture on a regular basis. As for the Scavengers, they could all get blown to pieces for all I cared. It did take me a while to figure out, actually, but the sound of artillery fire was actually coming from two different directions. My only theory was that one side was the LRSA artillery, and the other side was the artillery stolen by the Scavengers.
As night fell, we set off, plan formulated and ready to be implemented. Basically, don’t get found. Try and sneak through without being picked up by either side if possible. If that didn’t work, then run to the LRSA for help. If we ended up behind Scavenger lines, then we’d have to try and do a little roleplaying. I was confident in my ability to play the part of a slave, so I wasn’t too worried about that, but from Eagle’s description of how Scavengers in these parts operated, I wasn’t particularly keen to have to resort to such actions. We had some ground to cover before we actually made it to the outskirts of the Ruins, but my heart was in my mouth the entire time. I was expecting this to be a lot more challenging that anything I’d done before.
Our approach to the Ruins continued as the night became absolute. We made slow progress, each of us diving for the nearest scrap of spare cover every time we heard the thumping of the artillery. It was a good way before we reached the outer suburbs, consisting mostly of small, shattered houses and war-torn small streets. Wraith kept low as we passed through this area, moving very quickly to avoid being caught in the open. When I asked why he was being so cautious, he replied by telling me that Scavengers worked well in ruined areas. They could set up a sniper in a bombed out house, or a machinegun behind some rubble, and you wouldn’t know a thing about it until you’d been punched full of holes. Upon hearing this, I adopted a similar stance, moving extremely carefully to try and avoid being spotted.
At one point, as we were beginning to near the outer limits of the big city, we both had to skirt around a small minefield at a cross road. The mines were almost undetectable, but Wraith spotted them with a combination of keen vision and inherent caution. Plus, he knew Scavenger tactics. The mines were placed underneath slabs of concrete or plasterboard or similar items of rubble. The idea was that if the rubble was disturbed in any way, the mine would be detonated and blow off the hooves of whoever walked over them. A rather gruesome way to go, but apparently it worked, otherwise the Scavengers wouldn’t do it.
On recollection, I would probably say that the short space of time we spent making our way through the suburbs was the most nerve wracking time of my life. I remember, quite vividly, making my way down a street with Wraith a few feet ahead of me, and hearing another boom of artillery fire. This had become commonplace; the artillery would fire about once every sixty seconds. I was keeping an eye open for the glint that would indicate a telescopic lens when about ten or so metres down the road along which I’d just come the earth was torn up with an almighty roar and flung high into the air, completely obliterating the surrounding terrain. Chunks of earth and asphalt were thrown around as though they were weightless, and a gargantuan tongue of fire licked up from the area of impact. The detonation was so loud that it shook the ground around it and set my ears ringing. The shell had landed so close to me that, had I been just a few seconds slower, it would have ended me. In pure terror I scrabbled backwards away from the carnage, eyes wide, heart rocketing in my chest, nothing but fear coursing its way through my veins as I looked fiery oblivion straight in the face. When Wraith pulled me up and dusted me down, I was shaken to the edge of my wits. Every snapping twig, every distant chatter of gunfire, every chirp of crickets sent me reeling for the nearest cover, terrified that the noise was sure to take me, sure to be the one that ended my existence. I have honestly never been more scared in my entire life.
I was still a nervous wreck when we reached the outskirts of the metropolis, just as the moon had passed its peak. Here, the buildings began to tower hundreds, thousands of stories high into the air. The main street was six lanes wide, three on either side, separated down the middle by a row of concrete jersey barriers. There were street light every five or six metres down the pavement, and the street stretched on for as far as the eye could see, branching off occasionally into side roads. A fine layer of dust and soot hung in the air, creating an artificial smog that seemed to reduce viewing distance significantly. Everything beyond a certain point simply faded into the grey mist, and every sound made beyond that was distant and seemed to echo. The lights didn’t work, so the power was out throughout the whole metropolis. Every so often, one could hear a violent exchange of gunfire, which soon ceased, followed by numerous intermittent shots as the victors mopped up whatever was left of the enemy forces.
The Ruins. We had to traverse the Ruins. The streets in this place extended for several hundred kilometres, and it was very easy to get lost. Wraith seemed less fazed by the situation than me, and set off with almost no hesitation whatsoever. With a look over his shoulder he encouraged me forward. He didn’t stop walking though. With what I’m sure was an audible gulp, I entered the Ruins.
I felt tainted just by walking in the dusty, battered streets. Everywhere I looked there were signs of past conflicts; signs of death. Here or there, a lamppost would be lying on its side or be bent to one side. The jersey barriers that ran along the central street were covered with marks from where bullets and incendiaries had struck, grazed, or scorched the surface. The buildings themselves missed most of their windows, and some had even partially collapsed, spilling rubble into the streets and forming areas of effective cover, and good places to spring ambushes. As such, I felt slightly more nervous than normal whenever passing as pile of suspicious rubble.
My hoof suddenly sank into something soft and squishy that definitely wasn’t road. I could feel a little moisture collecting around the base of my hoof and winced at the unpleasant experience. Half fearing moving, and half dreading not, I lifted my hoof out of the substance I’d stepped in. I closed both eyes and took several long breaths. As an almighty feat of courage, I peered cautiously down at the ground. What I saw made me whimper and cower slightly.
When I looked more closely, I noticed something about the place that I’d missed before. Everywhere, scattered over the road, buried amongst the rubble and leaning up against jersey barriers, were hundreds of brutalised, horribly distorted corpses. Everywhere I looked there were seldom fewer than five in any one area. Some had their limbs tied up in knots or twisted in ways I previously thought impossible. Some were missing legs or heads or wings or horns and others were simply represented by a dismembered torso flung against a wall. Ponies slumped and lay in a multitude of poses, some still clutching onto their weapons, or holding their wounded or missing appendages as if still hanging on for dear life. When I looked down at my hooves, I saw the body of a soldier so heavily caked in mud, soot and blood that I could barely make him out from the road. Around my hoof, a thick film of blood was staining my fur, and slowly oozing off the edge to drip noiselessly onto the floor. The blood was dirty, filled with so much dirt and gravel that it was almost black.
Wraith came over to see what had halted me. I was personally terrified, unable (or unwilling) to move in any way lest I put my hoof into another body. Wraith, being the Scavenger that he was, saw the opportunity in the situation. He grabbed onto the shoulders of the soldier and heaved, lifting him up from the ground with a shower of debris. With a grunt of exertion, he dragged the raggedy corpse along the road and leaned it up against a jersey barrier in the middle of the road. I came over to observe, my hoof making a horrible squelching noise whenever I took a step forward. It took all of my resolve not to scream.
With expert care and practised ease, Wraith set about scavenging for useful supplies. He first removed the soldier’s helmet, which came away cleanly. I hadn’t realised before, but the helmet actually had a pair of goggles attached to it. With them removed, I could see the stallion’s dirty fur and filthy mane, and his eyes which were a deep blue. They didn’t shimmer or shine like most that I’d seen, but were dull and lifeless, as though they were painted onto stone. I also noted, with some disgust, that one eye looked in a completely different direction to the other. The soldier must have been hit so hard by whatever it was that had killed him that it had knocked one eye off centre.
Wraith began sifting through the soldier’s assault webbing. He began by opening the top two pockets, drawing out several sachets of sugar. Wraith looked at the writing on the side, “Russians.” He pocketed the sugar, and began sifting through his other pockets. There was little more to be found, apart from a half empty water canteen and a couple magazines of ammunition. Wraith fumbled around the soldier’s shoulders again and found a sling that ran the length of his torso. With a tug, the sling came away, and with it came a mud covered assault rifle. Wraith gave it a clean off with his sleeve, checking that none of the vital components were blocked, and handed it to me, “Take this.”
Wraith found nothing more, and so he closed the soldier’s eyes in a final show of respect, and lay the soldier on his back, resting his helmet on his chest. Wraith briefly bowed his head before setting forward again. I followed closer behind now than before, my eyes now scanning the ground for more bodies. The last thing I wanted to do was stand on another corpse. Wraith assured me that he would try and fix up my new rifle a bit once he found some spare parts, and I merely nodded my head and grunted slightly by way of reply. I wasn’t feeling very talkative.
Darkness seemed to complete itself almost immediately. If the smog wasn’t thick enough before, now seeing more than a few feet in any direction was challenging where it was particularly thick. Wraith had the two of us halt briefly for about five minutes as he was certain he could hear the rumbling of metal treads over concrete. Either he had a sixth sense or he was hearing things, because I personally heard nothing at all beyond the booming artillery. We both had a collective heart attack when we thought we saw a Scavenger patrol in the distance, but when Wraith peered through his scope what we’d originally thought had been a row of murderers turned out to be some small stacks of rubble that were slightly higher than the rest.
When I looked back the way we’d come, I could no longer see the grasslands of Equestria behind us. All I could see were more buildings and more smog. I could now see how it was so easy to get lost and disoriented in this place; everything looked exactly the same. Wraith informed me that we should hunker down and sit the night out, as the Scavengers in this region tended to be more active during the moonlit hours. The problem, however, was not remaining undetected, but finding a place in which one could remain undetected in the first place. Shelter was actually surprisingly hard to come by. Almost everything was completely shot to pieces and most buildings were so heavily damaged or filled with rubble that they offered no protection from the elements (nor enemy fire) at all.
Purely by chance, I happened to round a mound of rubble to come face to face with a tripod mounted heavy machinegun. I remained stock still as I stared down the sooty, rifled barrel, alerting Wraith to my location by coughing slightly. He sighed and grabbed hold of my collar, rather forcefully pulling me behind the mound of rubble and into the corner of a shot out building, in which the machinegun had been set up. He gestured silently to the soldier slumped over the weapon, his hoof still resting on the trigger, and sighed. I felt vaguely like he was patronising me, but shrugged it off. We were both under stress and sparking a confrontation with him would have achieved nothing.
The machinegun nest was actually in a pretty advantageous location. It was right on the corner of a four way crossroad, with a large arc of fire and protected by a short wall of rubble. If I squinted, I could see a particularly high density of bodies trapped within the arc of the weapon. The nest itself was relatively spacious. The machinegun took up quite a lot of space on its own, but there was still space for the two roll mats on the floor, weighed down on each corner by a large chunk of stone, and for a small cache of ammunition boxes in one corner. There was only one soldier in the nest, but I was assured that LRSA machinegun teams frequently worked in threes, with one gunner, one loader, and one spotter that also acted as a defender to prevent the weapon from being flanked.
Wraith was keen to search the body of the gunner. He went through the same process as before. When he went to remove the soldier’s helmet, it came away sticky. Covering almost the soldier’s entire face was a thick layer of gluey blood. It was hard to see where the actual wound was, because everything looked so savagely mangled, but it looked as though whatever had hit him had been big, and had hit him hard. Wraith found another rifle and more ammunition. He passed me the rounds and confiscated my rifle, saying he would replace anything that needed replacing where he could. Instead of assault webbing, the soldier had two belts of ammunition strapped around his chest. They were massive bullets, half with red tips and the other half with black tips. Wraith ignored them, and after searching the ammunition boxes, declared that there was no more ammunition worth salvaging.
I was rather grateful when Wraith called first sentry, and so with weariness weighing down on me, I flung myself onto one of the roll mats and curled up from the cold. I then rolled onto the other roll mat as I felt something warm and moist beneath me. I was lulled to sleep by the clinking and clanking of weapons being disassembled, and my own tired, heavy breathing. It was cold, bitterly cold, but thankfully it was dry and there wasn’t any rain on the horizon as far as I could see. Eventually I drifted off to sleep, but it was a restless sleep, and I woke up more tired than when I’d gone to sleep in the first place.
When I did wake up, there was almost no visible difference in the surroundings. The smog was still there and still thicker than cement. Bodies still lay in their hundreds. I had silently been hoping that this wasn’t happening, but it was. Wraith was sitting next to the machinegun, staring out across the street. He hadn’t slept, nor had he even woken me up. I had no idea what the time of day was, but it felt like early morning. Whatever had distracted his attention was probably something worth looking at. I pulled myself back up to my hooves, everything aching and a chill in my bones. I shook my head, replaced my hat on my head, and went to sit next to Wraith. He didn’t look at me. He sat still.
I tapped him on the shoulder, “What’re you looking at?”
I handed Wraith’s rifle back to him. He slung it over his back and coughed, “It’s called ‘ruining’. The Scavengers came up with it. You take a prisoner, suspend him from a lamppost or something high up, and then stab him in the rear hooves so that he bleeds onto the floor. It’s slow, it’s painful, and it’s ethically fucked up.” Wraith spat on the ground in disgust. He grabbed hold of the sling of the assault rifle we’d collected last night and threw it to me. I clutched it in my magic and slung it over my neck, so that it once again hung before me. Wraith had fixed it up nice. Previously it had been completely concealed behind a mask of dirt and mud, but Wraith had cleaned it up and now I could see the exposed black metal and polymer in all its glory. Wraith also pointed out that he’d replaced the bolt and recoil assembly, as well as swapped out the flash eliminator. He said that the original one had been an older variant that wasn’t quite as effective.
Without any further word nor warning, Wraith kicked himself into gear and stepped off into the street. I followed quickly behind, having to readjust my new rifle to stop it knocking against one of my legs. I caught up with him and spoke in a hushed voice, “Shouldn’t we be taking it a little more carefully? Walking straight down the middle of the street doesn’t sound like the best way to avoid being caught.”
As we walked, we both scanned the buildings and streets ahead for threats. We must have walked for hours, but every hour seemed to drag on like a day. We had a very close encounter with a patrol at one point. Neither of us could discern what faction the patrol belonged to, but Wraith spotted them ahead at a crossroad and spied on them for a while through his scope. We spent a few minutes watching them. I spent the whole time tense. If we could see them then surely they could see us? There were about ten of them in total, all brandishing firearms of some variety and all waiting, seemingly in ambush, for somepony to pass by. We made the unanimous conclusion that continuing on our current heading would be a suicidal affair, so we backtracked a bit and turned off into a side road, hoping to dodge around them.
The side road was substantially thinner than the main street. It consisted only of a few lanes, and was not as well developed, nor as heavily strewn with corpses. Actually, I noticed a gradually increasing number of Scavenger bodies building up in place of LRSA. Wraith assured me that that meant we were heading towards LRSA lines. Still, just because the LRSA weren’t as murderous as the Scavengers, in this scenario coming across them would likely prove fatal. The LRSA had been so used to seeing nothing but Scavengers and their own troops that anypony that wasn’t wearing their uniform was considered a threat. If the LRSA found us wandering the streets, they’d almost surely put us down, or at least fire upon us.
We peered down alleyways and rubble strewn streets, trying to find a way to get back on our previous facing. Eventual Wraith had to admit that we were lost, and I had to admit that I was completely disoriented. I didn’t know from which direction I’d come, nor which direction I was supposed to be heading. To make matters worse, the sun was beginning to go down again, and I could hear the sounds of gunfire a few streets down. We needed to find someplace to bed down for the night, but no open opportunities presented themselves. We’d have to do some serious searching.
It was during such a search, when Wraith was busy scoping out an alleyway, that I stumbled upon our solution. Or, to be more precise, our solution stumbled across me. I was checking out an old mortar emplacement, weighing up the pros and cons of its sheltering prospects. Wraith was not far off; within shouting distance. The emplacement was of decent size, with a few roll mats still out that the crew had forgotten to reclaim. The sandbag wall made a good wind break and, despite the absence of the main weapon itself, looked like a good position from which to stage a defence should we come under attack. There was a box of mortar shells still in the emplacement, that we could probably make into booby traps should the need arise.
I straightened up, having been bending down to inspect the roll mats, looking for punctures or, indeed, traps set by the previous occupants. When my head reappeared over the sandbags, I was immediately called to attention by a voice off in another direction, “Halt! State your business.” I remained silent, instead searching for the source of the voice. After some seriously hard core looking, I spotted the silhouette of somepony atop a pile of rubble, aiming a scoped rifle towards me. They were completely alone, as far as I could tell, which I saw as odd. Both factions here tended to move in large groups. Taking a risk, I decided to offer a reply.
I felt like that was a pretty ballsy move to make. If this pony did turn out to be LRSA or Scavenger then I’d likely lose my brains. The pony moved slowly towards me, never once taking their rifle off me. As they approached the edge of the emplacement, they slung the weapon over their back and vaulted over the sandbag wall to join me, coming a little closer than I would have liked. There was a sharp striking noise and suddenly the emplacement was illuminated by the glow of a match that the pony held between us.
It was a stallion, that became immediately evident, but such an out of place stallion I had never seen. In this world of black, grey, and khaki, to see a pony that was almost completely pink was definitely odd. His fur was a bright pink, his mane was pink, heck, even his eyes were a pale shade of pink. He wore what looked to be the uniform of the LRSA, but it certainly was not regulation equipment. It had been converted, by some miracle of needlework that surpassed my own ability, into a rather fashionable black waistcoat, with a large, black, leather belt with a shiny silver buckle. The stallion had across his back his rifle, which looked vaguely similar to Wraith’s and also sported a telescopic scope. The stallion definitely had a ruggedness about him, but it was a sort of refined ruggedness that seemed to contrast with Wraith’s rough-around-the-edges survivalist kind of outdoorsy ruggedness.
