Fallout: Equestria: Counting Stars

I guess if we didn't laugh at things that didn't make sense, we couldn't react to much of life.

***

It was either the heaviest rainstorm or the pussiest tornado that Glyphmark had ever experienced.

As I lay awake in my top bunk -which is a crappy-ass bed- the storm refused to get the best of me. I heard the rain pour down onto the Favela rooftops in a torrential downpour as I read my copy of “Guns and Ammo”. With the wind’s savage pounding and the rain’s deafening downpour rocking our home, it felt like the building we were in would have collapsed at any second. Considering how crappily this place was built, that occurrence was actually very likely.

I propped myself up on my scratchy hay mattress; I was careful not to knock the candle on my nightstand into my bedding. I reached out and nudged the candle at a slightly safer distance away from me. Reassured, I continued to read my prewar copy of "Guns and Ammo", picking up where I had left off at an article about the short-stroke piston NRF- MD2 rifle. At that moment in time life was good.

Far away I heard the distant echoes of the skeleton crew moving our supply of gunpowder into a dry storage area, since soaked gunpowder is bad gunpowder. I heard grunts and several colourful curses in heavy Zebraic through the rain. It was times like these that made me glad to be a day shift town guard.

On the opposite side of the room I saw my roommate, and marefriend, Xephyr, sleeping peacefully on her bed. I could see her small, muscular black striped body poking out from under her sheet.

On her bedstand stood a picture of her parents -two unknown zebras- handing Xephyr as a baby, wrapped in a bundle, to my father, Lancer, who was a teenager at the time. The photo on my nightstand is that of my dead mother, Iota and my, Lancer, who was halfway invisible under a stealth cloak.

As the storm raged on, I decided it was time to get some shut eye. After all, the cold moisture of rain always makes them the best time to sleep. So I blew out my candle, tried to make myself comfortable in my crappy bed, and fell asleep.

*** *** ***

*** *** ***

I awoke.

Normally it’s not very pretty when I wake up in the morning; my brain gets fuzzy, my muscles don’t work, and by vision gets blurry; it’s just a large-ass mess. Today was no exception to that rule; I rolled over in my bed, my teared-up eyes making the whole world seem like I was hopped up on the ‘shrooms. My barrel bedstand looked like a giant brown blob.

I stretched out my cramped muscles, flexing them methodically, as was my morning routine. Right quad, left quad. Right calf, left calf.  As I stretched out my final muscle, I heard a few voices from outside, to the west side of our building; the skeleton crew was switching out with the day shift.

The first zebra said, “Habere bonum trabea! Populatores sunt supposted ad esse male hoc tempore anno”, which roughly translated  into: “Have a nice day, the raiders are abundant at this time of the year.”

He was right; around spring, raiders, both diseased and professional, were at their strongest. As for why... well, I really don’t know.

The day worker, who's voice I recognized as the guard captain's, shouted, straining his voice: “LANTHE! GET THE HELL TO YOUR POST!” His voice echoed throughout the Favela, probably waking up even those who had another two hours to sleep. The surprised gasps and muffled swearing from the areas nearby told me that was most likely the case.

“Well, that woke me up.” I took a look at the old, analog watch strapped onto my left leg, towards the hoof, and immediately yelled: “Oh, shit!” when I saw the time. I needed to be at my guard post ten minutes ago! If I was late again, the captain was going to have my hide!

Newly refreshed and woken up, not to mention fearing for my skin, I ran to my barrel bedstand, opened the top drawer with my mouth, and frantically rummaged through the contents, looking for a certain something.

‘No... no... no... n-is that a thong? No... no... YES!’

With that thought, I pulled out a familiar leather sheath out of my cluttered drawer. I buckled my gladius to my belt, around my neck, and then I tightened the straps with my teeth. After doing so I ran to the door, ignoring Xenith, who was still sleeping peacefully despite the ruckus I made, and entered the narrow hallway outside of my room. Taking a right, I dashed down the makeshift stairs, and ran straight into the kitchen. Upon entering, I immediately spotted a familiar zebra sitting at the small table in the center of the wooden room. A few beams of light from the holes in the wall illuminated his face, showing me my best friend, Desmond.

