Fallout: Equestria - Choice Millionaire

Chapters

Chapter One: Twist in the Scheme, a Permeating Theme
Chapter Two: To Breathe the Name of Your Savior
Chapter Three: And Lost as I Am You're My Good Samaritan
Chapter Four: And We Fought To Believe the Impossible
Chapter Five: If I Could Build a Bridge Between Us
Chapter Six: I Don't Need a Miracle, I'm Much More Predictable (Part One)
Chapter Seven: I Don't Need a Miracle, I'm Much More Predictable (Part Two)
Chapter Eight: I Too Fear the Change Coming On
Chapter Nine: Shadows Cast Without a Streak of Fear
Chapter Eleven: Blueprint Your Life
Chapter Ten: By Tomorrow Dubbed a Mystery and the Past Just Blurry Lines

Chapter One: Twist in the Scheme, a Permeating Theme

New objective: Investigate town of Davos for clues of dad.

As I entered in the note on my PipBuck module, I saw the shadow of a cog eclipsing the light of the stable behind me. The door closed with a staccato of monstrous, metallic screeches. Once it slipped back into its threshold, I was left with only my PipBuck light. I turned around and faced the point of no return, marked by the number “13” in hazard yellow paint.

My back was to a new world, one that may yet have recovered from the apocalypse that befell Equestria two centuries ago. Why else would dad have left his stable and his family for the Wasteland? He knew his talents were required out there, and the ponies outside owed their future to him. He was alive, somewhere in Davos, and I just had to follow his hoofsteps.

The resolve to see my mission through was the only force compelling my legs to march away from the stable. I followed a straight path through the cavern my stable was built into. A decayed, wooden door served as the gate into the new world. Memories of home and family left with me out that door.

I forgot any longing and fear the moment I breathed fresh air and realized how enormous the outside was. A thick cloud cover stretched to all corners of a wall–less atrium. From the autumn colors radiating from the clouds, I assumed it was nearing evening.

A few meters ahead, there was a stone cliff from which I could gain better perspective. With a new sense of resolve––curiosity, more so––I immediately broke out into a gallop and ascended the slope. Lungs filled with this lighter, unfiltered air, I stood atop the precipice and engraved the view into my mind.

A skyline of mutilated towers stood out to the east. Likely the ruins of a pre–war city. Encompassing half of the skyline beyond the city was a cloud wall black as coal, which lit up with frequent streaks of lightning. Out to the south, I spotted another city, one atop a hill. Further west were mountains high enough to pierce the cloud cover.

The earth beneath these landmarks, interestingly, appeared not ruined by balefire bombs centuries before but rather by negligence and a more recent kind of fire. It was devastated but far from dead.

Beneath the occasional whistle of wind, I heard the sound of crushed gravel––muffled but distinctly made by a pressing hoof––to my right. I glanced quickly in that direction and thought for a moment I looked into a mirror.

Staring back with terror in her eyes was a skinny mare whose mane and coat were darker hues of mine. My coat was pale pink, and her coat had tarnish; my mane was red violet, and her mane was composed of several shades of violet. Our manes were both frayed knots of hair that refused to bend to brushes. Even the eyes were of a similar shade of brown. It seemed for a moment that we were both stuck noticing the resemblance.

With how scared the outside pony was, I figured it would be in good spirit to offer a smile. Somehow, that only made the stranger shake and slowly backpedal. Before I even noticed the gun in her mouth, I began speaking to her, “Why hello there––”

––then the revolver suddenly kicked back into my teeth. Having forgotten to steady my own weapon, I took the full brunt of the recoil into my noggin. My tongue had pulled the trigger on an impulse. Now was really not the time for amateur mistakes!

But what was worse than accidentally firing my gun was accidentally drilling a hole through the Stable Dweller’s eye with the resulting shot… oh my Goddesses… I shot the Stable Dweller!

Seeing the other pony’s body stumble and fall, dead on the spot, gave me a chilling sensation as though this display foreshadowed my own impending death. It helped little that she looked so much like myself.

To think, I came all this way to start anew, and the first thing I did was kill the Wasteland’s latest heroine. Soon I would have to contend with the fury of every radio lover from Baltimare to Manehattan. Dealing with the Talon mercenaries was bad enough. All that trouble because I wanted to rob her!