He seemed to take a similar interest in me, his eyes darting over every aspect of my form whilst I waited awkwardly for the match to burn down to his fur. He dropped it with a yelp as the small flame singed him slightly, casting us both back into darkness. There was a quiet snap and a curse, before he finally managed to light another match. When he did, he wasted no time in probing deeper into my affairs, “You’re not with the Scavengers?”
My new friend sniffed slightly, “If you can prove it then I might consider letting the two of you stay with me for a while. I am the proud owner of one of the only remaining safe spots in the Ruins, and it just so happens that I always keep rooms free for just such occasions as this. After all, you never know when you’re going to meet some new friends.” Almost all of that he managed to say in the space of a few seconds. He was a rather impressive talker, if that was an attribute that could be held to one’s credit. After what he’d actually said managed to sink through, I nodded by way of reply and scampered out of the mortar pit to drag Wraith back.
I found him behind a wall of sandbags a little way off down the street. He was busy struggling with the lock on an ammunition box, trying to force his knife blade into the mechanism and break the pins. I grabbed him by the back of his collar using my magic and essentially dragged him along the floor back to the mortar pit. I could just have talked to him and asked for him to follow me back, but that would have involved conversation and I was beginning to just get desperate for shelter before a patrol stumbled across us. We didn’t have much time for chat.
I let go of Wraith and he shot me a rather disgruntled look before turning to the figure I’d spoken to earlier. Neither spoke for a while, as if they were sizing each other up for some fight. Eventually I was forced to break the silence before it dragged on too long, “Wraith, here’s somepony who’s offering us shelter. Make a good impression.”
The stallion made a quick about turn and set off over the rubble, moving quickly and nimbly, with practised grace. Or at least, it looked practiced. Nopony moved that effortlessly through rubble without some serious practise. Wraith followed close behind him, his natural ruggedness giving him an advantage over the rough terrain. I brought up the rear, my movement rather critically impaired by the debris. I stumbled several times and the two stallions had to wait for me briefly so I could catch up.
Fortunately, we quickly branched off into one of the many tall buildings, now entering a series of winding corridors. The place looked like an old office block to me. We moved carefully down a corridor with ceiling panels missing and strip lights hanging suspended from frayed cables. Most of the doors were either smashed in or missing entirely, and there was the occasional body of a sniper that had been caught off guard. The corridor ended in a caved in section of ceiling, and so we had to detour through a series of interconnected work spaces. There were desks lined up in what had probably once been neat rows, with stacks of loose paper scattered all over the floor. Many of the items of furniture had been overturned and were full of bullet holes, serving as a grim reminder of how dangerous this place was.
I stopped to pick up a piece of paper from one of the desks. I felt a desire to know what this place was all about before it was blown apart by high explosives and tracers. I read it as I walked, keeping one eye on the ponies in front of me and one on the sheet. It was nothing particularly interesting. Apparently the building had been the headquarters of a shipping company, and what I was reading was their monthly expenditure budget. I discarded the page once I lost interest, which was admittedly very quickly.
After a quick trip through a canteen, we stopped before a supply closet. The closet itself was nothing special from the outside, just a plain wooden door built into the wall. The door was the exact same colour as the surrounding furniture (white) and there was simply a small hole where the door handle had once been. Unless one was specifically looking for it, they would probably have missed it. In the heat of combat, they’d definitely have missed it. I suppose that was what our new landlord had been going for.
To demonstrate that he was still full of surprises, he produced from the pocket of his waistcoat a polished silver door handle that fitted nicely into the hole in the door. With a twist and a click, the door swung open. I think it’s fair to say that I was a little underwhelmed by what I saw. It was just an ordinary supply closet with nothing really special about it. There was a series of shelves on the back wall, on which were bottles of bleach and several other dangerous looking chemicals, and a towel hung suspended on one side next to a radiator, which presumably didn’t work anymore.
“Is this it?” Wraith said, not me.
I playfully (and unintentionally) pushed past Wraith and stepped into the corridor. It was pitch black inside, and making out anything in the distance was a chore at best. I started walking, my hooves seeming worryingly loud on the concrete like flooring. Wraith closed the door to the closet and followed quickly behind me, speaking in a hushed voice close to me ear, “He talks too much.”
Eventually, after what seemed like hours of walking in a straight line, I stumbled into the back of our guide and brought myself to a stop. I still couldn’t see a thing, but I could hear a door being opened directly in front of me and could only wish that we weren’t entering another long corridor. There was a snap like a switch being thrown and suddenly I was aware of a loud hum. In just a few more seconds the hallway was filled with flickering white light as a row of strip lights came on along the corridor. They blinded me at first, my eyes having become unaccustomed to bright light, but eventually I adapted and regained use of my vision. I could make out the stallion standing in the doorway, ushering us in quietly before flicking a switch just outside the door and once again killing the lights, “Sorry for the darkness. You understand that I can’t leave lights on outside or I run the risk of being caught. Now that we’re in here, however, it should be safe to turn on a few lamps. Don’t move in case you knock into something. There are quite a lot of things of value in this room and I don’t want any of them to get damaged. Let’s see, where’s the switch? Ah, got it!”
In an instant we were surrounded on all sides by strange and fantastic creations bathed in the golden light of many old desk lamps scattered about the room. I rubbed my hooves gently over the soft, deep red carpet, enjoying the sensation of something benign against my hooves as opposed to the hostile concrete and packed dirt I was used to. The walls were covered in a dark green fabric, with a sort of golden trim around the edges. It was a little frayed in some areas, but was still a damn sight more impressive than anything I’d seen in a while. The NSA could do with taking a leaf out of this guy’s book. The room looked like what you would expect to see in a Cluedo mansion.
But all of the lavish decoration (that must have taken a lot of time to put in place) had nothing on what lined the walls on either side of the door. In the room there were about six pedestals that stood maybe a foot or two off the ground, and upon each were perhaps the most intricate and detailed sculptures of ponies I’d ever seen. I walked up to the closest one and looked carefully at it. It was uncanny the realism that came through. It was as though the mare I was looking at was alive, with a coat of finely trimmed sky blue fur, and a mane that flowed down her neck in such a way that I could have sworn it was real pony hair. It probably was, actually. The mare I was admiring was stood with one hoof raised as if preparing to enter a gallop, her face pulling off a look of steely determination. Oddly enough, she was wearing a tight fitting blazer and tie, a plain white shirt underneath, buttoned all the way up. The whole thing was so peculiar, and I noticed as I looked around that the other pedestals also sported their own mannequin, all equally detailed, and all sporting equally fancy and sophisticated garments. They all stood motionless in various poses, with a mix of expressions and styles. There were a few stallions, some mares, and one colt that looked to be in his late teens.
Our host beamed at me, clearly delighted by my interest in his collection, “You like them? I make them all myself. I’m rather skilled with a needle, see, and I’m fascinated by the past. All the garments you see here are modelled off old drawings I found during my travels. They’re all pre-revolutionary clothes, the sorts of things our grand-fathers would have worn at parties. This particular piece here is what was known as ‘formal dress’, consisting of a blazer, waistcoat and tie. It was a garment worn on special occasions, typically during social gatherings. Everything about the suit is important, including the front button arrangement, the lapel style, the pocket placement and type, and so on.”
During our conversation, Wraith had gone a-wandering and was investigating some of the other rooms. He called to us from the next room, and we both motioned to join him to see what exactly had caught his interest. He was standing before a table with several names carved into it. They were structured in a way that seemed to follow a particular pattern, and when Wraith asked what it was his reply was simply, “My family tree. Or what I know of it at least. As with almost everything you’ll see here, I made it myself. Took a lot of work to trace my lineage back that far, I might add. This is me here,” he pressed his hoof against the name at the bottom of one of the branches. “Perky Pie. And look, if you follow the tree you can trace it all the way back to my grandmother. Thing is, I haven’t quite managed to complete the tree. I know my mother had three siblings, and I know that all of them had foals too, but there’s no record of their names as far as I can tell. Somewhere out there are my three lost cousins, and someday I’ll find them and we’ll all live as one big family.” Perky seemed to stare wistfully off into the distance as he said that, as if he had suddenly lost contact with reality. I had to dig him gently in the shoulder to bring him back and when I did he seemed somewhat disoriented and confused.
After explaining to him that we were not invaders and that he’d let us in voluntarily, he resumed his default excitable attitude. With a spring in his step he led us off through a series of smaller rooms explaining that he would show us where we’d be staying. At one point, Wraith stopped before a locked door (so far the only door that actually existed besides the one to the main corridor). He tapped it with his hoof and listened, “What’s behind here exactly?”
Perky entered the final room at the end of the series and made a rather extravagant bowing gesture, “Your quarters, my lady.”
Perky vanished back the way we’d come and I stepped in to take in what I hoped would become my new surroundings. I rather liked the idea of staying here in security, away from the trouble of the world and safe. The bedroom was relatively large, and was just as finely decorated as the rest of the shelter. There were two beds, both readily made, and a large cupboard that took up an entire wall. There was a screen behind which one could change in peace, and two bedside tables for the storage of much smaller items. Excited, I slung my assault rifle over one of the bedposts and dived onto the bed, the sensation of lying on a proper mattress sending waves of euphoria through my tired and battered body. Wraith came to stand next to me, looking down at me from his vantage point at the top of his neck. I gazed tenderly back at him. Young, immature Bucky would have grabbed at him and made his mane a little messier than usual, but grown up, sensible Bucky realised that that wasn’t a good idea. I could show my affection in a much kinder way. I smiled up at him and kissed him ever so gently, the motion not being much more than a gentle brush of lips on lips, but it was enough to make Wraith blush hotly.
I sighed and stretched, making myself as comfortable as possible. I wondered if this place had a shower, and if so if it was available for rent. I really needed a wash. I probably stank something terrible. Wraith had sat down on his own bed, looking around with his eyes narrowed. I decided to be the first to comment, “I like him. He’s really friendly and very generous to let us stay here.”
I snorted. Typical Wraith, never trusting anypony that was in any way suspicious. Sure, Perky was a little quirky, but that didn’t mean he was hiding something. Admittedly, I was a little curious to find out how he’d managed to renovate this place so well in the middle of a war zone. Maybe the materials he needed were just close at hand? He was clearly a skilled craftspony, so it wouldn’t surprise me to find out that he’d decorated the place himself. Well, whatever Wraith thought, I was going to enjoy myself here. We couldn’t stay forever, we still had to get out of the Ruins and reach that rendezvous point, but until we left I was going to have a good time. Right now, I was going to rest up for a while, and then I was going to have drinks and discuss stitching techniques and generally make something of the night. I yawned and rolled over, allowing myself to drift off into a light snooze.
Chapter 13
Wraith and I were forced from our sanctuary rather abruptly the following morning. I’d finished my sentry shift at some point after one in the morning and Wraith had taken my place. Less than an hour later he grabbed me by the collar and was marching me out into the street, with words to the effect of, “We have to keep moving. It’s not safe here anymore.” When I challenged Wraith, he pointed at one of the buildings opposite our shelter. I scanned its face briefly. Approximately five stories up I could make out the silhouette of somepony sitting in the window, gazing down at us with a rifle clutched in one hoof. Immediately I felt the bottom of my stomach drop. I tried not to let my imagination wander. It was probably nothing to worry about, or they’d have attacked us by now. Still, what if it was…
But it wasn’t. It couldn’t be.
Wraith and I kept walking.
We eventually stumbled upon a four way intersection, and quickly adopted a stance of caution. It was apparent to me by this point that intersections were essentially kill zones. A single machine gun was capable of covering the entire area and completely denying infantry movement, or a single well placed sniper could halt the advance of even an armoured column. Plus, there was a lot of rubble to conceal an ambush behind and anypony could be watching from the windows above. Wraith and I kept as low as possible, moving painfully slowly and only ever into an area of cover.
My worst fears were confirmed when we neared the middle of the intersection. This place had once been the site of at least one ambush, with corpses from both sides slumped over each other and suffering an extraordinary variety of injures, from gunshot wounds to stab wounds to blunt trauma to severe burning. However, ever the opportunists, we silently went about scavenging for supplies. Wraith pointed out that we’d need to find a Scavenger’s uniform that was still mostly intact, and so I added that to my battlefield shopping list. I drew the pistol of one of the Scavengers and slid out the magazine, pleased to see more hollow point ammunition. I slid the full magazine into my pistol in place of the partially emptied one that had been seated inside for a while, and discarded the emptied firearm. I also looted a few more assault rifle magazines off the LRSA, and nicked a small bottle of vodka from a Scavenger. In truth, I’d thought it was water at first, but as soon as I removed the cap it was quite apparent that it wasn’t. The strong scent was reminiscent of falling headfirst down an escalator.
When I reunited with Wraith, I found that he had been unsuccessful in finding me a uniform worth wearing. All of them were damaged in some way that made them unusable, like they were riddled with gunshots or featured a prominent bayonet slash or something similar. Ideally we wanted a Scavenger who’d been killed by a headshot, or by some form of blunt object. What Wraith did recover for me, however, was a Scavenger’s garrison cap. It was at least part of the uniform, and whilst not actually essential, would hopefully trick the odd patrol if they spotted me from a distance. When Wraith tried to force it onto my head, I swatted at him, annoyed. I had become very attached to my own hat and I didn’t really want to trade it out for a dirty, tattered Scavenger garment, but eventually I conceded. With spite, I slid my hat into my saddlebags and positioned the cap on my head, slightly to the side of my horn and on a jaunty angle. Already I felt tainted by what it represented. I was worried that wearing it for too long would corrupt my soul with its dark influence. I wanted to remove it and fling it into the dust, but I didn’t because it would have annoyed Wraith and frankly I didn’t want to argue with him by that point. I just wanted this whole ordeal to be over as soon as possible, and sparking as few conflicts as possible seemed the best way of doing so.
We continued in the direction of Scavenger lines, trudging slowly through the streets and stopping to inspect ever dead Scavenger we came across in the vain hope that their uniform was wearable. After several hours of searching and yielding no results, we pulled up next to the shattered corpse of a Russian tank, a large hole punched into the side of the turret and with the remains of the commander’s lower half still visible inside. The rest of the tank’s interior looked to have received a rapid redecorating at the adept hands of a rocket propelled grenade. Around the tank were numerous bodies in LRSA black, either sprawled on their backs or sides or lying doubled over, still clutching at their weapons or at gaps in their body where gaps should not be. I also spotted another LRSA officer, only this one was hanging from a lamppost and had a makeshift wooden sign hanging around his neck.
‘Get out of our country!’
On closer observation, I noticed several other LRSA soldiers dangling from lampposts, ranging from section commanders to average infantrymen. It was quite apparent by now that this was Scavenger territory, and I expected it to not be long before we ran into our first patrol. Which made finding that uniform more important than ever. Wraith and I scoured the streets, but most of the bodies were LRSA and of little use to us. We did find the odd dead Scavenger, but they were mostly shot full of holes (and one unfortunate individual looked to have been crushed underneath the rolling treads of a tank).
As we moved deeper into unexplored territory, the signs of Scavenger influence only became more and more apparent. It got to the point where it was almost impossible to see a lamppost without an LRSA soldier suspended from it, and abandoned weapon posts became more frequent. Most of them still had weapons in them, likely so that the Scavengers could quickly re-crew them in the event of an attack. LRSA bodies became widespread, often pushed to the sides of the road or the pavements, piled up sometimes two or three high, turning the roads into effective chokepoints. I saw another LRSA tank which looked to have been heavily beaten about, and only a few yards upstream I found the discarded rocket launcher which had silenced it.
Wraith and I eventually stumbled upon something which proved to hold great promise. Behind a combination of rubble, sandbags and twisted metal, we found what looked to be a sniper’s nest. Wraith vaulted the short wall and I quickly followed suit, noticing immediately that the nest was larger than it appeared. It extended back into the nearest building, and the space itself was deeper than it had looked from outside. There was, slumped against a wall, the body of a Scavenger. I knew from experience that the only sort of weapon that shredded somepony up like that was a grenade or similar explosive. The only thing worth taking off him would have been his rifle, but it was a slow, cumbersome old bolt action that nevertheless proved a relief to Wraith, who quickly emptied it of its ammunition.