Desmond, my best bro, was one of the original twenty members of the tribe that had settled in Glyphmark along with me. The extra hundred or so, who we called “newbies”, had been picked up in the few months following when the “Stable Dweller”, or Littlepip, had saved our town from starving to death by teaching us to produce Dash.

"Svetkas!" I called out to him. This was a traditional zebra greeting, which had no translation into Equestrian.

"Mornin' to you, too," said Desmond caustically. A raging insomniac, Desmond Starsword was often cynical and grumpy. However, he was my best bro, so I usually let it slide. After all, it would be kind of unfair not to, as I was be a complete ass to him when I didn’t get enough sleep.

Damn, I was hungry. Slinging a waiting water skin onto my back, I said, "Hey, Des, toss me one!"

Heeding my request, Desmond grabbed a granola bar off his plate, and flung it in my general direction. I caught it in my mouth, gobbling it down with a ferocity that bordered on madness. With crumbs of granola still on my muzzle, I shouldered the door open, entering the street.

*** *** ***

“Me excusare! Excuse me!”

Glyphmark was an ugly town. When you weren’t busy plugging your nose from the sewage, or getting mugged by one of it’s 120 residents, you were able to take a long, hard look at it. And it wasn’t pretty.

I lived in the Favela, or Pretium. This was where most of us lived, which was only really eating and sleeping. The Favela was made up of makeshift two-story buildings, mostly wooden frames with metal sheets attached to them with rusty nails. They weren’t the most comfortable of dwellings, but they suited our purposes nicely. If, you know, you count making us look like we live in a junkyard as one of their purposes.

I didn’t want to wake up any of the still-sleeping residents of the living area, so I stealthily ran down the deserted, narrow, rusty streets of the Favela, my Gladius slapping against my shoulder in its sheath.

After running past the town bar and saying “Hi” to some of our friendly local alcoholics, I spotted a familiar door leading into a building bordering the 12-hoof wall that surrounded our town. My eyes drifting from the sharpened tree wall, I ran to the door, shouldering it open as I had the one before. I could tell that this was going to be a bad day.

*** *** ***

Ah, the break room.

The break room was the best. Always smelling of cigars and stale vodka, it was sure to give you just that push you needed to get through the day. My morning shift crew, who had spent the night in preparation for our early start, was strewn about on the couches on the perimeter of the room, snoring like a storm.

Tossing my gladius belt onto one of the two pool tables, I casually waltzed my lazy ass over to the one free couch on the south end of the metal room. Plopping my flank down, I stretched my limbs.

"It's great to be earl...."

"WAKE UP, YOU INCOMPETENT MOTHERFUCKERS!"

"Aah!" With a yell, my recently-plopped form rolled off of the flea- ridden couch and onto the floor with a resounding thump. I came to my senses, standing up.

Screw it! Just screw it.

The head guard, a cheery fellow by the name of Quintus, was a large, imposing zebra that had at least a few feet on me. He stood at the bottom of the staircase leasing up to his office, surveying the practical carnage strewn across the break room. Everyone stood up, and sleepily snapped to what some might call attention.

He spoke again, in a low, gravelly voice.

"Do your jobs. You know how." He commanded, his voice completely devoid of emotion. He then turned to me.

“Lanthe, in my office.  Now.”

He went back up the small staircase, opening the door at the top. I uneasily followed, noting his apparent lack of the aura of anger that usually followed him around like some sort of of airborne parasite.

I closed the door behind me and sat down, leaving the other members of my shift to scramble up the other set of stairs to the guard towers. I looked at Quintus across the low-lit, small room and sat down.