After putting the revolver down, hammer uncocked (I checked), I trotted over to the corpse and looked at my own undoing. The one time I make a clean shot, it kills the mare from… Stable 13? The ‘Stable Dweller’ I shot, an earth pony, wore an armored jumpsuit labeled ‘13’ and armored saddlebags; the first broadcasts did mention a Stable 2, not a 13. So this pony was not her.

Well, that was a lucky break. Terrific. I could have earned myself an early grave.

With no one in immediate sight, I helped myself to the stable dweller’s belongings. The saddlebags, made in excellent quality with hardly a sign of age, made for a wonderful catch. She had been packing a Stable 13 water canteen, a decent pistol with five loaded magazines, and three apples. But the jewel on this dead body was the PipBuck.

PipBucks were the gamebreaker in the struggle of Wasteland life. Those bracelet terminals turned combat into a mere chore of point and click, made physical maps obsolete, and featured their own radio, radar, and geiger counter. With tools like these starting out, it was little wonder how stable ponies managed to stir up change in the status quo. And now I had one of my own.

The stable dweller parted calmly with her PipBuck. All I had to do was raise her limp foreleg and open the latches. And while I was at it, I took her jumpsuit and put some clothes on my back. I would need some sort of covering as the night rolled in, and I was not about to waste a perfectly homey jumpsuit. There was some sagging, but it was nothing a bit of weight could not fix.

Now then, what other features were on this PipBuck? Audio diaries, apparently. The late stable dweller had been talking to herself for two years now, if the dates were correct. It was better if I erased all the notes and diaries; anything to tie me back to a murdered stable pony was incriminating evidence.

And while I was doing that, I found the options on the PipBuck and changed the registered name.

User: Eiffel Riff |
User: |
User: Comet Scotia |

The final step to claiming my newfound possessions was body disposal. I trotted a few steps back the way I came. Beneath a rotting tree, I found my trusty shovel and brought it with me back to the body. With both forehooves, I rolled the late Eiffel Riff over the edge and watched her plummet twenty meters or so. She scattered a little soil on impact, but otherwise no mess was made.

A new PipBuck! Just the thoughts of what it could for me made me skip on the trail back down. I could be the mare with the big iron, using whatever S.A.T.S. was to shoot down raiders. I could know where everyone was at any time with this new radar… compass… thing. Eyes Forward Sparkle, as the PipBuck called it. And I finally had some music!

Making a grave would take me at most half an hour, which meant plenty of time to check the frequencies. It seemed only two stations were available this far out though: “Good Morning Baltimare” and the broadcasts of the benevolent, caring, considerate, and slavery–condoning Red Eye. If that crazed visionary could hog the airwaves here, then his crusaders were probably already established in this wasteland. They likely held a grudge against stable dwellers as well. So that was one more party to steer clear of.

I settled for Good Morning Baltimare.

“...which remains ongoing across Sharp’s River. So heed the words of the water merchants, folks, and stay clear of Horde territory!” The radio host was a mare, experienced and confident. With a luscious voice that mesmerizing to listen to, she had all the reason to sound so full of herself. She knew what she could obtain just by saying a few words.

“In other news, another cod caravan has been saved from raiders by the Angel of Mason Road. And as usual, he doesn’t ask for anything in return! Thank you once more, Angel, for ensuring the ponies across the republic have food on the table. That’s all for today. A good night to all of you from your host, Untold Song. And now, Lazy Day Blues…” The song took over the air, a guitar strumming to a catchy tune.

The corpse had landed at the base of an inconspicuous cove. Unfortunately, a pool of blood stained the ground, probably from Eiffel’s eye wound. I could just kick some dirt and rocks over it, though. And a grave here would hardly attract an eye. Shovel between my teeth, I marked out an area and started digging.

Twilight ended and night fell in the time it took to bury the body. I kept the shovel slung across my back and headed out into the wasteland with a new pistol in my mouth. Firmly secured.

Not far out from the cliff, I spotted a cracked highway, separating me from a series of square plots that used to be farmland. Though there was hardly a light out, I had no difficulty telling that the deserted houses I saw were relatively new. They were carved from scrap metal and wood, appearing capable of holding only a single room. Hopefully, the town at the center of these farms still had some life in it.

“…it matters very little how. Davos and Samedan are the only places left where a pony could live without wearing the yoke of some master.” A skeleton of a pre–war carriage was the only thing close to a tenable cover on the open highway, so I hopped inside and swiftly accessed the PipBuck to turn off the radio. Eyes Forward Sparkle pointed out the direction from which the voice, definitely male, had come from––out to the west, four yellow bars. I knew next to nothing about what the colors meant, but if I heard more I could discern who the party was.