Whilst Wraith dug around looking for hidden weapons or ammunition, I ventured deeper into the nest. I found myself stood in a room which had largely collapsed, but would still have been roomy enough to house a platoon’s worth of soldiers. The only soldiers in there, however, were two Scavengers, both dead. The one closest to me was slumped over a stack of ammunition boxes, a sub machinegun dangling around his hoof from its sling. Next to him, propped up on a bipod, was a huge rifle the likes of which I’d never seen. It was bulky and certainly looked extremely heavy, with a bolt the size of my horn and a barrel the length of my foreleg. I couldn’t fathom what such a monstrous rifle could be used for, but whatever it was I didn’t want to find myself on the receiving end, that much I knew. The other Scavenger, sprawled face first into the dirt and surrounded by rubble, didn’t seem to be holding any weaponry, but closer inspection revealed the bulk of a shotgun poking out from beneath her. I rolled her over onto her back, inspiring a small column of dust to rise into the air. The Scavenger must have had an unpleasant end, with the barrel of her shotgun leaving a clear impression in her throat. When I tried lifting her slightly, her head flopped over into a position that should have been impossible for a head to be in.
What demanded my interest, however, was the integrity of her uniform. She had on her head the usual Scavenger helmet, but a sizeable dent in the side prevented me from removing it. Despite this, the rest of her garb was in impressive condition. The uniform itself was only covered in a layer of dust and dirt, and featured no prominent tears or holes that would have implied a gunshot wound or similar combat inflicted ailment. I looked up to the ceiling and found myself staring up into the next floor. I came to believe that, somehow, the ceiling had collapsed and caved the side of the mare’s skull in, after which she’d fallen on her shotgun and broken her neck. That was my working theory, anyway. In reality it didn’t really matter, because here I was presented with the gold dust that I’d been looking for. If it weren’t for one thing.
Her brassard.
On her foreleg was the usual Scavenger brassard, but the patches sewn onto it made me wrinkle my nose. There was the triple chevron synonymous of a Sergeant, and the small stylised knife that came only with Sadists. At that moment I didn’t care if it was the only intact uniform in the Ruins, I didn’t want to be labelled as a Sadist. In an attempt to remedy this, I tried removing the brassard from the sniper slumped next to the doomsday rifle, which bore the crosshairs of a Hunter. This plan seemed fool proof to me, until I considered the criteria for being a Hunter. It required accuracy at range and an actual hunting ability, two things that I did not possess. I could probably hold my own at distance, but my current weapon configuration didn’t exactly lend itself to long range combat, and I found that telescopic lenses made me dizzy. Additionally, there were also sewn in rankings on the collar and left foreleg of each Scavenger uniform, which I couldn’t have removed and replaced with my current array of tools. Plus, I picked up a sense of urgency when I heard a shout in the street ahead. Against my better judgement, I stuffed my jumper into my saddlebags and pulled on the uniform, feeling quickly contaminated by the knowledge of what it was I was representing. I hoisted the body of the mare I’d stripped onto my back and threw her into a corner behind a load of rubble, in the hope that any Scavengers who ventured in wouldn’t find her and see through my disguise.
“You there, where’d you come from?”
I prayed to every god that I knew existed (which wasn’t many) that they bought the story. The Raider in command of the section hopped down into the pit with me. She was a unicorn, like me, with what must have at some point been a brilliant golden coat, but now was more of a dirty yellow. She looked me over, “Nice Russian rifle. Where’d you get that?”
The Raider pulled herself out of the pit and held down a hoof to help me hoist myself up. The wall was just high enough that I was able to see over it, but my short stature made climbing out on my own rather difficult. Now back on street level, I could see the full extent of the Scavenger section upon us. The Raider was remarkably young for an officer, maybe only a year or two older than me, and the rest of her section looked to be of a similar bracket. The oldest one there was probably only twenty three. There were seven of them in total, the Raider included. There was the stallion with the LSW (who looked to be the eldest, and bore the rank of First Class), and a single Hunter armed with a modern, polymer sniper rifle. One was a Sadist, crossed with an impressive variety of sharp implements, and the others were all Scavengers. I could see the section’s Sergeant at the back, clutching an assault rifle in his hooves and with an expression of abstract horror painting his features. He looked gaunt and probably hadn’t slept well in weeks. I can imagine that I didn’t look too much better.
My new commanding officer called the patrol in together and made the announcement that Wraith and I would be joining the section for the remainder of the patrol. She split the section in half, with the existing Sergeant, the LSW gunner, the Hunter and one of the basic Scavengers into one half, and with her, me, Wraith, the Sadist and the other Scavenger in the other. The officer gave the two halves designations of Charlie fireteam (which was her section) and Delta fireteam (under the jurisdiction of the existing Sergeant). The officer also stripped the existing Sergeant of his post as section 2IC and passed it on to me. I’d expected the Sergeant to be annoyed or even openly angry at the proposition of essentially being demoted, but he actually looked somewhat relieved to have his responsibilities cut down. I, on the other hoof, was a little dismayed at being delegated the job of section 2IC. I suppose I’d just have to keep up the façade and hope not to encounter the LRSA on this patrol. I wasn’t sure if I could bring myself to fight for the Scavengers.
“So how much longer are we on patrol?”
I continued to walk, following just behind the Raider. My hope was that if we were spotted by an LRSA sniper they would be blinded by the opportunity to take down a more high value target than me, giving me plenty of time to run to cover. We passed the shot up tank that Wraith and I had encountered a while back, and carried on, paying it no heed. It was only a matter of a few minutes after that we found ourselves at the junction to the main road, or ‘Cadence Street’ as I suppose it was being called. I was a little annoyed when it occurred to me that I’d just been to this junction a few hours ago, and all I’d done since then was retrace my steps back.
“So you’re a Sadist too, huh?” The section’s existing Sadist pulled herself into step next to me. She was younger than me (I’d say seventeen) and her body was criss-crossed in every possible place with knives and hooks and axes and a variety of other bladed tools and weapons. She looked like a walking butcher’s shop.
As we continued on our course, we were abruptly deafened by the roar and crash of an artillery shell striking home in a nearby street. We waited for a moment, each one of us listening to the crumbling of rubble falling into the road. Stitcher turned to look back at us, “Hope nopony was under that.”
I quickly lengthened my stride, determined to get away from the religious fanatic. I caught up with the Raider, who immediately turned to me and sighed, “Don’t tell me you believe in all that shit?”
We passed by another side street, the opening to which was almost completely barred by rubble, save for a small path that looked artificially cleared. It wouldn’t have surprised me if a machinegun nest was set up behind it. The streets were eerily silent. There was a series of crackling snaps as distant gunfire announced the clashing of forces, and the regular thump of the long range guns resounded through the earth, but on Cadence Street nothing moved aside from a lone Scavenger patrol. I glanced over at the other fireteam, keeping low and moving along in the cover of the jersey barriers. I stumbled and fell face first into the ground, a small plume of dust collecting around me. My new Raider halted and looked back at me, “Watch yourself there.”
To say that nothing happened for a while would be an understatement. The patrol that Wraith and I had fallen into a while back was nowhere to be seen, and there was no activity from either side. Cuthbert Street turned out to be a little further on than I’d thought, a total of maybe sixteen or seventeen side streets later? When we did make the turn off, a sense of… I dare say relief washed over me. I knew that I was just striding confidently back into Scavenger territory, but quite frankly even a night with the Scavengers sounded nice to me at that point. I was abysmally tired and my legs were aching. It was as if my rest at Perky’s hadn’t done me much good at all. I went to pull my hat down over my eyes a little, shielding them somewhat from the glare, but then remembered that I was wearing a garrison cap and not my usual head garment. With a yawn I tripped slightly over my own hooves but managed to keep myself upright. I was going to look forward to a decent bed tonight.
We walked down Cuthbert Street for almost a full quarter of an hour, before things suddenly went tits up. I was once again only half minding what was going on, but I was forced back into reality very suddenly when I heard the unmistakable crack of a rifle. There was a thud as something was hit and the whole patrol scrambled, diving for cover. I found myself behind a pile of old sandbags, Stitcher to one side of me and the Sadist to the other. Wraith and the other Scavenger in our fireteam were slightly further behind, lying flat behind a short wall. Stitcher peered over our cover. When she ducked back down I asked, “Who’s hit?”
Everypony in the patrol went to scanning the building faces for movement, or for the distinguishing marks of a sniper’s nest. It was maybe five minutes before the Sadist next to me quickly deafened me by unleashing a vicious burst from her sub machinegun. I had to shake my head to clear the ringing in my ears, and I heard her calling, “I saw him! He got away though. I tried to nail him but he was gone before I could get properly zeroed.”
Stitcher began a steady trot, keeping at a brisk pace that I was forced to follow. Behind me the Sadist, Wraith and the remaining Scavenger followed suit, weapons clattering against bodies and hooves clopping against concrete. The other fireteam (now down one soldier and with one burdened with the corpse) were moving at a slightly slower pace. Each and every one of us was now on edge and scanning for movement. At the first sign of trouble I was diving for the nearest solid barricade. The downside of wearing a Scavenger uniform was that now I was more vulnerable to the LRSA. And the sniper hadn’t nailed the Raider, like I’d have expected, but he nailed the Sergeant. Was I next?
Maybe about another fifteen minutes later I was actually delighted to see one of the most heavily fortified street sections I’d ever seen. On both sides of the street were dug in machineguns, each of which sported a three pony crew. There were snipers bristling the windows of the buildings either side of the street and there was even a full anti-tank gun a little further back. Stitcher made her way towards the barricade and was called to halt by one of the machinegun crews, specifically by the stallion clutching a shotgun in his hooves that looked to be the gun’s commander. Stitcher did as commanded, and was quickly asked a series of code questions, to which she replied the answers. She was welcomed by the commander, who beckoned her over to the nest, helping her down like a true gentlecolt. He turned his attention to the remainder of our patrol, and called over, “Okay, come in one at a time. Anypony that attempts to run through or turns to run away will be put down without question.”
With what I hoped wasn’t an audible gulp I made my way slowly towards the nest, aware constantly of the many sights now trained onto me. The commander himself had his shotgun raised and I found myself staring down the barrel of a smooth-bore twelve gauge before Stitcher finally said, “Two.” The commander lowered his firearm and helped me down into the pit, which reminded me strongly of the sniper’s nest I’d picked up my uniform in. It too extended into the side building slightly, and I discovered that there were actually three more ponies further back, totalling six in the nest. They sat around in the back, one cleaning his rifle, one sleeping, the other juggling. Yes, she was juggling, fancy that. Juggling grenades.
Behind me I heard, “Three,” and the Sadist hopped down into the nest and joined me. Wraith was next in on the count of four. He and I tucked ourselves away in one corner, furthest away from the Scavengers already inhabiting the hollow. From here, we were able to talk without being heard, so long as we talked quietly. I opened up conversation with, “So now what?”
Wraith’s only response was a slight sneer. We spent a good while after in silence, waiting patiently as every member of the patrol was counted in, ending with the Scavenger that carried the body of the Sergeant. I heard Stitcher share words with the commander of the gun nest before joining the rest of her patrol in the hollow, sitting down next to me and playing with her garrison cap. I yawned wide, exhaustion quickly catching up on me. The Raider chuckled, “Tired?”
Ten minutes passed, thankfully without an attack, and we were allowed to enter the area properly. The road stretched off slightly further down before opening into a large plaza or square. Most of the rubble there had been cleared and in place a series of large tents had been erected. There were also a few stout concrete buildings that the Scavengers had obviously built since their arrival. Immediately I was on edge. I’d never seen so many Scavengers in one place. There were Scavengers sitting on top of ammunition crates talking, walking to and from buildings, performing weapon maintenance, eating in an open sided mess tent, and there were even two ponies playing tennis. They all looked exhausted, dirty, and a vague air of agitation and unrest seemed to hang over the whole place. I was certain they’d take any opportunity to rip me apart if they knew who I really was.
Stitcher’s section dispersed as soon as she’d debriefed them and filtered off into the sea of khaki before me. I must say, if the LRSA had managed to land an artillery strike in that place, it would have caused casualties on a catastrophic scale. I caught a face full of cigarette smoke from a passing mare and glared at her. Stitcher was quick to take me and Wraith by the nose and half drag us to the garrison, where she directed us to our respective cabins. Wraith quickly stepped off and into the Corporal’s barracks, but Stitcher directed me towards a different building, and in something I’d be inclined to describe as a coo simply said, “Our barracks is over here.”
Upon reaching the door to the barracks Stitcher pushed it open and allowed herself to enter. I followed in soon behind, taking in the view. The main room was big, with two staircases on either end leading off into unseen second stories. There was a door in the back wall, and another in the right wall behind a counter. The room was occupied by a variety of different Scavengers, ranging in rank from Sergeant all the way up to Group Leader. There was a collection of tables scattered at odd intervals throughout the room and at each was a group of Scavengers, either playing games, drinking, talking, or pretending that nopony else on the table was there. Stitcher wheeled me towards the counter and sat me down before it, planting herself beside me and attracting the attention of the stallion behind it.
The stallion in question was quick to pay heed to us, holding only the rank of Corporal, and as he leant on the counter I could smell mint on his breath, which was a pleasant change from fag smoke. He glanced between the two of us before turning his attention towards Stitcher, and asking in something vaguely reminiscent of a polite tone, “What can I get you?”
Stitcher now satisfied with her lot the stallion turned his attention to me, and with an inquisitive rise of the eyebrow asked, “And you? I’ve not seen you before, did you just get promoted?”
The stallion leant even further towards me and for some reason I felt like I was being put under pressure. In mild panic I vaguely gestured in Stitcher’s direction and just said, “Whatever she’s having.”
I fell back into my seat and sniffed. Stitcher chuckled, downing her drink and saying in a hoarse voice, “Little harsh, huh?”
I sat with Stitcher for maybe about half an hour, in which time I had a few more drinks (which she paid for, get in!) before things in the barracks started getting a little rowdy. A lot of alcohol had been flowing throughout the day and some of the officers were starting to get somewhat loud, with maybe one or two instances of Raiders dancing on their tables. A small group of ponies armed with musical instruments started to pump heavy metal music into the room and all semblances of normality basically crumbled after that. Commanders and Troop Leaders alike were making fools of themselves in front of each other and there was a sudden sharp spike in interest in the bar. I didn’t much like being surrounded by drunken, dirty Scavenger officers, and Stitcher seemed to pick up on this as she quickly pulled me away from the bar and wheeled me towards a flight of stairs. As the bar disappeared behind a wall of ponies I whined as my head swam a little.
I stumbled up the stairs and down a seemingly endless corridor before Stitcher came to a halt and I ploughed right into the back of her, “Whoa! Steady on there. There’ll be plenty of time for that later.”
You can be sure I wasted no time waiting for invitations. Before Stitcher could protest I was in the room and on the sofa, burying my face into the soft surface so deeply that I was in danger of asphyxiating. Stitcher made no comments, entering casually after me and locking the door again behind her. As I remained incapacitated on the sofa she flung her assault rifle into the weapons locker and grabbed the chair under the desk, falling into it and slouching at a rather extreme angle, “You good?”
I shuffled about a bit to get more comfortable. Then I shuffled a little more. Something in my tunic pocket was digging into my ribs and making my life miserable. I swung myself into a seated position and dug it out of my pocket. A small bottle of vodka stared back up at me. I hadn’t even know I’d put it in my pocket, I thought the one I’d looted was still in my saddlebags. Maybe the Scavenger I’d nicked the uniform from had had it. Whatever the scenario, Stitcher was quick to notice it, “You know we’re not supposed to have alcohol in the living quarters.”
Two big swigs of tequila later, my brain was so heavily doused in alcohol that even the most simple tasks became a challenge. I couldn’t even pass Stitcher’s flask back in one go, and it took me several attempts to figure out which one of her was the real one. She gave me a disappointed look as she turned the flask upside down and only a small dribble leaked out, “Hey, remember when I said this stuff was expensive?”
If I thought I was drunk back at the Flamethrower then this was verging on paralytic. Back then my head had been swimming and I was struggling to comprehend certain things. Loss of certain inhibitors also seemed prominent. By contrast, I now didn’t even trust myself to stand and I couldn’t form a coherent thought for more than about two seconds. I hiccupped loudly which had the unfortunate consequence of making me feel rather sick. As dampened heavy metal music drifted up from downstairs I rubbed my stomach in an attempt to settle it a little whilst Stitcher sat and drink slowly from my vodka bottle. She was clearly a lot more tolerant of alcohol than I was, and by appearances she wasn’t even tipsy even after having consumed something close to half a bottle of vodka and a swig of tequila. Then again, by appearances there were also three of her and she was steadily moving round in little circles. I closed my eyes again as the motion started to make me feel nauseous.
I spent the rest of the evening basically comatose on the sofa as my body struggled to cope with the huge influx of alcohol. Even when somepony from downstairs came to our door and said something about somepony wanting to see me I didn’t respond with anything more than a moan. Only when Stitcher started talking to me did I show any form of life other than the occasional sickening hiccup. Stitcher yawned to herself before turning to me and throwing a question my way, “So, got any special someponies?”
“I dunno. He’sh got pretty eyesh and he’sh really awkward ‘round maresh. It’sh kinda funny actually. And he’sh really kind and sh-shy. Ooh the room’sh shpinning.”