Quintus took a sip of what I assumed was water out of his waterskin, keeping silence. I broke it.

“Boss, if this is about my tardiness, I..”

He responded. “No, Lanthe. I need you to work a triple shift tomorrow.” He pushed a few papers on his desk, as if to draw my attention from that statement.

Damn. I exhaled, dumbstruck. A single shift was twelve hours long, and payed next to nothing. I needed more than that. I leaned back.

“Sir, with all due respect, I’m gonna want a crap load of money for this.” I held my breath, ready for his reaction.

“No pay.” He got up, and made his way to the door. I stood up and blocked him.

“Now why the HELL is that?” I responded, switching to my native language about halfway through.

He spoke in Equestrian, adamant to keep the conversation on his ground.

“Lanthe, as of now, there’s only eight guards working the day shift, and two on the night. We’re running on half capacity.”

“So? That’s two per tower! Why not just double up on everyone?!”

He thought for a second, as if thinking of a reason.

“You’re out best shooter.”

I was confounded. I was one of the worst shots on the shift, and definitely the worst one here now. And that wasn’t even counting the fact that our rifles were mostly made of plastic.

“You know damn well that’s not true.” In the most recent shooting practice, I had hit a bulls-eye. On someone else’s target.

“Just do it. Now move your ass out of the fucking way before I do it for you.” I moved aside, regretfully letting him go downstairs uninterrupted.

There it is.

*** *** ***

“So then he just laid it on me! Thirty-six work hours straight! That’s crazy, Right? Right?” I inquired.

Desmond Starsword continued to munch on his hydroponic sandwich.

“Des.”

My single word reverberated off the metal-panelled walls, and still had no effect on the apathetic zebra.

He looked up from the makeshift barrel-table, noticing me for the first time. “Huh?”

I facehoofed. Although my best friend, he could be a real douche sometimes.  I re-explained my situation to him.

“Well,” He said after hearing me out. “I know a guy from ABP who can hook you up with some energy drinks.

Angel Bunny Pharmaceuticals was the commercial center of Glyphmark. It used to sell prescriptions and over-the-counter meds, but we now use it’s hydroponics bay to produce Dash, a high-potency inhalant that induces powerful delusions of grandeur. Which, by the way, we call “energy drink”.

I scoffed, “Sorry, but I’m not into pulmonary hypertension.”

Desmond looked confused. “Dash induces edema, not hypertension, idiot.”

“I was just saying a random medical term. Either way, drugs are out of the question.”

Desmond gobbled up the last of his artificial sandwiches. “Look, let me think it over. I always find a way to solve crap this. Gimme some time to look around town, and there’s bound to be someone who knows about this shit.”

“Thanks.”

“You owe me.” He said, standing up. He winked. “I’ve gotta run. Drugs don’t make themselves!”

*** *** ***

I sat at the barrel-table in our building, watching the water-clock resting on our counter drip away the long minutes. I probably should’ve gotten some air around then, but the strange nature of my orders wouldn’t stop gnawing at me. Nevertheless, there would be no answers until Desmond returned with some sort of info or contact for me.

*Drip*

The water-clock counted off the next minute. I contemplated resting my weary head on the barrel-wood, but decided against it, fearing for the integrity of the years-old, rotten vessel.

‘If I spend much more time in this room waiting, I’ll suffocate.’ The small, metal room was beginning to slowly whittle away at my patience for my best friend.

I needed something to keep myself busy before I became a vegetable. I was going insane.

To entertain myself, I pulled the hefty leather belt off my neck, laying it on the barrel-table with an audible thunk. I gripped the leather-wrapped handle tightly with my teeth, drawing the sword out of it’s oiled sheath without a whisper of noise.

I laid the instrument of war on the table next to the sheath. Two-and-a-half feet long, hand-forged, the titanium alloy leaf-blade perfectly weighted and optimized for the maximum torque and power whilst striking at one’s enemy. This was the standard-issue gladius for Zebra legionnaires for about a month before the bombs descended.