“You’re just so darn poetic, aren’t you,” said another stallion. “Now I don’t claim to know the guy, but this Red Eye is definitely putting up a lot toward making a good impression. So long as Fillydelphian food keeps streaming down here, I can tolerate him. And don’t forget who we could be playing host to, instead, across the Valley.”

The first pony, the poet, grunted. He scoffed, “First you invite his food, then you’ll invite his soldiers. Not long after, he’ll invite your neck to his collars.” A multitude of hoofsteps approached the carriage and stopped short of passing by. “Hold up. There’s somebody in there.”

Oh horseapples.

“The carriage?” the other stallion asked. “Doesn’t look like it’s big enough to store a raiding party. Ain’t no other cover around either.”

“Look. Green glow in that window.” The PipBuck! I forgot to turn it off!

The poet’s partner said nothing more. Two clicks went off, and I knew then their weapons were readied, safeties off.

Spitting out my gun, I shouted to them, “Don’t shoot! I’m friendly!” I raised a hoof into view within the carriage.

The poet replied, “Prove it. Throw your gun out!”

“Yeah sure. Just let me know first who I’m throwing my only means of defense to.”

“Junk traders,” answered the other pony. “Now throw and walk out onto the road facing us.”

Here I was, hoping that a little conversation I overheard reflected rational minds. I tossed my newly acquired firearm out the window. As instructed, I made slow steps around the carriage into the sights of two unicorns in dusters. They held what looked like shotguns––or maybe rifles, I have no clue––in their magic auras.

The poet, a tannish yellow buck with a patch of brown hair at the muzzle, spoke up, “I recognize that jumpsuit… a stable dweller?”

“Like the one the DJ speaks fondly about?” the other stallion, grey and darker grey in color, muttered. “Last I heard, the DJ’s favorite was killed wreaking havoc in Appleloosa. That was a week ago, though.”

That could not be right. The DJ’s last broadcast confirmed the Stable Dweller was still kicking. I asked, “You mean, you haven’t heard anything on the radio?”

The poet shrugged. He and his partner lowered their weapons. “Her signal doesn’t reach down here anymore. The radio towers are controlled by Red Eye now.”

They really did not know… and no one would ever know so long as the DJ was off the air. The Stable Dweller has such a clean reputation right about now and no solidified identity; she could be anyone with a stable jumpsuit. Anyone. “Well, if you had been listening, you would’ve known I’m still alive,” I stated with practiced bravado. Untold Song was not the only one who could get what she wanted through words.

The poet’s eyes narrowed. “The Stable Dweller’s way too far north to just stroll on down here. Who are you really?”

“The name’s Nova. You know me as the Stable Dweller. You’ve been out a DJ for a week, and a journey by hoof is barely three days’ time.” As I looked the traders over, I saw the two brahmin trailing behind them, carrying all their goods. A normal caravan usually had four guns for security. I continued, “But if you won’t believe me, I guess I’ll just be on my way. And you two can walk this road… at night… and handle the wildlife and raiders by yourselves.”

The other stallion glanced around him, worry forming on his face. “You know, we could use another gun on our way to Samedan, preferably someone with the right skills.”

“You actually believe her, Winestock?” the poet pulled his stare onto the grey pony. Turning his eyes back and forth from the two of us, he started to grow doubtful of himself as his features eased. I had not waited a minute before the poet gave in. “Alright, Nova, you can tag along.” Winestock holstered his gun, as did his partner a moment later.

Now I had them. I was the Stable Dweller, and I commanded respect… and payment. “You’re not asking me for company… uh…”

“Graham,” the poet answered.

“…Mr. Graham. You’re asking me for a guard. And guards need to be paid.”

“Of course. 100 caps,” said Winestock.

“200 caps.”

“150. We can reach Samedan within this night.”

“I’ll go no lower than 175. You want an absolute guarantee for your survival, don’t you? Then you’d hire the mare who wiped out a slaver stronghold and lived.”

Winestock studied me with his mouth still open. I maintained the illusion of complete confidence for my part. Thankfully, no one could tell from a first glance when a pony has no clue which end the bullet comes out of. I could see my words take effect on Winestock’s face. His mouth closed and gradually adjusted into a slanted grin.

“I can’t believe a stable pony is extorting money from me… Alright. Deal.”