Upon waking my hindsight quickly kicked in, and it was telling me bad things. Maybe drinking my arse off hadn’t been such a good idea. Stitcher kept punching me in the leg systematically repeating the words, “Get up. Get up. Get up. Get up. Get up.” I groaned and flailed uselessly at her, before rolling myself over and falling to the floor again. I lay there for a moment, my face buried in the carpet. The material was actually pretty rough, particularly against soft fur like mine, but that didn’t stop me from rubbing my muzzle into it vigorously in an attempt to gain something describable as awakeness. My head was thumping angrily and every time it did a sharp pain flared up behind my eyes, agonisingly painfully. Eventually I managed to haul myself to my hooves, clapping a hoof to the side of my head as I did so to try and soothe the migraine.
“Oh, you’re awake then? Good. You’ve got a little time to get yourself sorted, initial section parade is only at oh’six hundred. Once you’ve got yourself back to your senses meet me downstairs and I’ll give you a short brief for the day. Toodles!” In a manner that felt like smug superiority she waved me goodbye as she stepped out into the hallway, shutting the door behind her and leaving me to my own vices. Which consisted mostly of moaning and clutching my skull. In an attempt to get some more clean air into the room I stumbled over to and threw open the window, poking my head out and letting the early morning breeze blow through my mane. It was rather relaxing.
And when I opened my eyes, I beheld the full scale of Scavenger operations in this sector. The building I was in was only one of many, scattered all over the place in a desperately random assortment. There were many, much smaller buildings around too, interspersed with the odd tent or two, and with so many khaki clad murderers stumbling around in the early morning it looked like a mud flow. Even my drink addled mind found room to be impressed by it all. It seemed so random but it was really so organised. Everything, everypony had its place. If only the LRSA could score a hit on this camp. Preferably whilst I wasn’t in it.
I had to rub my eyes a few times, partly to detract from some of the pain building up behind them, and partly in disbelief. As I scanned the building faces of old Ponyville, I thought I saw something. Somepony, rather. Stood in one of the buildings across from me, peering through a pair of sizeable binoculars, scrutinising. They didn’t wear Bastard Khaki. They looked LRSA, but lacked a lot of the features. He let go of the binoculars and in their place appeared a pair of large, deep set pink eyes. Mad eyes, filled with rage. He must have seen me looking. With nary a backwards glance he seemed to just vanish into the shadows of the building, almost as though he’d never been there. And maybe he hadn’t. I was probably seeing things.
It took me maybe fifteen minutes of washing, vomiting and preparing my equipment before my brain reached such a state that I could process what I’d seen. It dawned on me just as I shouldered my rifle, ready to meet with Stitcher downstairs. My eyes went wide.
How did he get here?
Then I felt sick again.
Chapter 14
“It’s just your standard advance and hold operation. Take up post at the end of the road and hold ground until relieved. The top brass has started noticing increased LRSA armoured presence in this area, we’re not quite sure to what extent, so they want tunics at the crossroads ready for them. Quarter master has assigned us an anti-tank weapon to give us that little extra punch. Scattergun should be bringing it with him when he finally shows up.” Stitcher stood addressing her section, but nopony was really paying much attention. We were due to have set off fifteen minutes ago but the other sadist and her basic Scavenger friend were still nowhere to be seen, and one of them was supposed to have our anti-tank weapon that we apparently needed.
Sat upon a wooden crate labelled ‘Caution: High Explosives’, I played around with the sights on my rifle, flipping between day sight and night sight absentmindedly whilst day dreaming to myself. My head was still throbbing angrily, and I felt like death, but I was slowly starting to get used to it. Wraith and I had conversed briefly before the rest of the section had got together, trying to thresh out a plan to get us out of the Ruins. So far our best option looked to be staying put for as long as it took for a truck to arrive to take ponies down to the less busy section of the Ruins and just play it from there. But that relied on us not being found out, or killed by the Scavengers, or killed by the LRSA, or killed by the freaky pink pony that was following us.
When I’d pointed out to Wraith that I’d seen Perky spying on us, he’d gone dead silent and almost seemed to drain of colour. He was persistent, I’d give him that, but I had faith that he would soon give up, either through loss of interest or intervention from our new Scavenger buds. Whatever the outcome, I hoped it happened sooner rather than later. The psychopath was giving me the chills.
After what felt like hours had passed, but in reality was only five more minutes, the sadist (who I now knew to be called Hack’n Slash) and her pal (Scattergun) managed to put in an appearance. Needless to say, Stitcher was not happy at their unpunctuality, and was quick to round on them with malice in her voice, “Where have you two been? I said oh six hundred, did I not? Everypony else managed to show up on time, why couldn’t you?”
After Hack’n Slash had fastened her assault webbing and Scattergun had shouldered a rather large and heavy looking tube, we set off towards the entrance to the sector, Stitcher grumbling to herself along the way. I hurried to catch up with her and fell into step beside her, casting her a sideways glance, “Not happy, huh?”
Stitcher stormed out the main entrance with only a few curt words to the unfortunate stallion in charge of logging those who passed, and carried on down the street, the rest of her section in tow, some of us almost jogging to keep pace with her. I fell back to march next to Wraith, not feeling very safe around Stitcher. We trotted/jogged back up the street, passing the innumerable piles of LRSA fallen and the immolated husks of ex-tanks. My head pounded with every step I took, my rifle feeling unusually heavy around my neck. I was glad I’d opted to leave my saddlebags back in the barracks.
We came upon the crossroads, the site of many a previous firefight, and Stitcher called us all down into a ditch to avoid having to address us in the open. She pointed up towards a building nearby, right on the corner, that had most of its second floor wiped out by artillery or tank fire or something of a similar destructive nature, “That’s where we’re setting up post. Here’s how I want it set up, you listening? Get the machinegun set up quick sharp right on the edge, in whatever position grants it the greatest arc of fire. I want three ponies on it at all times, hear? I also want one pony further back with the AT, likewise to be manned at all times. We can’t rely on the LRSA being nice enough to wait for us. The rest of you, start setting out bedding and scanning for Russians. If you see one, shoot him dead, we can’t have anypony spying on us. Sergeant?”
It took me a few moments to acknowledge that she was referring to me, “Yes, yea, sorry?”
There was a frantic scuffling of many hooves as the whole section desperately scrambled to get up to our sentry point, nobody willing to piss Stitcher off any more than she already was. As I hurriedly made my way up a crumbling flight of stairs, a Raider biting at my fetlocks, I couldn’t help feel a sense of dread come over me. Spotter. So it was my responsibility to choose targets for the gun, despite the fact that the LRSA were technically on my side. By doing this I would be helping the Scavengers gain an advantage, which was exactly the opposite of what I wanted to do. But what were my options? Disobey and face being found out, or worse? Surely a few dead LRSA now wouldn’t be too much of a problem when you considered the number of lives I’d be saving in the end? That was the belief I clung onto, the belief that would enable me to kill on the side of the Scavengers. Maybe.
We burst out into our position, panting hard from the physical exertion. I felt more sorry for those who were carrying all the heavy kit, at least I was only encumbered by an assault rifle. Stitcher came in behind me and instantly set about getting things moving, “Lambda, set up that field radio, I want comms with command in fifteen. Get that machinegun set up pronto and get on it, and somepony prime that rocket launcher, I want us ready to face anything they can throw at us. Wraith, Reticule, you’re our advanced warning, so keep eyes down scopes and alert us to any changes. Sergeant, give Vickers a hand with the machinegun. The rest of you lay out some bedding and get a hex stove on, I’m starving.” There was a brief chorus of ‘Oo-rah’ from the ranks as we all set about our duties. Stitcher dug a pair of binoculars out from her tunic and set up behind the shot out wall, keeping low and scanning the buildings across the streets.
I personally had no idea how to set up a heavy machinegun, so whilst Vickers played around getting the tripod set up, I just held the main gun for him, whilst another young mare held onto the spare barrels and ammunition. Behind me, a stallion was struggling to get our AT weapon loaded and ready to be fired, and I could see Lambda sighing in relief in a corner as he got the heavy looking radio slung off his back. Wraith and his new buddy were busy surveying the streets, and some mare was trying to spark a small metal cube, filled with a white fuel.
“Give us that there, Sergeant.” I failed to respond, and Vickers tapped me on the side of the head to get my attention. “Hello? I know you’re a Sergeant an’ all but do we ‘ave to tell you everything twice?”
“Machinegun’s ready, ma’am!”
“Target! North-East! One hundred metres, on the second story!” Reticule called out and Wraith quickly followed this up with a single, swift pull of the trigger. Off in the distance, I fancied that I could hear a faint scream. Stitcher was quickly up beside us, rifle at the ready.
Stitcher returned to her position next to the stove, still waiting on the water to fully boil. Lambda called over something about the radio being set up, and Stitcher shouted back at him to get command on the line for fuck’s sake. Vickers leant forward onto his weapon and sighed, turning to face me, “You know what you’re doing, right?”
I looked hard at Vicker’s face. Now that I studied it, there was a deep gash leading from his right temple all the way down to his neck. His right ear was also rather badly mangled, and it looked as though he was missing several teeth on that side, “You look a little worse for wear yourself.”
“I’ve got command on comms, Stitcher!”
“What news, ma’am?” began the other Corporal whom I presumed was a section leader.
The Corporal nodded once and retreated back into the relative safety of the bombed out building, whilst I was left to move back up to the front with my ever so slightly insane gunner. He looked over at me, “What’s the word?”
We all sat together for another fifteen minutes, our resident chef sharing out ration packs to those with the stomach to force them down. Thankfully, everything was quiet. Or as quiet as things could get in the Ruins. We saw head nor tail of anypony, LRSA or otherwise. HQ came on over the radio again at one point, letting us know that the Russians had just ambushed a scout party in what was supposed to be a safe area, and they suspected that the radio net had been compromised. As such, we were to maintain radio silence and wait to be relieved by a relief section before falling back. Until then, we held our position at all costs. I also noticed that I suddenly felt more terrified of the Russkis than by the Scavengers on either flank of me.
It was only when we heard somepony ascending the stairs behind us that things got interesting. Immediately every free rifle, handgun, sub machinegun, knife and rocket launcher was aimed at the stairs, awaiting the arrival of something to fill with holes. A young stallion, a look of great surprise on his face and a steel helmet resting on his head appeared and almost instantly shrivelled back. We all relaxed with a collective, exasperated sigh. He laughed nervously, “Aheh, uh… hey.”
The pioneer was quick to turn about and make tracks before Stitcher bucked him in the arse. I took the opportunity to peek over the wall I was sat behind, and saw about a section’s worth of khaki clad pioneers spilling into the crossroad, about half of which began to unload heavy looking explosives from their cases, burying them under rubble or other precarious positions where they would be detonated at even the slightest disturbance. They hid directional mines on each corner, and even strung a tripwire over a likely position of cover. By the time they were finished the whole place was covered in live munitions, ready for an unfortunate soul to trip them. The pioneers began to pick their way back to us with extreme caution, taking care not to set off their own traps.
The pioneer Sergeant was first to reappear back up in our little hollow, taking up position in the back next to the radio. One by one, the rest of the section poured in, including one struggling under the weight of another anti-tank weapon, and one with a GP machinegun slung over her back. There was also a pair that carried what looked to be an anti-tank rifle between them, ready to be set up should our heavier weapons run out of ammunition. Now it was just a matter of tense waiting. We knew the Russians were just a few roads up, and likely ready to move. With radio silence being maintained we had no way of being updated of any movements or occurrences, so we were essentially on our own.
Stitcher came round and made sure everypony was loaded up and ready. She gave specific orders to various individuals, regarding how she wanted things to operate. We were to hold fire completely and remain out of sight until Stitcher gave us our fire order. Then we were to prioritise armour, followed by officers and weapon teams. My job was as it had always been; to point out any potential threats to my machinegun crew. Ooh, I was not looking forward to this. I didn’t want to kill LRSA soldiers. Technically I wouldn’t have to. All I had to do was yell fire orders which would hopefully either be ignored or become ineffectual quite quickly. I wouldn’t actually have to do any shooting.
Minutes passed. Hours went by. All in all I think we sat waiting with held breath for about three, maybe four hours. Stitcher came up beside me at one point and showed me a map, with many things marked onto it, “Okay so we’re here. Chances are the LRSA are going to attack down this road in a head on attack. They likely don’t know we’re here and won’t be expecting resistance until further down towards camp, so we’ve got surprise on our side. Last I checked the only armoured units in this area was an element of the fifth cavalry regiment. They’re a light armour group so I’m not expecting MBTs. I think the worst we can expect to come up against is recon vehicles or AFVs, unless they intend to really give us hell. Your job is still to take down infantry, so don’t waste ammo trying to kill vehicle crews, leave that to the hunters and our AT.”
Wraith and Reticule ducked down in perfect synchronised harmony with one another, Reticule calling out in a hushed voice, “We’ve got contact! About a section’s worth of infantry and two AFVs, likely with more infantry inside. Maybe more in the buildings. I think their commander’s inside one of the vehicles, I didn’t see any officers on the ground.”
Stitcher rapped a hoof on the helmet of our AT gunner. Immediately they moved up to the wall, peering over. Time seemed to speed up for a moment as they rose up, weapon hefted onto one shoulder, and fired off our rocket. There was a colossal whoosh as the projectile was launched and smoke billowed out into our alcove. Moments later there was a colossal thud, followed almost immediately by an explosion of almighty proportions. Wraith and Reticule poked their heads out and began firing off shots, as shouts from the soldiers below began to ring out across the street. I looked over the wall at the carnage below.
The lead vehicle had been well and truly knocked out, having burst into flames and veered off into a wall. Most of the infantry had scattered in such a way that I couldn’t see very many of them, and the gunner on the remaining vehicle was quickly spinning his gun around to try and return fire. Somepony somewhere yelled, “Open fire!” and everypony with a clear shot began to pour lead into the street. Vickers kicked into action with a yell, sending bright red tracers down range into the ranks of scattered infantry. The street was a sight of sheer carnage.
It wasn’t long before return fire was becoming a problem. The gunner on the AFV sent a burst of high calibre rounds into our position, thankfully only succeeding in suppressing Wraith and Reticule. I spent a few moments gauging the gunner’s position and called out to Vickers, “Gunner, fifteen metres, on top of that AFV!”
It was about this point that the LRSA had organised themselves enough to return effective fire. A small group of soldiers unloaded a vicious salvo in our direction, forcing us down into cover. A lucky shot claimed Reticule, shattering his scope and burying itself in his right eye. The Scavenger collapsed in a heap, deep blackish red blood seeping down one cheek. Vickers retaliated with a burst in the general direction of our attackers. He didn’t kill anypony, but he was successful in forcing them back into cover before they could unleash another salvo on us. I could hear many shouts from the soldiers below, some sounding like rousing orders, some like taunts and others like shrieks of terror.
“Grenade out!” A Scavenger behind me hurled what looked like a stick grenade out into the street. After a few seconds, there was a deep thump as the grenade detonated, sending up a cloud of dust and completely disintegrating a Russian Sergeant who hadn’t gotten out of the way in time. I scanned the scene and my eyes soon fell upon a terrified looking soldier who was fumbling in his webbing for something. He was crouched low behind a large slab of rubble, staring up at our position. It seemed as though nopony else had noticed him. I gazed into his goggled eyes, and my breath caught as I saw him pull a grenade of his own from his webbing. In panic I swung my rifle about and lined up a shot, pulling the trigger and sending a round down range. The bullet caught the soldier square in the chest, sending him sprawling to the floor. He dropped his grenade and clutched at his shattered sternum, hacking up a cloud of blood before spasming slightly and lying still.
I didn’t even have time to comprehend what I’d just done.
A sharp crack, discernible above the low thud indicative of the Russian assault rifles, rang out. A moment later a bullet passed cleanly through Scattergun’s throat, knocking him down with a loud gurgling screech. The bullet ricocheted off the ceiling and slammed into our field radio, sending sparks flying into the air and scaring the living shit out of Lambda. Scattergun clawed at his throat, trying desperately to stem the bleeding as his viscous lifeblood pooled in his mouth and seeped out from around his hoof. As I stared at him in abstract horror, another crack rang out and this time Vickers was hit in the face, not killing him but taking off a large section of his jaw. He gritted what remained of his teeth in pain and crawled away from his weapon, leaving our primary piece of suppression equipment unmanned.
Stitcher called out, “Sniper! Watch and shoot, stay low! Sergeant, get on that gun!” Having just hollered such an order, she immediately sent a three round burst into the shoulder of an overzealous Russian. I looked anxiously over at the machinegun’s loader, who stared back expectantly. The crack of the sniper’s rifle rung out once more, this time only narrowly missing Stitcher’s ear, forcing her to the ground. The bullet pinged off the back wall and hit something with a soft thunk. Following my orders like a good little bitch, I hauled myself behind the machinegun with a gulp of anticipation and my heart thundering in my chest.