I gripped it in my teeth once more, and stood up, assuming a combat stance.

~~~~~~~~~~

I swept my right-front hoof in a semicircle, testing out my opponent. My motion drew a perfect half-circle in the rubble at my feet.

The large black Alicorn did absolutely nothing. This told me that she was a smart swordsmare, which could be deadlier than any artillery.

The gladius in my mouth was my only advantage here. My only upper ground was that I could puncture that Emperor-forsaken shield.

The midnight-colored being withdrew about two feet, stepping her shield out of the reach of my weapon.

“You think that you have the skills or power to beat us?” Snarled the repulsive voice in my head. “You would be better off as a stain on the ground. That puny sharpened stick you call a sword will do nothing against me.” The alicorn contemplated something for a moment. I took the second’s hesitation to step mere inches inward, bringing me just within striking range of the beast.

“We will make this more... fair.” The black alicorn stared down at me contemptuously, and said something under her breath. A sharpened sword, identical to mine, appeared in her jaw.

“Fight, puny one. You will lose. You know it to be true.” My enemy swung her weapon in a deadly arc, leaving a smoky contrail through the air.

I took stock of my new situation. Behind the beast was the ruins of Old Glyphmark, an assortment of shacks that had been crushed by the rampaging foe. The rubble at my feet was what remained of my house.

I fought the urge to run, knowing that I would die here. My only hope was to take this bitch with me. I had the skills, but not the size or strength.

I analysed my opponent. The only possible way to hit her would be to let her take my blade, and disengage. I would then have to weave a web of steel so intricate that she could not even touch my sword.

I coiled my back hooves, ready to pounce.

The alicorn laughed. “Feisty one. You will make a good piece of Unity.”

I pounced, flying over the rubble.

“Lanthe.”

~~~~~~~~~~

Desmond’s low and raspy voice woke me from my flashback. He looked at me in my battle stance, ready to lash out at my imaginary opponent at the slightest of provocations.

He looked at me quizzically, although not all that surprised. I did things like this often, taking up a surprising amount of time as I did so.

Desmond, however, had not been affected by the horrific events of our past nearly as much as the larger portion of the original tribesmen. He had a stoic-ness about him, the kind that would allow him to have a staring contest with a rock. And win.

“Lanthe, stop foaling around with your dad’s old standby beating stick that he loved so much and listen.”

I seriously considered making him into a Zebra-kebab at this point, but then I would have no information. ‘I’ll wait until later for that.’

I resisted the urge, sliding my gladius into it’s sheath and slinging it up and around my neck.

“What?”

Desmond closed the door behind him. The entire rotting building shook with the force.

“Is Xephyr upstairs?”

“No,” I replied. “She’s out with her mom somewhere.”

“Whoa! Does Xenith know you two are-”

“Nope.”

“Wow, you’d better watch your ass around her, then.” He said, concerned. Xenith, Xephyr’s mom, was, like, Equestria’s leading supplier of kick-ass. She’d come to town with Littlepip three months ago. “Anyhow, I got you somebody to talk to. His name’s Demusei, and he works up at A.B.P..”

“Demusei?” I over-pronounced the name. In Zebraic, it translated quite literally into “Pit Fighter.”

“Yeah. And before you ask, no. He’s not a pit fighter.”

I smiled. “We hang out too much.”

“You owe me.” The striped ball of stoic that was Desmond went upstairs, ready to do whatever the hell he did when he wasn’t around me.

*** *** ***

“Do you WANT your ass on a stick, or was it some sort of accident? Because usually when somebody I BARELY know comes up to me and asks for a favor, they end up being the world’s largest ice cream cone! You see this baton? It’s about to be your new best friend.”

I had just gotten finished asking the world’s most piss-poor excuse for a security guard for entrance to A.B. pharmaceuticals. It had gone south after I had maybe mentioned a little that I had a better job than him. But only a little.