Exchange closed. I nodded curtly and gestured toward my pistol on the ground. Once I had nods returned from the both of them, I retrieved it and started inspecting it from all angles. Anything to make it look like I knew what I was doing.

I took my place behind them with the brahmin, and the five of us walked into the night. Graham cast me a couple of glances over his shoulder, both of which contained thinly veiled annoyance or anger.

I only smiled back, knowing he lacked the resolve to say anything that might invoke the wrath of the Stable Dweller herself.

Comet Scotia

Current reputation
Southern Wasteland: Non–entity
Gawd’s Talons: Hunted

Perks
Putting on the Mask – You have taken up the identity of “The Stable Dweller.” The Southern Wasteland remains unfazed. Others are more likely to hand you errands… I mean quests.

Chapter Two: To Breathe the Name of Your Savior

The junk traders filled me in on the history and layout of Samedan and the Mason Road. All I needed to know, they said, was that once the drought hit, Samedan was one of the only agricultural towns to survive.

Its location along an estuary, rather than the Mason Road, proved crucial as smaller water sources and wells were wiped out. Samedan still had green stalks growing when most of the land had given up on vegetation; its successful crops lined the passage into its downtown area.

Our caravan arrived in the dead of night at the gate into Samedan without incident. There were guards on patrol along wooden gantries that connected the outer rim of buildings together in a secure loop. One of them kept watch over us from atop as we entered Samedan proper.

Inside the outer rim, security was lax. Most ponies in town were occupied with their bustling night lives. Within the center of town, ponies trotted, stumbled, and crawled in and out of bars, brothels, inns, and shops. Winestock and Graham took the brahmin to a pen in the eastern district, at which point I received my payment.

A rapturous jingle accompanied the pouch of caps as it landed on my hoof. The finale of a closed transaction, a successful swindle. I pocketed the 175 caps and wished the two an untroubled night.

“Wait,” Graham requested. Our trek to Samedan had dispelled the remaining mistrust he had for me. Yet the lack of hostile encounters, rather than our small talk, was mainly responsible for that. “You never told us why you were down here, Nova. What’s gotten your attention?”

I kept up a cocky grin, which felt plastered on my face by this point. “I’m just here to make a difference, Graham. To help out wherever ponies are in need.” Yup. That nailed down the Stable Dweller.

“Glad to hear that.” Graham smiled. Winestock had finished securing the brahmin, and he was watching from the distance. Graham was holding them up from the looks of it. “Say, you plan on doing anything tonight? Winestock and I are having drinks at the Golden Goat.”

“It’s been a long trip. I think I best get rested. You know a cheap inn here?”

Graham pointed a hoof to my left. “Buckner House rents out for nights at a low price. The keeper there doesn’t even ask for security deposits.”

The inn he suggested was a straight path from the pen, a two–story adobe sitting in a quieter section of town. I thanked him and bid farewell a second time to the two traders. More than a couple times, I felt the eyes of the denizens drilling into my back as I walked. Had no one ever seen a stable pony before or were they making the connection?

The inside of Buckner House had been set up to accommodate a restaurant. Oakwood tables occupied much of the floor space, and a corner of the room was the entire kitchen. The far wall had two levels, both of which hosted the doors to the inn’s guest rooms. I found the keeper resting her head on a faded poker table next to the stairs. Navy blue coat and purple mane, much like mine, except she bothered to keep it tidy.

“Room or meal,” she mumbled, rubbing her forehead with a hoof.

“Room. One night.”

“25 caps.” She swept away my payment with a foreleg and dropped the key on the table with the other. As I reached down to pick it up, the keeper finally lifted her eyes to actually look at me. “The Stable Dweller?”

“Yeah, that’s me.”

“Oh.” She and I kept looking at one another. Somewhere else in the room, a number of chairs clattered on the floor, and a drunk pony soon followed with a painful thud. The noise brought her back to reality. “Sorry, were you expecting more?”

“No,” I answered with the key in my mouth. “I just thought you would have a little more of a reaction.”

“Sorry about that. It’s just… you know, you’ve done some great thing in the north… but what does that have to do with me? My life ain’t getting easier no matter how many slavers you murder up there.” She made a shrug but no further effort to lift herself up. “Here, we don’t care much for news that doesn’t directly impact us, if you get me.”

“I understand.”

“But hey, I’m thankful that we now have someone who will actually do something about things here. Say, if I have anything I need done, I’ll ask you.”