From my new vantage point, I had a good view of the situation. Russians scattered everywhere, dead and living and partially dead. Most of the resistance was scattered, with only small groups of soldiers crouching behind rubble and jersey barriers. It looked as though a few of them had noticed our machinegun going silent and were chancing their arms poking their heads out of cover to look for targets. I needed to get fire on them before they got fire on us. With shaky hooves I clutched at the weapon’s trigger, swinging the (very heavy) barrel round to bear on a group of three Russians that were getting a little too close for comfort. A short squeeze of the trigger sent a spray of rounds down wind. My burst claimed one of them and sent the other two scrabbling back into cover. With me now on the machinegun, those Russians that had been feeling brave were now solidly back to cowering in cover.
I winced painfully as a bright white glint caught my right eye. It was only for a fraction of a second, but it was certainly noticeable. It took me a second or two for my brain to click. With a sharp gasp, I ducked my head quickly down to the side just in time to avoid being hit in the nose by a sniper’s bullet. I was vaguely aware of a shriek to my right. When I looked back, Hack’n Slash had been hit in the shoulder by the ricochet, and she grabbed at the mangled flesh painfully. I was prepared to resign her to being just another casualty, but just when I’d expected her to crawl back into the relative safety of the building, she defied all my expectations. Her eyes filled with fury, and she growled in rage. Using her hoof, dripping in her own blood, she traced a series of obscure symbols onto her face, similar to the ones I’d seen on her earlier that morning. With a shriek of defiance, she raised herself up to full height and, with her one good foreleg, brought her weapon to bear and emptied her entire magazine into the street. I saw off in the distance, crouched down behind a mound of old mortar, a black clad soldier was cut down by a sheet of lead, dropping a long, scoped weapon behind him.
This act of reckless abandon seemed to shatter the remaining Russians. With their officers dead, one of their vehicles destroyed and their sniper slain, the survivors quickly piled into their last remaining AFV. The driver, not wasting any time messing about, slammed the vehicle into reverse and pelted back down the way he’d come, taking a short moment to swing the vehicle around and speed off, with maybe half a section’s worth of shot up Russians in the back. What Scavengers had a good view started to fire shots uselessly after it, aiming to hit a tyre of something else important to stop it escaping. Despite all efforts, however, Stitcher quickly waved a hoof in the air, “Cease fire! Cease fire! Don’t waste your ammo, you might need it soon.”
I released a breath I wasn’t even aware of holding. My hooves shook, despite all my efforts to steady them. What had I done? I’d killed for the Scavengers. Sure, it was in self-defence. If I’d not killed that soldier he’d have killed us all in one go. If I’d not unleashed a burst from the machinegun they’d have rallied and I’d probably have been hit in a ricochet or something. But that didn’t make me feel any better. If anything, it made me feel worse; it felt as though I was lying to myself. I slumped to the side, back to my original position, resting my head back against the wall. I exhaled deeply, removing the garrison cap from my head and playing with it anxiously. What had I gotten myself into? How had I managed to get into this mess? Maybe I should’ve just fled to Canterlot, or some other NSA colony and avoided all this, lived out the rest of my days behind the safety of walls and armed guard.
“Hey, you alright?” I started and looked up at the bloodied Hack’n Slash. She was smiling weakly, but her lip quivered ever so slightly and tears streamed down her face silently, cleaning away some of the blood she’d painted onto it. I couldn’t tell if it was from the pain of her wound or for some other reason. She collapsed next to me, leaning back against the wall and wincing slightly.
Total casualties consisted of Reticule, Scattergun and the pioneer Sergeant. Vickers was being treated by the medic, who was busy wrapping a bandage around his head. The wound was very large and looked phenomenally painful, and his right eye seemed to be swelling somewhat from the trauma. I was aware of a presence at my side, and looked up to see Stitcher staring down at me, “Good shot, Sergeant.”
I forced down a ration pack and pushed a young pioneer off his roll mat, claiming it as my own and falling asleep almost instantaneously. I slept deeply, and I don’t know how long I slept, but I was awoken by a thirty-something Raider shaking my shoulder and grinning down at me, “Wakey wakey, Sergeant. You must’ve been out like a light. Grab your kit and get your ass out of here, you’re section’s bugging out. Say hello to your relief!” I spent a few moments in a haze, staring wistfully up at the Raider only half conscious of what he was saying. Eventually my mind cleared somewhat and I fully comprehended what he’d said. Relief? How long had I been out? I looked around. Everypony was different, and I was met by an array of faces I’d never seen before. Hack’n Slash was still there, her wound now properly treated and waiting patiently for me to rouse myself. Not wanting to stick around in this hellhole any longer than I had to, I picked up my rifle and slung it round my neck, dragging myself past the new faces and past Hack’n Slash and down the stairs, meeting up with the rest of my section and the remaining pioneers, now down a Sergeant.
Stitcher smiled at me, “Glad to see you up, Sergeant. File in and we’ll get the fuck out of here. Section, by the right, quick march!” The lot of us, minus me obviously, stepped off in unison at a brisk pace. I quickly stumbled to fall into step, not being used to marching myself and eventually resigning myself to just walking quickly. Behind me, the pioneer’s acting Sergeant also called her section to quick march behind us, creating an impressive column of tired and beaten up Scavengers. I was the rightmost on a file of three, with Hack’n Slash to my left, struggling to keep up with the pace as her wound clearly gave her trouble.
We marched for a good while. Hack’n Slash eventually started talking to me in an attempt to distract herself from her pain, “So… how’re you doing?”
We arrived back at our little encampment shortly after, and after a short debrief we each went our separate ways to perform our various duties. I myself had some serious work to be getting down to. There was a bottle of vodka in the mess that I needed to have a stern talking with. Perhaps the spirits would numb me to the horrors. I gave Wraith only a passing nod as I made my way to the barracks, not particular interested in talking to anypony. Before I could second guess myself I had thrown myself down at the bar and thrown a packet of cigarettes at the unfortunate mare now behind the bar. With alcohol now purchased, suspended above my head in a field of magic, I made my way back up to my room, where Stitcher had already managed to stow away her kit. She looked at me with concern, “Are you going to drink all of that?”
Stitcher left me to my vices, and as soon as the door slammed shut I unslung my rifle and slammed it down on the desk. Twenty nine rounds left in the magazine. One Russian down. I pulled a knife from its scabbard on my stolen uniform, and carved into the metal of the rifle’s body a single straight scratch. How many more would I be carving into this thing before this was all over? I didn’t want to think about it. With my magic I pulled out the chair from under the desk and sat myself down, resting my head in one hoof and staring down at the solitary scratch on my rifle. I pulled the cap off the bottle and took my first swig, once again feeling my throat burn painfully, and then that pleasant warmth in the pit of my stomach. Time to get royally shit-faced.
As I sat there, cradling the bottle of vodka in my hooves shakily, I heard somepony call up at me from below the window. Pushing the chair back (and almost falling off it in the process), I made my way over to the window and pushed it open with a grunt, gazing down at whomever would dare to summon me. Hack’n Slash was stood directly below me, looking up expectantly. She had her robes on again, and her face was once again painted with the same red chalky substance I’d seen on her not long ago. She smiled as I looked down at her, “Hey! You said you’d let me show you something, right? Can I come up? Corporals aren’t allowed in there without permission.”
True to her word, there was a rap on the door not a minute later. I trudged to the door and flung it open, staring into the pleased face of Hack’n Slash. She didn’t wait for me to invite her in, and immediately set about preparing for what she had in mind, first drawing from beneath her robes a small metal box full of red chalk. With interest, I watched her trace a perfect circle on the floor, maybe a metre in diameter. Curiosity piqued, I approached her with a question, “So what is it you’re going to show me?”
The cultist before me proceeded to trace several lines inside the circle, forming a five pointed star. On each point, she placed and lit a tall, slender candle, each made of black wax. As she struggled to light one of them, she looked up at me and chuckled, “You wouldn’t mind closing the blinds, would you?” Her voice quivered slightly, which struck me as slightly odd, and her hoof shook slightly. Doing as I was told, and now intrigued, I pulled the blinds shut. The room was cast into darkness, lit only by the light of the five black candles. I turned back to see Hack’n Slash drawing a hefty leather bound book from under her robes, flicking through the pages, her brow furrowed, “I always forget this part. I can never remember which points the salt goes on.” The book she held in her hooves had the same five pointed star insignia on the front, above which was written ‘The Church of Discord’, and below which was inscribed ‘Praise Mighty Discord’.
Whilst my guest was preoccupied, I took the opportunity to more closely examine the markings on her face. Her right eye was completely encircled by a ring of the substance. A line, curving down from the circle, ran over her nose and up her muzzle, disappearing under her hood. There was also a sharp point on the inside of the circle, originating at the apex and falling down over her eye, tapering to a point just as it reached the bottom. It all seemed very peculiar to me. I was quickly jolted back to life as she exclaimed excitedly, “Ah, that’s right! Salt goes on the point that faces the south! You’d think I’d remember that by now but apparently not.”
“Okay, cool. First, I need you to clear your mind of any preconceptions you have. I know you’re a sceptic but just let go of that for a few minutes whilst we do this. It’s not that it won’t work it’ll just be… dangerous. Secondly, you have to do exactly as I say without hesitating.”
For quite a while we sat in silence. True to my word, I did my best to not think about how ludicrous the situation was. I wanted to see where this would go. After what seemed like hours in silence, Hack’n Slash spoke once more, “Okay, close your eyes. I’m going to begin the ritual. Once I finish talking you can open them again.” I did as I was commanded. “Right, here goes…”
“Spirit of the Lord mighty Discord, I call for thee.”
There was the audible sound of a blade slicing through flesh, and yet I did not hear Hack’n Slash even wince.
“He who is spirit of disharmony, I provide passage for thee.”
“He who is spirit of anarchy, I provide my body as a vessel for thee.”
“Come forth, spirit of our Lord mighty Discord!”
“My mind is open to thee!”
“With my blood, my mind, my body, I call upon thee!”
“Spirit of mighty Discord, I beckon thee..!”
“Come!”
Silence.
I opened my eyes. All of the candles had extinguished. Save for one. The candle closest to Hack’n Slash remained lit. The flickering yellow light illuminated one half of her face, that which wasn’t shrouded under her hood. I could see a bleeding wound on the arm that reached out and touched the book, and in her other hoof was a dagger. The dagger glinted in the dim light, and along its edge, pooling at the tip, was a trail of blood, made black by the glow of the candle. With a sharp motion, Hack’n Slash’s head snapped backwards, making me start somewhat. If I listened carefully, I could hear a shallow breath slowly escaping from her open mouth. My skin began to crawl. From somewhere I thought I could hear an ominous, low moaning. It seemed to emanate from the air itself. Something seemed very off.
For about three minutes I sat there, and in that time Hack’n Slash didn’t move a muscle. Nor did she draw breath and move to cradle her bleeding arm. Just as I was on the verge of ignoring her advice and giving her a kick, her head snapped forward again, hanging against her chest. Her hood had fallen back around her shoulders, freeing her mane and allowing it to fall over her face. Ever so slowly, she began to raise her head. As she did so, the remaining four candles spontaneously relit. I looked back at Hack’n Slash. She beamed at me, what looked like a tear in one eye, “I knew he would answer.” She gazed up at the ceiling. “He’s still watching over me. I never doubted you, my loving, mighty Discord.” With the same hoof that clutched at the dagger, she performed the gesture I had seen her perform many times over.
“Now it’s your turn.”
“I’m going to make another incantation. Don’t interrupt me, and don’t resist his power.”
“Spirit of the Lord mighty Discord, I thank thee for thy gift.”
“Spirit of my Lord mighty Discord, I beg that thee stay.”
“Here, with thy most loyal following, is an un-believer. I beg that thee show them thy power.”
“Spirit of chaos, he who is great and mighty, I summon thee once more!”
“With my blood, my mind, my body, I pray that thee stay!”
“Spirit of mighty Discord, give thy gift once more!”
“I beckon thee..!”
“Come!”
A moment of silence.
My heart pounded in my ears.
I nearly cried.
Before I even had time to react, I felt the world around me simply flash out of existence. In panic I opened my eyes. I couldn’t see anything. All I could see was darkness. I tried to scream but found myself unable. I felt weightless, it was like I was floating in the ocean. It seemed as though ever movement I made had no effect, I simply floated there, a mind in a sea of black.
But I wasn’t alone.
I could feel another presence. It was big. Very big, and very powerful. It spoke to me.
You?
It’s voice was deep and powerful, and seemed to echo loudly. It seemed to have a somewhat arrogant and nasally tone to it. I tried to respond but still I couldn’t.
I know you.
What was this? This wasn’t real, how could this be happening? Ohhh wake me up, wake me up, wake me up!
You are arrogant.
No, no, no, no, no, no! This wasn’t happening!
You are foolish. You are involved with something much greater than yourself.
Please! Make it stop! I only want to help ponies! Let me go! Wake me up!
You meddle where you are not wanted. You have become an unwanted glitch in my game.
I only want to help! Let me go!
You fail to understand the true scale of what you have done.
Already you have caused me great strife.
You seek to restore order to my perfect kingdom.
...
You will fail.
I’m sorry! Please, wake me up! Let me go!
You won’t play my game the way I intended it.
Fine.
Be that way.
You will be struck down soon enough.
But until then, I have a new game you can play.
Wake me up!
A weighty choice… is yours to make.
No!
A right selection or a big mistake.
I don’t want to play!
If a wrong choice you choose to pursue.
Please!
The foundations of home… will crumble… without you.
no
Interpret that as you will.
Many have tried, none have succeeded.
Nopony has ever beaten me.
And I won’t let you be the first.
Discord always wins.
Weak.
Arrogant.
Knackered.
Egocentric.
Unwanted.
Powerless.
Bye bye.
…
…
No.
…
Please.
Let me go.
I don’t want to.
Wake me up.
…
Please.
Wake me up.
Chapter 1
I didn’t feel special. I felt about as special as common dirt. Not even when I had gotten my Cutie Mark (at a tender age I might add) did I feel in any way unique or individual. In my eyes, everypony had a Cutie Mark, just like me, so what made me any better? Pessimistic thoughts like these don’t bode well, particularly when you’re young, and I became a very paranoid adolescent. Day by day, I lived a life in which I felt that everypony was looking down on me, which in retrospect, I suppose they were. I was quite short for my age.
I was always quite a clumsy filly, particularly whilst I was very young, and I would constantly break things or knock things over, much to my mother’s resentment. So imagine how thoroughly overjoyed I was when one day after I had broken a particularly expensive and valuable possession, my Cutie Mark appeared, and was none other than a broken plate. A broken fucking plate. Oh how wonderful. Now everypony who every met me would know how much of a ditz I was. Oh hello there! That’s a nice Cutie Mark, a broken plate! You must be the clumsy type then. Superb! I suppose I could’ve used my magic to try and fix the things I broke, but really I don’t think it would have changed the outcome much.
Sorry, I tend to go off on a tangent when I talk about how I acquired the infernal thing. Anyway, I was born in a fortified town under the control of the National Security Agency (NSA), which meant I was always mollycoddled and not allowed to really explore anything or do anything for myself. That’s why I spent a lot of my spare time guzzling books and their contents to improve my understanding of the world. I particularly enjoyed a book with an unknown author (probably still unfinished) which gave a very interesting opinion on the world. It went on and on about the problems and how they should be solved etc.
Oh and by the way, I’m Bucky. I’m a unicorn born to a frontline soldier and an artist. My father was the soldier by the way, just in case you were unsure. Not that that will become relevant or anything. Anyway, I didn’t see my father much. He was often deployed to fight against the Revolutionaries or the Scavengers. As a matter of fact, I rarely even heard from him. Letters in and out were often censored or blocked entirely and usually not for any apparent reason. Then came that fateful day when I did receive a letter. It had the military seal of the NSA emblazoned on the front and needless to say I was quite excited to hear from, as I had expected at the time, my father. Then when I opened it, it only contained a notification of his death. Apparently he was killed in active service at the hooves of the Scavengers and their brutal (yet oddly efficient) regime of chaos.
I would have loved to say that I was distraught, that I cried for days or weeks on end. In actuality, I didn’t really feel much emotion at all. I had never really had an opportunity to bond with him in any way so I didn’t really feel overly grieved about his inevitable demise. My mother, however, was dismayed. She decided to put down the brush and paint and take up the bottle. She drank so much in those years that I wouldn’t have been surprised if her Cutie Mark changed to fit her new talent.
Needless to say the end result was failure of the liver, and this I was upset about. While my father was out in the field getting shot at, my mother would be at home with me, raising me on her own and helping me to grow. So I actually did feel attached to her. I wept for many days and suffered from a mild case of PTSD for a while afterwards. By the time I was done with being sad, I was a different filly. I became very quiet and secluded and I didn’t want to speak to anypony. The person who helped me ‘come out of my shell’ so to speak was actually a random stallion who asked me why I always sat on the same bench every day at the park for hours on end and didn’t talk. I told him that I had been recently orphaned and he encouraged me through each event.