Angel Bunny Pharmacy towered over my short form, dominating the nonexistent skyline of Glyphmark. The building, a marvel of engineering by Glyphmark standards, towered upwards six stories, with another two floors underground where the Dash was made. Serving as both the administrative and economic center of the town, our home couldn’t, by any means, exist without it. Zebras of all ages and genders milled about the flagstone square in front of the towering mass, either working or on break. All of the former went about their business in brown HazMat suits, making it impossible to discern their identities. Those not in the bulky suits mostly spent their time eating or tossing any spare caps into the well dug into the center of the square.

I turned away from the fat-ass guard, dismayed. I had been told earlier that Demusei, now not necessarily a guy, worked as a floor supervisor in the hydroponics bay, but that was about all I knew about him (or her...). I was stumped.

I sighed, looking at the giant clock emblazoned on the front of the brick building. The half-wasted clock helpfully reminded me that it was eleven in the morning, giving us an hour until the traders showed up from the North.

I got to my feet, making my way towards the zebra nearest to me. It was time to start looking.

The zebra, a tall and skinny female, had just gotten finished throwing caps in the well, and was on her way out. A golden ring hung from her nose, signifying... something. I was never good at discerning the meaning of the jewelery that seemed to hang from the females everywhere. They usually had a meaning, though.

“Hey do you know a guy by the name of Demusei? I-”

“You are Lanthe, are you not?” She said suspiciously. I was taken aback by the commanding air that came with her speech. it seemed like SHE should be captain, not Quintus. I wanted to do what she wanted, now.

“He of the armies of old?” She offered. Here she referred to my father, who still considered himself a member of the Roaman legion, regardless of the fact the war was over. I disapproved. What’s done is done is done.

“One might call me that.” Venom dripped from my voice, provoked by mention of my father.

“I remember your father. A stout zebra, he was.”

I was disgusted. “I don’t take after Lancer. To him, I’m nothing but a ‘traitor.’ ” I spat on the ground to drive the point home.

“Suit yourself. Either way, I heard you wanted information about Quintus.”

I went for it. “Why did he give me a triple shift?”

She looked around, a touch of paranoia in her eyes. She switched to Zebraic.

“The orders came straight from the Mayor. She wants YOU on the shift, specifically the third one.”

I wasn’t at all surprised. Although nobody EVER saw her, save for her assistant, it was routine for her to pull strings like this. What concerned me was the “Why”.

“Well, why the third shift?”

“All I know is that something very big is happening in forty-eight hours. And the mayor wants YOU overseeing it. And remember, whatever happens, it’ll all go down by twelve the day after tomorrow. You never saw me.”

And with that, she disappeared.

*** *** ***

I opened the ramshackle door to my building, taking a quick look inside to make sure I wasn’t disturbing anyone. This had become a habit of mine, after a few weeks ago when I went in without knocking and found Desmond trying to create some sort of potion when I distracted him. Long story short, I had a rainbow mane for a week.

Finding nopony of interest, I trotted lightly into the small 15x10 room. The sound of my hooves on the dirt floor reverberated off the metal walls.

I had four hours until my under-shift started, and still no idea what the fuck was going to happen. And on top of that, most of my guard time would be spent looking through a rifle scope down at traders, leaving me oblivious as to what was happening around me.

I heard the clip-clop of hooves on the stairs to my left, and took a look at my friend descending our stairs. Damn, I was hoping it would be Xephyr.

“Anything good?” His voice was scratchy and hoarse, indicating that he had just gotten in one of his two forced hours of sleep per day.

“I just found out. Apparently, twenty-four hours into my shift, shit’s gonna go down so hard that there’ll be a hole in the ground all the way to Roam. And then it’ll hit a fan somewhere.

Desmond descended the rest of the stairwell clumsily. Walking to the barrel-table, he sat. Tired from his single hour of forced-

“I-DE-A!” I stomped my hoof on the ground forcefully. “What’s the longest you’ve ever gone without sleeping?”