My exodus to the south had stripped me of everything I had. I was on the run for days on end, sleeping with my eyes open. But that was all behind me now. All I wanted was some sleep. “I’d be happy to help whatever way I can,” I said. And I threw in the trademark grin of course.

The keeper said nothing more, so I started up the stairs.

“Actually, there is something I need done that I’ll ask you to do.”

By the Goddesses…

“Buckner House, founded by the predecessors of yours truly, Aurora Buckner, makes most of its caps from liquor sales. We keep our brewery at a discreet location down the river. But a group of raiders has settled in recently and started drinking themselves to death. Not quick enough, though.”

“You want me to take them out.”

“And do it first thing in the morning. That’s my product they’re drinking! I’ll make the pay quite handsome… 1000 caps.”

1000 caps! That was more than I could make in a year in my old profession. Surely, a ragtag gang of hungover raiders should be easy enough to aim at. Or smack with a shovel. Wait, wait. The Stable Dweller would not be concerned with making caps; she would be concerned with doing what is right and still getting paid.

Righteous. Just. “I’ll make sure those raiders aren’t terrorizing your alcohol stock anymore.”

Aurora smirked and tapped the table. “Once you finish the job, bring back a crate so we can celebrate with the Buckner classic!”

I did not drink. But the thought of 1000 caps in my hooves was a tantalizing prospect. My mind made hyperactive by the image, sleep did not come easily that night.

A few raiders to dispatch. Then, I would have the money I’d need to establish myself in Baltimare. Another step closer to my own place, my own living, and my own security.

It was just an easy job.

“Where did that pink mongrel go, Trip Wire!?” A big red buck of a raider, bloodshot eyes twitching and armed with a submachine gun, wandered out of the brewery shack.

“She went behind that rock!” shouted a green mare atop the roof. Said rock promptly received several new holes. “No! No! That rock!”

I felt the cover behind me vibrate from the impact of the raider’s bullets. In the process of walking through the shack with a shovel, I had knocked over a pyramid of empty bottles and alerted the whole gang to my presence. Half of them were out cold, at least, before I got here. The one sentry I did see before this whole firefight had his face taken off by a well–aimed swing of a shovel.

Pistol in my mouth, I returned fire once the shots stopped coming. The raider hardly moved a centimeter, and I was still missing close to five shots before one hit him in the knee. His partner responded with a single shot that shattered the stone under my muzzle. I slipped back into cover with plenty of dust in my eyes.

“I’ll wrap my wound with your tail, you runt!” The barrage resumed. The shots, however, were approaching closer and closer despite the buck’s injury. Shaking too much to steady myself, I did the most rational thing my mind could think up on the spot––I popped my head up and fired blindly at both raiders.

Four shots whizzed right through the closest threat, the automatic–wielding, unstoppable raider, and the last three shots I fired only made Trip Wire stumble. I was back to cowering behind a battered rock with nothing left in the chamber.

“Missed me, you fu––fu––motherfu––FU––!” Trip Wire let out a staccato of expletives until her rhythm was thrown off by the sound of trash smacking trash. That went better than it really should have.

Once I finally had the pistol loaded again, I turned toward the side I heard the raider approaching. But the crippled buck was quicker than I anticipated.

His chest was within a breath of my head. My eyes trailed up slowly and found the barrel of the SMG pointing between them. My eyes trailed up a little further and finally noticed the vacant look the raider was giving me. At that point, he tipped over and fell as a telephone pole would, rebounding as he hit the ground.

A pretty little hole had been added to the side of his head.

Two more shots rang out from the direction of the shack. I huddled close to cover at the sound. Peeking over my stone, I spotted the newest shooter in the fray––a golden brown stallion with an indigo mane in the shape of a skunk’s tail. Oh, he also had wings.

Wait. Wings? A pegasus!

The pegasus trotted into the shack, having left the corpse he made out of Trip Wire splayed atop a junk heap with two new holes in her forehead. I considered just making a run for it, because a pegasus down on the surface meant he was either a Dashite, banished from civilization in the clouds, or part of the Grand Pegasus Enclave himself.

Forget consideration. I was going to run.

“Stable Dweller, I could use a little help cleaning house with these impure scum… You owe me that much for taking care of the buck,” he called out from the shack entrance. He had his violet eyes on me, battle saddles armed with really large guns.