By the time I was finished I was sobbing on his shoulder like I had before, and he looked more than mildly surprised. He pointed out to me that my mother had died because my father had died, and that my father had died because the Scavengers had shot him. He was right, of course. I decided to swap all of my sadness and despair for hatred and fury, all of it directed purely on the Scavengers. Every last shred of it. Turns out this mystery stallion worked for the NSA as a morale officer and he hadn’t really cared for my problems, but my idleness on a park bench day in day out was beginning to make some passers-by get a little upset, so he had to sort me out.
I ended up providing for myself (because whilst the NSA always has the needs of the many in their best interest, individual minorities usually escape their radar) and started off by stealing a few things. Only basic necessities, like food and clothing. After a while I got pretty good at it, and I could swipe several items in a few seconds with mopony noticing and make a clean get away. Naturally these thefts were reported and guard patrols were stepped up, becoming more frequent and more heavily armed (the usual Militia being replaced by military Watchponies).
So I had to try and get what I needed another way. There was no charity so to speak where I grew up (there was a homeless shelter, but I still had my parent’s house to live in, so I wasn’t homeless) meaning I needed to find a way of generating an income. This came from learning to stitch fabrics, and I started small, making small hats for locals, and I even gave a few to the homeless shelter and some of the guard patrols as a sign of good will (and to keep them from finding me out as the thief that had plagued the local market), but I soon stepped things up and was sewing up full scale garments.
I was hardly a vintage dress maker, but I could make a nice jacket or pullover, and I even made my own clothes (which by now consisted of a black turtle-neck jumper and cowgirl hat) and sold them to the public at the market, becoming quite famous throughout town. Originally I had gotten my cloth and thread from my mother’s old box of scraps, but now I could afford to by proper materials and durable thread to use in my crafts. I learnt to replicate designs, making an almost identical copy of a Watchponies’ uniform to give to a sorry looking stallion that had lost his and didn’t have the balls to admit it to his officer. How do you lose a military uniform?
Things were beginning to look up for me. I started to regain my confidence, turning back into my quirky and humble self. The quiet and secluded Bucky was being left behind and here, here was the Bucky that I knew and loved! But because destiny hates me it decided it wanted to yawn in my face again and sent my way the biggest fear I had ever harboured. The first I knew of my impending fate was a brilliant green flash in the sky. This was amazing! I had never seen anything so vibrant and pretty in all my days, but sadly it held before it something terrible.
I watched it ark its way through the sky before disappearing behind the roof tops of the town. I sat and waited for more of the bright lights, but what I got instead was not as pretty or as harmless. Shots began to ring out from the fortifications, return fire was made, the horizon was ablaze with muzzle flashes and the boom of our long range artillery deafened me. I was utterly terrified. What was this that I was in the middle of now? Why was there so much carnage occurring at this time, here, in this place? The answer was only too obvious, and I felt my insides hang themselves when I saw the first of their khaki uniforms.
Screams of fear emanated from all around me as doors and windows were smashed in, mingling horribly with the cruel laughter of the invading Scavengers. They shot dead anypony they saw. Foals, mares, soldiers, they didn’t care; they just enjoyed the wanton destruction and death they were causing. I could see fire spring up in some of the buildings in stark contrast to their ice cold hearts, and I knew that this was it; this was where I was going to die. And I was going to die just like my father had. At the hoofs of these ruthless ponies who knew nothing but killing. I noticed three of them branch off in my general direction, and I took flight.
I didn’t have time to grab everything that I wanted to take, just the basics: A water canteen, my saddlebags stuffed with food, my passport and other papers, a few books, and a photograph of my parents. Tacky I know, but they were my parents, and I didn’t like the thought of the Scavengers getting their hoofs on it. Whispering a quick goodbye to my house, I bolted as fast as I could away from the advancing wall of steel and lead. The Scavengers hadn’t gotten this far yet, and the only ponies that I ran into were soldiers moving to counter the advance of their enemy, and other refugees like me.
Despite how bravely our Militia and garrisoned troops fought, the Scavengers were still making incredible progress, sustaining few losses and quickly setting more of the town I knew and loved ablaze. There went the market. And the park I used to sit in. The school building was now gone. I stopped and stared back, on the verge of tears as I saw a Scavenger waving their flag from the roof of my parent’s house, surrounded by numerous others cheering and holding their rifles in the air. There was no doubt that this town was beyond saving, and to think that these ponies had invaded this place purely for the fun of it.
The Scavengers didn’t kill for justice or in defence of their people, and despite their namesake they usually didn’t even kill for supplies. They killed because they had the power and the guns to do it, and they did it better than even the NSA. After a successful Scavenger raid, few buildings are left standing, and even fewer survivors make it out without being captured and either put to death or enslaved. They had made a reputation for themselves and they demanded (and most certainly received) the fear of the Equestrian populace, and to make matters even worse; they were one of the largest ruling factions in the entire country.
How did Equestria become such a hot bed for death and destruction? Well it goes something like this: The reigning princesses at the time were doing a frankly rather shit job of ruling. Unemployment was at a high and a famine had struck, and most ponies wanted change. So there was a revolution, in which the ponies of Equestria rose up and overthrew the princesses that had ruled for centuries. Science had developed a way of keeping the sun and moon moving, but the revolution had no real collective goal other than the exile of the monarchy, so once they were successful, society slowly collapsed. This is, of course, vastly over-simplified.
The LRSA was formed by the Equestrian army and other armies from foreign nations garrisoned in the country which is attempting to establish a military dictatorship until democracy can be achieved. They are composed of seven primary nations: The Equestrian Army, the Russians, the Germans, the Chinese, the Japanese, the British and the French. There are many other smaller nations, but those are the most common ones. They are all well-armed, well trained, and in no position to be giving up anytime soon. They are at constant war with the Scavengers (of which I approve of).
Then there are the Wanderers, which was originally composed of a group of farmers and tradesponies who decided to travel what was left of Equestria and sell their wares and grow their crops. Many of the smaller factions rely on them for food and resources (with a few exceptions) and even the Scavengers tend to leave them alone and trade for supplies, but they have been known to attack convoys when it suits their needs.
By the time it’s taken me to explain all that, I am now on the outskirts of town, and few Scavengers hard on me heels, yelling and whooping as they gave chase. I didn’t need this. I had only turned nineteen last month and there was still so much I wanted to do in life. I didn’t want to die because of these savages (or if I did I would want to go down fighting, not running like a frightened rabbit), and I was confident in the knowledge that tonight wouldn’t be my last.
A trip and a stumble, that’s clutzy old Bucky for you. Trust me to screw up something so simple. The lead Scavenger was on me in moments, and I found myself staring down the barrel of a submachine gun, cocked and ready to scatter my brains. I instinctively shielded my face, but to fulfil no real purpose. The bullets packed by the firearm would certainly have enough force to go through my hoof and my head, especially at this range.
I was now a good way off from the town, the lights of fires and flashes of gunfire now distant on the horizon. Admittedly I hadn’t expected them to follow me this far, but they must have wanted me really badly. Ain’t that just like a Scavenger? This particular Scavenger was a dark blue coloured earth pony, with a mane that looked as though he’d been electrified, and with a grey hue. A wicked grin played across his muzzle, surrounded by scars and with two, very large cyan eyes staring back at me, with oddly small pupils. He looked as though he was a heroin addict. His uniform was the standard Scavenger khaki, but with several straps, hooks and pockets on them, with a different size or style of hoofcuff trailing off them. The red arm band on his left arm sealed the deal though. This was a Sadist, a rank of Scavenger shock trooper tasked with the job of torturing prisoners of war and harassing the enemy with rapid and brutal attacks.
He laughed hideously, and said in an accent I didn’t recognise, “Stoeger! Stoeger look I got her!”
The earth pony (whom I took to be Shultz) holstered his weapon and asked, “Should I use the regular hoofcuffs, or the spiked hoofcuffs?” He glared evilly at me.
Shultz lifted me up by the end of my hair, triggering a wince of pain which made him grin gleefully. The unicorn mare (of a brownish tint similar to mine but a shotgun as a cutie mark) yawned and turned around. As she started to stride off towards a clump of trees, she looked over her shoulder and said, “Right. I’m going to go and fetch Pin-Point. Keep an eye on her, and be it on your head if she gets away.”
He flicked off my hat and placed it atop his own head, “How quaint,” was his comment. “Do you think it suits me?” I spat in his eye. He growled and pushed the hat down over my eyes, obstructing my vision. Ooooh, this son of a bitch was making my insides burn and I struggled to resist the urge to lash out and strike him one in the temple. Not that I would’ve been able to had I attempted it. He stared at me in an eerie way that made him look almost artificial and said completely out of the blue, “You’re pretty. I reckon I could get a fair price for you. Of course, part of it lies in the buyer. If they’re anypony worth trading with I think two hundred cigarettes would be a reasonable offer.” The Scavengers traded using cigarettes in place of the traditional bit, one cigarette being worth roughly one bit in our currency. Slightly counterproductive actually, when one considers the possibility of collecting bits and just bulk buying cigarettes from Wanderers.
I was silently fuming under the rim of my hat as my captor played with the stock of his automatic firearm. Stoeger came back with a crimson earth pony stallion with a khaki helmet with five cigarettes stuffed into a band strapped around it. He wore a pair of flying goggles and had a gold nose ring. He glanced over at me and leaned over to Stoeger, “Good find. Ya gonna keep it or can I have her?”
Golden nose ring pony decided he would take point on our journey back to their district. Neither German pony nor shotgun pony objected and thus our journey began, with me sandwiched between Shultz the heroin addict and Stoeger the pissed off a lot. It was a fairly boring and un-eventful trip and I won’t bore you with any particulars, but I will fill the space by telling you a little bit about Scavenger organisation. After their first year of service, Scavengers specialise as either Hunters, Raiders, Sadists or Guards. A Sadist, Raider and Hunter are grouped together to form a Scavenger ‘Squad’, who will be deployed into villages and settlements surrounding their district to gather supplies and prisoners. Scavenger squads will band together in a settlement they own and select a building, which becomes a field headquarters and the centre of the district. A district is composed of one central, well-fortified location containing the field HQ and all other surrounding settlements under Scavenger control or influence. The district is named after the field HQ (Church District, School District and so on and so forth) and is where most of the strategically planning takes place. For all of the chaos they seem to enjoy they were very well organised and efficient.
And after several more hours after the moon had found its zenith we arrived at the Church District that was the home of my captors. The first thing I noticed was the low wall made of bricks, stones, sandbags, steel bars and pretty much anything that was hard to break. They had a gate which was made of steel bars erected upright and lashed together with a grill of prison bars hanging from a series of chains. Every ten yards was a Scavenger pony specialised as Guards, armed with everything from a brick to a bazooka. The gate itself had four of its own guards, two on either side, all armed with assault rifles and standing stock still as if they were part of the fortifications.
One of the ponies (a pegasus stallion boasting an AK-47 and belt of grenades), ordered us to halt so he could check our identities. I was surprised at how good the Scavengers were at this whole sentry thing, and even more surprised to learn that the Scavengers had their own passports. Once he had confirmed my captors as legitimate (although I don’t know why they’d have brought me here were they not) he ordered his second in command over to search me for weapons and supplies. The unicorn mare took me off to a side building away from the rest of the Scavengers, and closed and locked the door after her. She flicked on an electric light hanging from the ceiling, giving a low hum.
The mare flicked back her flowing crimson mane and stared at me with lemon yellow eyes. She had a cutie mark that resembled a golden police badge, except it had a set of pegasus wings adorning the centre. It was very pretty and I struggled to figure out exactly what it meant. I was jerked back to my senses when she said, “Do you mind not staring at my ass? This is a search room, not a strip club.” I quickly averted my gaze, blushing slightly. She took a few steps towards me and asked me to, “Remove your hat and put it at your hooves. If you fail to comply then I will remove it myself.” I obeyed and placed my hat on the floor, only to have it kicked aside.
“Let’s get this over with shall we?” She didn’t wait for my reply and instead engulfed my saddle bags in a blood red aura and dropped it onto the floor in front of her, rummaging through it and throwing things out at random. She piled all me food to her left, and took off my water canteen to add to the pile. Most of what she found was useless to her, and she quickly said, “No weapons in here. Don’t you know better than to travel around without a weapon?” I made no comment and instead waited for her to finish tearing my bag apart. She took out my passport and held it in front of me, “Ya see this?” I nodded. “This ain’t gonna be any use to you anymore. From now on, you only hold the identity that your master or mistress gives you. You have no past, no pride and no personality unless instructed otherwise. What’s your name?”
The minute I was free, this pony was going to be my first victim. I’d saw off her horn and pull out her mane and tail in tufts and cut out that confounded cutie mark of hers and make her eat it. Of course I would like to do that but given the chance I probably couldn’t bring myself to do it. Still I wanted to at least hurt her in some way. Maybe just knock out a few of her teeth. She frisked underneath my sweatshirt and, finding nothing, she returned my food and water into my saddle bags and flung them over her back. Pushing the door open, she muttered, “Search completed. You will return to your captors, Slave.”
I returned to Shultz and Stoeger and flying goggles pony who were waiting on the other side of the gate sharing whiskey with the guard captain. Shultz (who I was treating as my ‘master’ at this point) stood up and led me like a dog to what looked like a school house, but now had some seriously pornographic imagery painted over the door and definitely wasn’t a place for little fillies. They had painted over the original sign with the words ‘Prisoner Storage’, as if we were items of freight meant to be stored for future use. Which in effect we were at this point. I refer to my current predicament using the term ‘we’ as if there were many of me. In actual fact I am referring to all of the slaves currently held by the Scavengers at this point in time.
Shultz pushed the door open and welcomed me inside, which I acknowledged with a snort. The old school house had its own guard, who looked thoroughly delighted to be there, and even more delighted to see yet another prisoner for him to be responsible for. He nodded at Shultz, who nodded back, and took a key chain off his belt to unlock the steel door that separated him from the cell. It swung inwards and I was pushed in after it, stumbling and falling in a cloud of dust. What pride I had managed to maintain was immediately lost as Shultz and the guard pony cracked up laughing and slammed the door behind me. I brushed myself down and gave a dignified sniff as I returned my hat to its rightful place on my head.
The cell held three other prisoners who didn’t even nod in my direction. One of them was an earth stallion dressed in a suit and tie, both garments having been seriously damaged and almost not worth keeping. Despite his condition, he maintained an air of superiority and pride which I admired and found incredibly annoying at the same time. There was an earth mare too, dressed in less distinguished clothing. She looked like your typical Wanderer and she was busy talking softly to a young unicorn filly. The filly was quite small and garbed in only a collar. Her mane was bedraggled and untidy, and her flank was blank. It filled me with fury to see the Scavengers hold such a pony captive, but then again most of what they did filled me with fury, so this was not a new experience.
I sat myself down next to the mare and introduced myself politely, “I’m Bucky. I come from an NSA compound that just got raided. What’s your name?”
The filly said nothing for a while before saying, “I don’t have a name anymore.”
Ooooh, this shit just got real. There was no way I was letting the Scavengers away with this. They would pay a thousand fold for this, and I was going to help this filly escape if it killed me. He waited for her to calm down a little, “What is your master’s name?”
I pushed her off my shoulder and snorted. Fine. I was going to get out of here, and if she didn’t want to help then I’d just do it myself; from now on this unicorn flies solo. In hindsight that was probably not the best turn of phrase. For now though I would wait. Wait for the opportune moment. Set up a routine and analyse my opponents, waiting until I could cause the most damage. I posted myself next to the door and looked through the grill at the guard now sleeping in his chair, snoring loudly. This sight helped jog my own memory, and I realised how tired I truly was. I lay down on the cold wooden floor and let myself drift off into a deep sleep.
Chapter 12
I awoke from my light snooze feeling refreshed. My limbs ached slightly less, my head didn’t throb as much, I felt less agitated and twitchy. The sheets I’d been lying on were now filthy, however. I hadn’t realised how dirty I really was, but I think my fur would’ve been turned completely brown by dirt, had it not already been brown. My clothing wasn’t in a much better state, but at least it still did its job of staying on my body. Dust flew off into the air in a big ploom as I blew on my hat, something that I immediately regretted doing. Having resettled it on my head, I checked that my pistol was at my side (as it should be!) and glanced over at Wraith. Fatigue had gotten the better of him, and he’d dropped off into an apparently very deep sleep. It wasn’t like Wraith to sleep so well, even when he was exhausted. I suppose the sensation of being in safety and on a comfortable mattress had been too much for him to resist.
Satisfied with my appearance and ready to present myself for what I was, I left the room and made my way down the corridor to where our host assured us he’d be. On the way, I took in my surroundings. It wasn’t exactly Canterlot fine wine and dining, but in a place like the Ruins it was certainly a damn site better than anything else. I could see myself getting used to this place. I passed the door that I’d been forbidden from opening, and briefly toyed with the idea of peaking inside. But, judging from the last time I’d peaked inside somepony’s private property, I concluded that that wouldn’t be a good idea. After all, I didn’t want to get us kicked out having only just arrived.