“A few days, give or take a few days.” He opened up the lid of the table, bringing out a bottle of Sparkle-Cola. “Mmm, carroty. What now?” He chugged the bottle, waking him up to his normal sentience.

I blinked and waited a few seconds for the caffeine in the energy soda to kick in.

“Do my shift with me!” I would’ve been more polite, maybe said ‘please’, but I was excited.

He looked at me like I had a large, sentient lump growing on my face.

“Lanthe, Lanthe, Lanthe. Have you learned nothing?” His voice rang with mock menace. “I require... compensation.”

“Right.” I said.

“You know what to do.”

I did. I leaned into his muzzle, ready to embrace him in a passionate-

Desmond pulled away, mollified.

“YES!” I screamed. “I am the KING of gay chicken!” I pumped a hoof in the air.

“You know it. I’ll help you.” Desmond was still trying to erase the memory.

*** *** ***

“You good jobwise?”

Desmond laughed. “You know I don’t do anything there. I just sign the papers. Nobody is gonna miss me.”

The zebra, smiling, sat in a flea-ridden couch in the break room. The expression on his face suggested that he was a little nervous.

“You sure this will be OK?”

I knew that it probably wouldn’t be, but I kept on my brave face. I needed him here, and I sure as hell didn’t want him chickening out.

“It’ll be fine. I’m sure it’s just a drug deal or something.” I waved a hoof casually.

Des let out a sigh of relief. He didn’t tell me, but I knew it had been bugging him for hours. He got up off the couch reluctantly, stretching out. “What now?”

This part was routine. I did this for a job.

“Alright. We need to remember GAS. That stands for Guns, Armor, and Other Shit. I just made that up.”

Taking a key from off my gladius belt, I walked to the metal door on the opposite side of the room. I unlocked it and slid it open sideways, revealing three racks of equipment.

"Alright," I said, taking a rifle off the first rack. I stood up and held it Zebra-style, bracing it between my two front hooves. "We need our standard-issue rifle, of course." I racked the straight-pull bolt action, wincing as the crappy rifle echoed with the sound of plastic parts. It felt more like a toy than a gun. This was the gun manufactured for the front-line riflemen towards the end of the war, when it started becoming more of an arms race than anything.

I tossed Desmond a rifle. "The scopes are already zeroed in. All we need to do is put the sights where you want the bullet to go. The town's only about 300 yards long, so don't worry about bullet drop. Besides, you probably won't be shooting anyways." Desmond assumed my stance, looking down the 4x ACOG sight on the rifle.

I moved to the next rack, this one housing our armor. This was definitely not as badly built as our small arms, as most of the protective gear was made of a high-quality ceramic-plate Kevlar. I bypassed the larger articles, knowing these wouldn't fit me or Desmond. I selected a smaller piece, known as the tiger shark.

"Try this on for size." I gave the suit to Des, selecting a piece for myself. Mine was a slightly heavier model known as the "Cobra." My Armor, unlike his, was emblazoned with my name and trademarks across the back of the plating.

After a fair bit of tweaking and pulling, Desmond was satisfied. "Some pretty high-grade stuff we got here." He opened the action if his rifle, sliding in a .388 Lapua Magnum that he had found in the reservoir carved into the stock. That specific round would travel four hundred meters with literally no drop, and leave a blue trail.

"Want a sidearm?" I asked him. Not waiting for his answer, I brought out two Taurus 5.7mm pistols from the third rack. I put mine in the holster built into my suit.

"Remember, once we're up there, there's no slacking. Keep yourself situated-" I said, putting up my bipod, "At all times. You see anything shady, or even remotely out of line, you report it to me."

"Yershur" Desmond muttered through a mouthful of gun. I slammed closed the solid metal slider, locking it with my keys as I did so.