“Yeah, sure!” I turned and gave my best smile. “I mean, who can respect a pony who doesn’t pay back her debts.” My trot to the brewery went by at one step a second, yet this pegasus seemed to be in no hurry. He waited until I was at his side before stepping into the doorway. That was when I noticed he still had his cutie mark––a burnt black thunderbolt, recognizable to anyone familiar with the mare who headed the Ministry of Awesome.

Another stroke of luck. He was a Dashite.

Three more shots rang out as I paced the room where all the alcohol was made. The brewery was now clear, save for us two. The door was right there. If I just crept out––

The echo from two firing bolts kicked back punctuated those thoughts. The sound of two firearms reloaded. “I didn’t save you to shoot you. But as a precaution, gun on the floor please. I just want to talk.”

I obeyed.

“Turn around.” I came face to face with my savior. “I’ve encountered lots of crazy things in the wasteland. But I never imagined I would ever get to meet one of the DJ’s proclaimed heroes. I also never thought she would be such a poor shot.”

I could not argue against that. “I haven’t had much experience.”

“It shows.” He cocked his head and looked at the PipBuck on my leg. “What’s your name?”

“Nova.”

“Nice to meet you, Nova. I’m Creed Brook. You can relax now, pal.” Creed helped himself to a drink from the various wares in the brewery. He sat down and continued, “You’re probably wondering why you haven’t seen too many pegasi in the wasteland. Well, a number of us happen to have fallen from the sky after one too many disagreements with the Enclave. This cutie mark you see now is my symbol of exile––I’ve been down here doing right by the wasteland ever since.”

Creed tipped the bottle back and took numerous gulps before settling it down. “Like yourself, I’m up for fighting the good fight, as the DJ calls it. I protect the caravans on Mason Road. Locals have taken to giving me a little nickname––”

“The Angel of Mason Road.” So the guy Untold Song was praising on the air was none other than a pegasus. I really should have seen this development coming.

Creed nodded. “That’s me. Now what’s your story?”

Luckily, I planned out my own background during the trip to Samedan for this situation. Without hesitation, I jumped into it: “I was born in Stable 13, as you can tell from my jumpsuit.” No reaction to that one. The ponies here must have pretty poor memory if they could not remember that the Stable Dweller came from Stable 2. That worked in my favor regardless. “I left looking for my sister––an adventurous filly––so I could bring her back. But… she was killed by slavers.”

“In Appleloosa?”

I nodded and turned my gaze to the floor. I made my breathing heavy and gritted my teeth. “I wiped out that place and swore I would avenge her by taking down every slaver I met! Soon enough, I had a price on my head, forcing me to get out of Dodge before they sicked the Talon Mercenaries on me. That’s how I wound up so far south.”

I brought my head back up, eyes locked onto Creed’s. It was up in the air now whether he would buy my story.

The sure signs of sympathy––soft frown, soft eyes, slow breaths––were there. His ears pinned back, Creed fell silent for some time. Certainly he would feel compassion for a desperate and lost stable pony such as myself.

Giving the half–empty bottle a shake, he set it aside and stood up. “I’m sorry to hear about that. So then, if your sister’s gone, what are you going to do now?”

I shrugged. “I don’t know. I was thinking about walking the road to Baltimare and seeing what good I could do.” The first part was the truth. I really was making things up as I went along. “But at the moment, I was clearing this brewery of raiders for Aurora Buckner in Samedan. Oh, and thanks for the help on that.”

“You’re welcome. Mind if I tag along? I’ve got to restock on ammo back in town.”

I hoisted a crate of Buckner liquor onto my back. Given how poorly my fight with the raiders went, I thought a little extra protection would be of no harm. “Sure,” I told him. As we exited out the shack, Creed picked up my shovel without prompting and secured it to my saddlebags.

My luck had been just terrific up to now. The pegasus had proven one of the easiest strangers to convince; he seemed all too trusting, taking the lead and never once looking over his shoulder. That suited me just fine. I could survive a lot longer out here with my own guardian angel.

Comet Scotia

Current reputation
Southern Wasteland: Neutral
Gawd’s Talons: Hunted

Chapter Three: And Lost as I Am You're My Good Samaritan

“—and that’s how we grow our food,” I concluded. Samedan’s scrap roofs were well within sight, but Creed and I just could not get to them any faster. This ‘Angel’ had an insatiable curiosity about every detail of my life in the stable. I was surprised how easily he bought some of these lies.