True to his word, Perky was sitting alone in a high backed chair, a small table to one side upon which stood a lavish collection of drinks. It was a hard-core alcoholics heaven. I came to join him, taking my place in another chair close by, and waiting for him to initiate conversation. He remained silent for a disturbingly long time, simply trailing his hoof around the rim of his glass. His rifle leant against the table, polished wood and metal gleaming in the orange lamp light. I shuffled awkwardly, until eventually his head rose and his face lit up, “Oh good, you came. Sorry, I wasn’t paying attention, how long have you been here?”
I spent ages quizzing him on his array of beverages. Prior to that evening I wasn’t aware that so much variety existed. What’s that? Whiskey. What’s that? Schnapps. What’s that? That’s also schnapps. What’s that? Sherry. So many choices for getting hammered, but not a single cider or mild ale. Not wanting to appear rude, I eventually just jabbed my hoof at one of the bottles and said, “Just whatever that is then.”
“So,” began Perky, drinking from his glass of what he labelled as Sherry. “What do you want to discuss?”
Troop movements? That sounded tactical and important. I queried further, “Why are the LRSA moving their troops about? Surely it would make more sense to keep experienced soldiers where they are?”
As Perky refilled my glass at my request, I grilled him further for information. The sides here were fairly evenly matched. The LRSA had a relatively small force of well trained and battle-hardened infantry soldiers, supported by their heavy artillery and a small collection of armoured units. That meant tanks. The LRSA had active tanks in this very sector. That didn’t make me feel very good about myself. What did I do when I came up against one of those fire spitting, death bringing, skull crushing monsters? By contrast, the Scavengers had vastly superior numbers, and whilst most were hardened by endless combat, they were generally very young and not particularly well trained. Where the Scavengers had the advantage, however, was their knowledge of the area. They were all native Equestrians, unlike the LRSA who all came from Russia and other foreign countries. As such, they were familiar with the local architecture and knew how the underground sewage systems worked, meaning they could spring a surprise attack behind LRSA lines at a moment’s notice. All of this Perky told me, and as he went on to talk about their respective weapons and equipment, I downed my newly refilled glass of alcohol. It felt really good. I pulled a face when I swallowed it (the taste wasn’t wonderful), but it was worth the throat burning sensation for the rewards that came afterwards. And I didn’t even feel particularly tipsy, either. Maybe I was building a tolerance.
Wraith came in shortly after, drowsy and in a very dull mood. He slumped himself into a chair and rested his rifle over his lap, promptly falling asleep again before Perky could even offer him a drink. Thankfully, Wraith was a silent sleeper, and his presence did little to distract me. Perky continued to talk, and I continued to listen, only intervening occasionally when he went slightly off topic. And by slightly I mean grossly, as he tended to go off on a completely different tangent whenever he mentioned anything with even minor relevance to something else. I got the knack of pouring my own drink, and did so on a few occasions as he talked. The drink was like a lubricant that kept me from getting stuck. It kept my brain alert, and that was good, because I needed to be alert.
When I’d got all of the information I needed, I thanked him kindly. I stood up with my drink encased in my magic, making for the doorway. Perky immediately stood up. He grabbed hold of his rifle and motioned to follow me, a look of concern in his eyes, “Where are you going?”
And so I left the two alone to sort out their differences whilst I sought a long awaited shower. The only other thing I needed now was a washing machine and a lot of thread, but I supposed that would come in time. Maybe as a fellow needle worker he could lend me some supplies. Then again, with stitching materials likely in short supply, maybe not. I drank what remained in my glass, feeling that joyous kick in the head that I’d come to associate with this particular drink. I was regretting not asking what it was now. The shower was exactly where Perky said it would be, and like the rest of the ‘house’ it was well kitted out. The shower itself looked old, and I wasn’t sure exactly what quality the water coming out of it would be, but the rest looked pretty nice. There was a chipped sink, and a small cabinet that I could only assume contained some form of medicine (or was intended to anyway). There was a rail along one wall, over which several towels were slung. This was going to feel so good.
I stripped quickly, my jumper, hat and belt all being stacked on top of one another neatly. I stumbled slightly as I turned back towards the shower. Okay, maybe I was a little tipsy, but I wasn’t drunk. It didn’t feel the same as last time. My head wasn’t swimming for a start, but I did have a warm burning in my stomach. With only the slightest of hiccups, I clambered into the shower and experimented with the hot and cold taps for a bit. It came as a shock to me when the water rained down blisteringly cold whenever I turned the hot tap, but I quickly shut it off and gave a twist of the cold tap instead. The water that flowed was luxuriously warm, and I giggled to myself in ecstasy. Despite the taps being the wrong way around, it felt so unbelievably good to at last wash myself clean of the dirt and blood that covered my form. The water came out clear, and ran out a dirty brown. I tilted my head back to catch my mane in the flow, feeling it immediately become several times lighter as all of the mud that had accumulated over time washed out of it. Never before had I been so grateful for clean, hot water. I twirled under the stream. The feeling of all that cleansing water trickling down behind my ears, down my neck, and over my body was something just short of orgasmic. I ran my hooves through my mane and over my body a couple more times to really give myself a thorough cleaning.
After spending something close to half an hour cleaning myself, I grudgingly shut off the flow of water. As soon as it stopped I found myself wishing for it to return. Stepping out of the shower, I reached for one of the towels from the railing, beginning by aggressively towelling my mane to a state of semi-dryness. As soon as the rest of my body was at least mostly dry, I flung the towel over my back and sighed, knowing that what I’d just experienced was something that I likely wouldn’t come to know again for some time. I left the towel at the foot of my bed, not entirely sure what I was supposed to do with it, but deciding it would be best to just leave it for the time being. I went to slip my jumper over my head, but hesitated. It was still filthy, and I didn’t want to get my newly cleaned body dirty so soon. I wanted to stay clean for at least a while. I settled for just donning my hat and strapping my belt around my waist, assuring myself that I’d get my jumper cleaned at some point before I left.
What dawned on me having now completed my essential tasks was the knowledge that I had nothing to do. For the first time in a very long time, I actually had nothing to do. I didn’t have to worry about approaching Scavengers, I didn’t have to worry about any sentry duty, heck I didn’t even need to worry about weapon cleaning thanks to Wraith. What was I to do? Wraith seemed to have a few hobbies of his own to keep himself occupied, but I myself was without entertainment. Well, that wasn’t exactly true, because I did have one or two books still on me, but I’d already read both of them and knew how they ended. I jumped backwards, landing on the bed with a loud whump and resting my hooves behind my head, staring blankly up at the ceiling. Maybe this was a good opportunity to just think to myself.
What actually was I doing here? Simple, I was on my way to take down the Scavengers, that was what I was doing here. But what actually, specifically was I doing here? What did I hope to achieve from any of this? Essentially, it was me and Wraith versus an army of several million angry, aggressive maniacs that lived to kill and enjoyed inflicting harm. Those weren’t exactly good odds. Sure, we theoretically had the support of the LRSA, the NSA, and the Wanderers, but there was no common leadership, no common aim. I recalled that the same reason was what got Equestria into this situation in the first place – lack of a common goal. The LRSA wanted to re-establish the government, the NSA wanted to protect its citizens, and the Wanderers just wanted peace. They could all work together if they tried, but ultimately to no end. When the situation was broken down into its simplest components, the Scavengers had only one goal in mind, anarchy, whilst the rest of us were divided. That was why they were so successful, because they all supported each other. That was what I needed to happen amongst the rest of us common ponies.
Maybe that was it! Maybe that was how I went about bringing down the Scavengers. Instead of trying to take them all on myself, or trying to sabotage them in some way, I instead needed to find a way to unite all of the other factions against them. The LRSA had the firepower, the NSA had the strongholds, the Wanderers had the numbers and the manpower – when all was said and done, that was enough to really make a difference. All I had to do was bridge the gap between them somehow. Maybe the ponies I was on my way to meet would help me in that regard? How much power did they actually possess? I would probably find out when I got to meet them properly, but maybe they had the resources I needed to unite the various other factions. At last, at long last, it seemed that I had an achievable goal. I wasn’t planning to bring down the Scavengers on my own anymore, because that was ultimately impossible, but now all I needed to do was rally the forces of free Equestria. That was doable, and above all, would work. If I could pull this off, then the days of the Scavenger movement would be numbered.
Wraith slunk his way into the room, head bowed low and with his mane concealing a large portion of his face. From what I could see, a scowl was playing at his muzzle, and his entire body was tense, almost sending visible quivers over his form. I sat up, concerning immediately taking precedence in my mind, “What’s the matter?”
I sighed and planted my face into my hoof. What was Wraith’s problem? He sat on the end of his bed and just glared passive-aggressively at the door, his rifle on his lap. In an attempt to find a calming activity that would keep me from dwelling on things, I searched for a needle and thread. My jumper was in dire need of some repairs, and my hat could do with touching up, but what I really wanted to do was sew a few extra pockets into my belt. I had so much kit tucked away in my saddlebags that would be better distributed amongst my person for easy access – things like food, small equipment, extra ammunition and many more things besides.
Fortunately, thread was an abundant resource, and needles were easy to come by, and (after asking very nicely) Perky even fetched me some fabric to make some substantial repairs. He also gave me some leather, explaining how it would make a better pocket than fabric, and would be far more durable. I had never worked with leather before (it wasn’t common in the NSA, as it was seen as a military resource like metal) and so I was clueless as to how it would handle, but I was keen to experiment and I wasn’t warming to the idea of leaving any time soon. Besides, I needed to eventually refill my canteen and restock my larder, and I felt like it would be a good idea to get practice field stripping my new rifle. In truth, however, I was looking forward to my first opportunity to fire it, just to see how much of a kick it had.
I set about my work, eager to once more feel the glorious sensations of needle passing through fabric. The material Perky had given me felt like it was wool or cotton based, which played right into my wheelhouse. With practiced ease I started to patch up the holes that were appearing in my jumper. There were several tears all over it, which were easily fixed with just a few stitches. The primary cause for concern was on either side, where my saddlebags had chafed against me. The material there was so threadbare it was in danger of rubbing away completely, and it was apparent from initial observation that a few stitches would not be enough to fix it. Threadbare material was a nightmare for any needle worker, because any repairs you try and put into them won’t be supported by the weakened underlying material. I didn’t want to have to stitch myself an entirely new jumper, so I pondered for a while. At last, after a good few minutes of thinking, I came up with a solution. I put a little reinforcing into the fabric itself, stitching over where the material was wearing away (just to provide a little extra strength) and then sewed a few layers of fabric into the inside of my saddlebags to act as makeshift padding. Whilst it wasn’t going to fix the problem completely, it would help to slow down further chafing, at least for a while, as the smooth texture of the fabric wouldn’t wear away my clothes as much as the abrasive burlap of my saddlebags.
I ended up not putting any repairs into my hat. It wasn’t that badly damaged anyway, and any repairs I made on it wouldn’t really have had much point, considering how the only damage to it was some minor scratching here or there. It was hardly worth even considering. The whole repair session had taken me a good few hours, but it had felt wonderful to get the opportunity to once again sit down and do something I was good at without a Scavenger peering at me through binoculars. With a renewed sense of pride I slipped my jumper back over my head and shifted a little to see if it was still comfortable. Yep, I was still golden. I looked over at Wraith, who had given up staring maliciously through the doorway and was just lying on his bed, staring up at the ceiling. He had his rifle resting over his chest, and every once in a while he’d cock it slowly, as if deep in thought. I stabbed the needle into the spool of thread I’d been using and stood, my saddlebags still on the table with my hat resting atop them. The time must have been approaching midnight, if not then definitely early morning. I definitely felt drowsy, and the alcohol I’d consumed earlier wasn’t helping that, but I felt happy and unnecessarily pleased with myself, so things were alright.
Enjoying the calm, I came to stand by Wraith, gazing down at him as he continued to just stare up at the ceiling. He turned his head slightly to look at me. Immediately I could see emotion building in him. His stare was different, not his usual disinterested look. He looked sad. He sighed. I felt a need to comfort him, to console him, “What’s the matter?” I sat down on the floor next to him, so I could be at eye level. He looked back up at the ceiling.
I raised myself back up onto all fours and smiled. Wraith smiled back, but I could tell he still wasn’t convinced. I removed my belt from around my waist and slung it over my bedpost, resuming my place in my bed. I curled up on the mattress. Tomorrow, I was going to try and get all the supplies we needed, and then we’d go. Then again, it would probably be best not to rush back into the fray. Tomorrow I’d get supplies, then we’d wait another day to make sure we were fully rested up, and then we’d go. I could feel myself beginning to drift. Everything was going to be fine, everything was going to work out for us.
***
Oh glorious sleep, why must awakening succeed you? As I sat up I immediately winced as my head throbbed aggressively in protest. I resisted the temptation to lay back down (I would only fall asleep again) and rolled myself out of bed. As in, literally rolled myself out. I hit the floor with a thud and groaned in pain. I wasn’t used to sleeping so well. I got shakily to my hooves and yawned. Scratching my mane, I checked if Wraith was still asleep. He wasn’t, and in fact wasn’t even in the room. That would probably have concerned me, but at that moment I wanted nothing more than to go back to sleep. I planted my hat onto my head and pulled it down over my oversensitive eyes, shielding them from the comparatively blinding light.
The day passed as uneventfully as a day can pass in anarchic Equestria. I spent most of my time at the desk in my room toiling away with the fabric and leather provided to me. Turns out, leather is a bitch to work with. It’s extremely tough and doesn’t take a needle well, and the thread has to be double or in some places even triple reinforced to stop it snapping. It took me a few hours and several failed experiments to finally get the hang of working with it. By the time mid-afternoon rolled around (I assumed, as there was no definitive method of time keeping), I had fashioned myself some satisfactory equipment. I had made myself a new holster, and whilst rather crude and basic in design, was made very visually appealing by the golden thread I’d stitched it with. It looked like some sort of old antique from years back. My Glock fit nicely into it, and I fastened it to my belt in place of the old one. The next notable addition to my gear was a bandolier I’d based of ones I’d seen the Scavengers use. It was simply a leather strap that crossed my chest diagonally, with three pouches sewn into it. I designated one pouch for spare magazines, one for loose rounds, and one for emergency snacks (because walking is tiring work and you don’t want to stop every half hour to pull sugar out of your saddlebags).The only other change I’d made to my gear was the addition of a new fabric strip along the inside of my belt to stop it chafing me. Oh, and on the aesthetics side, I’d taken to wearing a knot of black cloth around my neck, kind of as homage to the whole farming culture of the Wanderers that I was now affiliated with.
Pushing myself away from the desk, I grabbed the sling of my rifle and let it hang around my neck in front of me, as I had become accustomed to doing. I was considering painting it at some point, making it really unique to me. I wanted a sort of crimsony scheme, with scarlet highlights on the end of the barrel and around certain components. I also wanted to swap the crappy polymer stock with a nice wooden one, just to really bring out that rustic feel that appealed to me so. So enthralled was I in imagining how I could customize my weapon that I walked straight past Wraith, standing outside the door to Perky’s room with his ear planted firmly against it. I spent a moment or two toying with the collar of my jumper, and then immediately put myself into reverse gear and scooted back along the carpet to where Wraith was stood, casting him an incredulous gaze. He pulled me away to the main room, as if keen to speak to me but fearing that Perky would overhear.
“That was a little rough, don’t you think?” I growled, massaging the back of my neck. He really had pulled quite hard. “What’s the big problem then? Is he practising voodoo?”
We spent the next few minutes debating an alternative subject. Wraith was considering just storming in to see what all the secrecy was about, but I was feeling a little more reserved. Reason numero uno, he’d probably kill us, or at least attempt to. That would not be a favourable outcome, and we’d be forced out of the safety of his home a lot sooner than I would have liked. Secondly, there was the chance that we may not like what we saw. Thirdly, there was a chance that there was nothing going on at all, and my theory that Wraith was just being paranoid would be proven correct. This had the undesirable consequence of destroying the trust bond that we currently shared (or I currently shared) with him, and possibly inspire resentment. My final reason, which I never voiced for apparent reasons, was that maybe he was just having a good old fun time, and that was certainly something that I could do without seeing. It ultimately boiled down to one pivotal argument – Wraith was going in whether I was or not, and that was not subject to change.
What Wraith left me with was a toss-up between whether I supported him in this venture, or whether I supported Perky. In the end, I decided I’d side with Wraith, simply because, no matter the outcome, I would be spending a lot more time around him than around Perky, and he may have felt slightly betrayed had I not taken his side. Plus, I was his unofficially announced but still rather obvious marefriend, and it was kind of my job to back him up in this sort of thing. But Wraith was making the moves and doing the arguing. Really my only job was to act as an arbiter to prevent hooves from flying, because there was no way in the whole of the Ruins that I was going to be throwing the punches. With minds set and bravado at a worrying high, Wraith and I set about confronting Perky about his secrecy.