Still nobody in the break room. Huh. That must have meant that everyone had started their double shift twelve hours ago. Except for the one lucky bastard we were relieving now.

Gesturing for Des to follow me, I opened the small wooden door opposite of the armory, behind the pool table. It swung outward, revealing a narrow set of wooden stairs. Most off the times I ascended these, I feared for my safety, as the weight of my armor added almost an extra twenty percent to my weight. And that wasn't counting all the extra shit we sometimes carried.

I took the first step, and the stairboard creaked underneath me. Thankfully, it didn't break. I picked up the pace, trotting up the stairs with a pep in my step. Desmond followed me up to a trapdoor, set about six feet above our heads.

"Nayshapay" I called, a challenge. This was the challenge, a specific word that could only be responded to by another specific word, insuring that the person at the trapdoor wasn't a raider ready for lunch.

"Dresspace!" Responded the guard manning the tower above us. The trapdoor opened with a creak, letting in a stream of Wasteland sun that the main town only got a few hours a day due to the large retaining walls. A rope ladder rolled down, signaling the guard was ready for transfer. I climbed up the ladder, out into the tower.

This particular guard was a female by the name of Cypress. A strong type, she was the best sharpshooter in the guard force. I barely knew her.

She stood up from her prone position, uncocking her rifle as she did so. "You my relief?" She asked.

I simply nodded. When in formality, or a person that you don’t know well,  Zebra etiquette was to be short, quick, and to the point, that is if you spoke at all.

"I see you brought a friend." She gestured to Desmond, behind me looking ridiculous in his riot armor. He smiled at the buff mare, obviously nervous around her.

Desmond glanced as she walked by, barely fitting herself into the hatch leading down below, closing it behind her with a thump.

“So this is how you make a living, huh?”

I exhaled slowly. It was, whether I wanted it to be or not.Although, technically, I didn’t make a living off of it. I was payed, like I said earlier, but it was next to nothing.

I hoisted my plastic rifle. The object was a testament to the poverty of our settlement. Although well-established over the last few months, Glyphmark was visibly struggling with other wasteland powers. Last I heard, there was a huge militant base or something springing out of the ground up North. “Hey.”

Desmond was staring out at the wasteland. A veritable desert, the barren, plague-ridden dust that extended for a few miles below Canterlot was bright, the dust crystals reflecting the Sun’s light back at our faces.

Canterlot itself stood slightly above and to the west of our hometown, the protruding rock looking like some sort of bizarre hoofhold for some Equestrian rock climber. From our view, we couldn’t see the city on top of the mound, but I knew those gnarled old buildings and mansions from a few trips up there.

I looked to the side, seeing Desmond craning his neck to look at Canterlot.

He asked: “You ever been up there?”

“Once or twice.” I replied.

The approaching horde of ghouls were nipping at our hooves by now. Half-dragged, half-supported by my brother, I slid a bullet into my revolver, my last one. I clicked it closed, lining up the chamber with the bullet.

Every painful step drew me closer to oblivion. the end of the royal hallway was at least forty feet away. My last spark of hope fizzled out.

“Anything cool up there?”

“Not much.” I replied, my gaze still focused on Canterlot. The city, along with providing me with nightmares beyond imagination, also poisoned our few attempted crops with it’s pink, poisonous water.We all hated it with a burning passion.

Desmond spoke, tearing my gaze from the capitol city. “Ill take the first watch. You, rest.” He seemed confident in his abilities, so I took a seat in one of the two lawn chairs situated on the tower, and fell into a dark, dreamless slumber.

*** *** ***

I awoke to a hoof in my face.

“Lanthe, wake up. now.”

I glanced up at the sun, only two inches past it’s apex. It had only been a few hours. “Desmond, nothing’s going to happen for another-”

I was drowned out by a large boom. My voice faltered.

“Lanthe, I don’t know how to say this... but- shit went down.”

That was the last thing I heard before we fell.