Wraith motioned to clutch the handle to the door. I leaned against the wall and watched him, my face remaining as passive as possible. Part of me wanted to see him chicken out, but part of me also wanted to see if he had the balls to do what he claimed he was going to do. Wraith was brave and everything, but he wasn’t very good in a head to head argument, particularly when he was in the wrong (or when mares were involved). Wraith shrugged slightly, his rifle rejigging across his back into a more comfortable position, and with a stern nod of his head he twisted the handle and pulled the door open. Then he realised it was a push door and pushed it instead, a noticeable blush appearing at the tips of his ears.
Utter silence.
I mean literally, complete and utter silence. The minute that door opened, Perky shut the fuck up faster than a prisoner before a Doberman. The room was dark, with no lights on what so ever, probably because there were no lights in the room to be turned on. The room was exceptionally long, but not particularly wide, making it resemble a corridor more than a room. At the opposite end of the room was Perky, sat in a chair at a desk, his back to us. It was hard to tell, but it looked like he was shaking slightly. Wraith and I stood motionless, awaiting his response to our intrusion. He didn’t move. I could hear the slow, controlled, inward and outward rhythm of his breathing. He dropped something onto the desk. It made a metallic clacking noise as it hit the wood. Perky rested his hooves by his sides.
Silence.
“You shouldn’t be in here.” His voice carried a very dangerous tone that I was not happy hearing. It was the same tone that usually preceded the hurried removal of a vital organ. “But seeing as you are, and there is no sense in hiding anymore, perhaps you’d like to see what I’m working on.” That was honestly the last thing I wanted to do, and I felt that it would be much safer to just close the door. Really I’d expected it just to be like any normal room, and I just expected to see Perky performing some mundane task like tailoring (which he was supposedly very good at), or drawing or weapon maintenance or… other activities that shall remain nameless. Really, this whole room was the exact polar opposite of what we’d already seen, and seemed to perfectly mirror the side of his personality that he’d shown us.
Wraith, ever the straightforward one, made his way into the room without so much as a second thought and made his way to stand next to Perky. Intent on not being left out, I followed behind him, but I was far more cautious in my approach, keeping my mind focused so I could quickly bring my pistol to bear if Perky tried anything. Wraith took up post on Perky’s left, and I on his right. I looked down at the desk. Perky, clearly an avid needle craftspony, had before him an amalgamation of various different tools, varying from simple needles to more surgical instruments such as scalpels. To one side was a stack of fabric of various colours, and a collection of spools of different threads, with such a variety of colour and thickness I’d never seen before, even in a professional tailor’s shop. In the centre of the desk was Perky’s project, a small fabric pony with a quaint little Scavenger tunic over its little body. It was actually kind of adorable.
“I told you it was nothing to worry about.” I jabbed Wraith in the side and frowned at him. Wraith said nothing. In fact, he didn’t even acknowledge my jab. He just stared down at the pony doll on the desk, with its Scavenger uniform and black fabric body and bright red button eyes. Hang on a second. I looked back at the doll. I looked back up at Wraith. Okay, that was a little creepy. Even the rank on the Scavenger tunic matched Wraith’s. Perky pushed the doll aside and pulled out a box from under the desk. Wordlessly, he slid it onto the desk and flipped off the lid, pulling out of it another fabric doll. This one was likewise finely crafted, but was made predominantly of brown fabric, with a little black jumper and hat. Perky stood it next to the Wraith doll. In the following time, he removed something close to fifteen or so other dolls, each one different and each one likely reminiscent of another pony.
I started to slowly make my way back towards the door. No way was I staying in this place a moment longer. Perky was a lot creepier than I had initially given credit for. As I slowly backed away, Perky growled, “I wouldn’t if I were you. That’s what the rest of them did. You don’t understand do you? What it’s like to be alone for most of your life? All I want is a friend. Why do they always try to run?” In seconds few, Perky had reached into the box again and drawn an old metal pistol, turning it on me and preparing to fire. I made to draw my pistol but before I could Wraith had thumped Perky in the temple. He collapsed and groaned, clutching at the side of his head. I looked at Wraith.
There was a crack of rifle fire from behind me and the head of the mannequin closest to me was carved open, spattering gore over the wall and inspiring new horror in me. They weren’t mannequins at all. They were still ponies. But how? Why? What psycho did that to other ponies? With no time to spare and give the thought much attention, I disappeared through the door just as Perky had loaded another round into the chamber, ready to fire once again upon me. Now I understood the function of a long and straight corridor. Perky could quite easily fire straight down it and not even worry about aiming. It wasn’t like there were many places to hide. To buy some extra time, I slammed the door shut with my magic. It would hold Perky back for all of half a second, but maybe that was all we needed.
The clattering sound of eight hooves on concrete was all I could hear, until at last I ploughed through the towel that concealed the corridor’s entrance. Wraith already had the door to the closet open and I wasted no time ducking through it. A shot rang out and a bullet pinged off the wall in front of the towel, ricocheting and only narrowly missing Wraith’s right ear. With a growl he unslung his own rifle and brought it to bear down the passageway, firing once before cocking and slamming the door behind him as he came to join me. Even now I could hear the sound of Perky hurtling down the corridor to try and catch us.
Wraith and I ran. We had no idea whether the direction in which we were running would lead us back to the streets of the Ruins, but we didn’t care. At the moment, our biggest ally was the fact that Perky couldn’t tell where we were going. Perky knew the corridors of the building better than we did, but he didn’t know in which way we’d run, nor in which direction we intended to go. We’d deliberately not chosen the route we’d taken on the way here, as it was the most obvious path to take and Perky would have assumed we’d go that way. Instead, we took a much more intricate series of corridors and rooms, constantly changing direction and hoping against hope that we wouldn’t get trapped inside the building. All we needed was to find a way back down to street level.
At one point we did actually run into Perky (I know, what are the chances?) We turned a corner into a conference room and there he was, having just emerged from a completely different corridor. There was fury in his eyes and with a yell that put a dragon to shame he began to send bullets our way with his rifle. Fortunately we managed to lose him, but it had been close. Perky was quick, and he was either insane or just really determined, because it seemed like he never tired. We spent what felt like hours running through the maze of corridors, hoping against hope that we weren’t running into a dead end.
I was panting furiously from the physical effort, the weight of my saddlebags and rifle only making it worse. My lungs were on fire, and my breathing was laboured and shallow. Wraith even seemed to be struggling somewhat, with his mane drenched in sweat and his hooves starting to drag slightly. I thought the chase would never end but, just as I was starting to give up all hope, we turned into a room with one wall filled with blown out windows. Wraith didn’t even stop to check what was below, he just hurled himself out of the window and down into the street below. Fortunately, we weren’t many stories up, and he landed in the street with a forward roll to absorb some of the impact, straightening himself and panting to catch his breath. Fortunately for him, he hadn’t landed amongst a pack of Scavengers. Rather unfortunately (for him in particular) he had landed amongst a pack of Russians, clad in the black uniform of the LRSA. They also had quite a bit more firepower than Wraith. Six rifles against one wasn’t exactly what I would call good odds, not to mention the added damage of a 125mm cannon. Every Russian soldier in the entire patrol had their rifles trained on Wraith, and their officer was barking at him aggressively. I got the feeling that I’d have to intervene.
Taking care not to kill myself on the way down, I nonetheless still managed to trip over as I reached the ground, attracting some attention from the nearest soldier. He rounded on me and kept his rifle trained at my head, attempting to give me instructions but clearly not understanding that not everypony spoke Russian. I stood, which inspired a lot of anger in the soldier who stuck the barrel of his rifle into the side of my head, as if I’d just done something wrong. The officer (a stallion of average height but with a face as angular as a box) slung his rifle over his back and turned to look at me. He was stood in front of the behemoth of a vehicle that currently remained still, its engine noisily growling beneath its armoured housing. The commander of the tank poked his out of the hatch, a sub machinegun in one hoof, but the officer in charge motioned for him to stand down and get back in his tank. He looked at me. Hopefully he was like the Germans and spoke English.
“Who are you?”
The officer shook his head, not believing (or maybe just not understanding) a word I’d just said. He gave Wraith a hard shove and he fell face first onto the floor, a satisfying thud kicking up a small cloud of dust. In an instant one of the Russian soldiers grabbed me from behind and pulled hard, immediately pressing his pistol under my muzzle. The officer drew his own pistol, and in an execution style pose with his hoof in Wraith’s back, aimed it at his head. My mind was racing, searching for a solution, but none presented themselves. As I was sure the officer was about to put a bullet into the base of Wraith’s skull, a crack rang out from somewhere in one of the nearby buildings, and the officer dropped as his shoulder was torn open, inspiring a shriek of pain as he lay in the street clutching at his wound, bone fragments sticking into his flesh.
In a flurry of activity, the Russians had their weapons ready and were returning fire, taking cover wherever they could and unloading round after round on the building Wraith and I had just escaped from. From about three stories up, I could see a tall pink pony clutching at a bolt action rifle. There was a glint of sunlight and I found myself staring into the pony’s telescopic sight. Before Perky could put me down and out, however, I had darted away and was hiding behind the behemoth of a tank that the Russians had with them. Wraith was likewise scurrying to get out of the crossfire. I was hoping against hope that none of the LRSA decided to turn their rifle on him for an easy kill shot.
What the fuck did Perky think he was doing? Even I wouldn’t think of opening fire on a fully armed LRSA patrol, even if they didn’t have a tank. It was basically like putting your own head on the chopping block. Shots continued to be exchanged, most of which came from the barrels of the LRSA, but there was the occasional ping of the side of the tank’s armour or the satisfying thud of a bullet making contact with flesh. The officer had been dragged over to cover away from the action, and was being treated by the patrol’s medic. Elsewhere, two other soldiers lay dead, and the gunner on top of the tank was slumped over his machinegun, bleeding over the components and occasionally twitching spastically.
There was a loud, mechanical whirring sound as the tank’s turret began to rotate slowly. I peered over the hull, up at Perky’s position. He’d retreated back, likely to avoid the wrath of the armoured beast. The massive barrel of the tank elevated, before coming to a halt and all fire from the LRSA soldiers ceasing. For a brief moment, there was silence. The only sound that could be heard was the sound of the officer still screaming from behind cover. Suddenly, a muffled shout came from the interior of the tank, and there was an earthshattering boom. The force of the shot sent a colossal cloud of dust and debris around the hull airborne. My ears began to ring noisily and my vision shook. I bounced slightly in my position, being flung forward as I lost my balance. When I tested with my hoof, there was a small trickle of blood dribbling from my nose. Behind me, a large portion of the building’s face had collapsed and was still collapsing into the street, kicking up more dust and sending tremors through the earth.
When the dust settled and the ringing in my ears subsided somewhat, the street was a completely different picture. The building was missing a large portion of its near face, and a fresh pile of rubble maybe a story or two high had accumulated on the road. Everypony, LRSA soldiers included, were almost completely covered in dust. In total, three of the soldiers lay dead, the officer was wounded, and there was one soldier missing completely. Wordlessly, after wiping their goggles clean, the soldiers set about clearing up their dead. It was rather disturbing watching the way they went about it. They picked up their late comrades, threw them over their backs, and lay them on the hull of the tank over the engine, literally just piling them on top of one another, their weapons clattering against the metal of the vehicle. The still whimpering officer was rested against the back of the turret, next to the dead stallions, a fresh dressing on his shoulder which looked to still be bleeding profusely. One of the soldiers on foot hopped up into the tank turret, setting himself up behind the machinegun on the turret.
I was grabbed aggressively by the collar and dragged off out of the road into the cover of another building. The soldiers had seemed to have completely forgotten about me and Wraith, and with only a superficial sweep of the immediate area, they began to move on, the engine of the tank roaring loudly as it lurched forward. The soldiers, now down five members, were severely shaken, moving with far more caution. I looked at Wraith, who was crouched in the shadows a few feet from me, peering through a shot out window. He watched the soldiers walk past. He turned to me, “And that’s why we don’t trust the LRSA.”
Wraith snorted, leaning back against a pile of rubble. It was beginning to get dark again. I fell onto my haunches and sighed my deepest, most heartfelt sigh. We’d been here, what, a couple days maybe, and we’d made almost no progress what so ever. As a matter of fact, I didn’t even know which way we’d been coming from nor which way we’d been going. The only thing that Wraith and I could do for the moment was keep ourselves alive until we found some way out. We needed a plan, and a plan I was determined to devise in as short a space of time as possible. Ideally we’d be hitching a ride with the LRSA, but that would prove more difficult than I’d first thought (bearing in mind that neither I nor Wraith spoke a word of Russian), and I didn’t much fancy going it alone. If Wraith could ditch his uniform somewhere and grab one from the LRSA then maybe we could convince them that he was an Equestrian soldier who’d gotten separated? It would be a long shot but with a few well-placed words and a little flaunting of the old faithful then maybe we…
“I think I’ve got a plan.”
Damn, he had me there. True, my plan to get us hitched to the LRSA wasn’t exactly bullet proof and relied on inordinate amounts of luck, but I’d much prefer my chances with the Russians than with the savages. The more I thought about it the more I realised how grim the situation was. It was honestly like having to choose between a rape dungeon and a torture chamber. On one hoof, you’ll never be able to look at your privates ever again without having flashbacks, and on the other you’d probably not be able to walk properly ever again. Actually, those are interchangeable. Maybe that meant something.
“Okay, so assuming we do actually manage to convince a patrol we’re their friends and somehow get past the sentries, how do we remain unnoticed? Surely at some point somepony’s going to tip of the brass as to our presence, and when they found no mention of us in their system, we’re essentially screwed.”
Dammit Wraith! I hated it when the Scavengers were mentioned in my presence, and I wasn’t necessarily over joyed about walking amongst them in broad daylight. Plus, I hadn’t forgotten about Wraith’s stories of the Ruins and those who inhabit them. Besides, I noticed one critical flaw in his plan, “What about passports?”
After much searching (mostly on my part, as Wraith was all but paralysed by the twinges in his back) we eventually found a place to settle down for the remainder of the night. As I sat hunched over with my legs tucked close to my body, I scanned the streets before me for signs of movement. We’d set up shop in what looked to have been an old garage, but which had been heavily bombed to block off access to the remainder of the buildings. This had the added benefit of providing us with a rubble barricade between us and the street, but with still enough roof left to keep us sheltered. That was primarily what had made the location so attractive in the first place.
As Wraith slept behind me, I shivered in silence. What was I doing here? I ought to be tucked up in bed back with the NSA, letting the Militia and Watchponies do the sentry duty for me. I wasn’t supposed to be out here in the most dangerous place in all of Equestria, scared for my life in dark streets, distant artillery booming endlessly in both my ears. I sucked on the end of a pencil. I’d rifled through a few filing cabinets before my turn on sentry, and had recovered a very tattered old jotter and a pencil, which I now kept on me for just such boring occasions as these. I went to take up the pencil with my magic, but then remembered that magic let off a glow which could be seen by a Scavenger, and switched immediately to using my hoof instead. I was equally proficient with both, a trait that not many unicorns possessed.
I couldn’t see three inches in front of my face. Well, that’s a lie, I could see a little. I could see as far as my rear hooves tucked beneath me, but that was about it. It was dreadfully cold, too. Eventually, I tapped my pencil against the jotter and went to making a few brief notes down the margin. I signed it off with a title, ‘Reasons to stay alive’. I felt that if I had a conclusive list of things that I needed to accomplish before the Scavengers cut my lungs out, it would work as an incentive not to give up. Right at the top of the list was ‘To save Equestria’. There weren’t many reasons, however, and the full list consisted of:
‘To save Equestria’
That was it. I ended up deciding against adding ‘To bitch slap the NSA’, but only because I actually felt sorry for them. All of the poor buggers were just desperate to live normal lives, but had to accept that the country they inhabited was infested with murderers, arsonists, maniacs, rapists and foreign soldiers. In reality, it was hardly a country at all. The entire of Equestria was just one big warzone. And that was why I had to stay alive, so I could turn it back into a country again and not a place in which everypony lived in fear. I closed the jotter and slid the pencil into the binding, returning to combo to my saddlebags.
When I looked into myself (for some spiritual reason or other) I wasn’t sure what exactly it was I was finding. I didn’t know whether I was excited for the future or terrified of it. The image of a once again free Equestria was certainly exciting, and the idea of at last being able to settle down and not have to carry a pistol about every day seemed like a nice idea. I felt like I wanted to have foals at some point, probably not for a while, but at some point. But then, the idea that the Scavengers could ruin all of that was a frightening prospect. And what happened if they reformed? If what was left of them when (or if) they were defeated banded together again and terrorised the new, unprepared Equestria? There would be bloodshed on an unimaginable scale, and that was something I didn’t want to have to see.
All the more reason to keep fighting, I suppose.