“So you harness radiation in a highly concentrated form to create a mini sun, by which you can motivate the plants to grow under an illusion of artificial photosynthesis? Fascinating.”

I spotted a red bar on my E.F.S., but it disappeared a second after I heard the report from Creed’s battle saddle. He continued his questions even as we walked around the torn corpse of a bloatsprite. So that was what red meant.

“If you don’t mind me asking––” I did. “––why can’t you just return to your stable? I know you won’t, but wouldn’t that be preferable to walking back into the dangers of the wasteland?”

We were deep inside Samedan’s ring of farms by this point. “I assure you,” I began. “Even if I did save my sister and bring her back, the Overmare wouldn’t let me back in. She fears outsiders, even if they were formerly part of her stable. Maybe she would’ve made an exception for my sister, young and innocent and all; not a possibility for me.”

Creed nodded. His face was unreadable, holding a distant stare that made him appear decades older. He only replied, “You’ve been changed too much out here. And you’d never be able to go back.”

Sure, we could go with that. “Yes. That and we hated each other. A lot.”

The front gate to Samedan passed overhead. It was about time to ditch the Dashite.

“Anyway, thanks for the company. I’ll be going now to deliver this crate to Buckner House.” I gave him a smile and turned right on town square. Back to Buckner House.

Though I tried to veer away from Creed, he followed my change in direction.

“Why don’t we travel together?” he asked. “We’ve both got agendas in Baltimare, and I know the ways around this wasteland better than anyone else.”

Creed flashed me a smug smile. “And besides, you could use someone who can actually aim a gun.” I would be lying if I said that bit did not sting. The salt in the wound was my realization, after the fact, that I never used S.A.T.S. in my last shootout. Still, he was right: I would never hold my own in a straight firefight.

I let nothing show on my features. There was something else to this offer I was missing: “What’s in it for you? Why me and not any of the other caravans you usually protect on the road?”

Creed trotted ahead to open the door for me into Buckner House. He told me as I walked through the threshold, “I want to help the wasteland in whatever way I can. You’re someone who shares my interest. Together, we can solve a lot more problems––the Stable Dweller and the Angel teaming up to take the wasteland by storm!”

“Welcome back to Buckner House!” Aurora Buckner came into view from my right, beaming at the crate on my back. “You had a talk with those raiders?”

Creed unloaded the crate without prompt. He was speaking before I had my mouth open: “We sure did. Smitty and the guys were quite cooperative once we spoke our piece. They won’t be bothering your product no more.”

Aurora threw a light punch at the pegasus’s chest. “Creed, you gotta stop swooping in and playing the big hero every time someone gets into trouble! The caravans are hiring fewer guards now that they’re expecting you to blast any trouble off Mason Road.

“Oh, but I’m forgetting the Stable Dweller who took on the job in the first place.” Aurora pulled out a hefty sack from behind the poker table by the stairs. “1000 caps as I promised.”

I sauntered closer to collect my reward. Just collecting a paycheck––a big one in that––so no sense in hurrying. “Thank you, Aurora. It was reward enough to help another in need––”

“And that’s exactly why Nova’s agreed to accept no payment for this good deed.” Creed stopped me in my tracks with his statement.

Yes, he’s right… No, what was I thinking? His words struck me out of left field, leaving me stunned for a few seconds. I shook off my stupor and answered for myself: “Creed, it’s very kind of you to save me the breath, but I already made a deal.”

“Of course you did.” My shoulders grew unbearably itchy as Creed threw his foreleg over me. “But the Stable Dweller fights the good fight––her own welfare be forgotten!”

She did, right? Yet my ears never missed the sound of exchanged caps; they were practically begging to jump into my pocket. “That’s true, but she––err––I also need to eat. With the caps, I can keep fighting on a full stomach.”

Creed threw me a stupid, cocky, selfishly amused grin. Apparently, he was too blind to outward expressions to stop talking. “Food’s not a concern, Nova. I’m a certified chef. So when we travel together––”

“I never agreed to traveling with you!” I blurted out.

I had all eyes on me, those of every patron and my companion. Let some zebra cast some tongue–binding voodoo on you, Creed! I just needed to take the caps and get out. There was nothing wrong with getting paid for my work. Nothing wrong.

“Alright! That was a little intense. Have a seat, you two. Let’s just work out the details of your reward over some divine Buckner Specials from this crate,” Aurora said.

She must have foreseen an escalation in our argument, for Aurora had led us to a table without our noticing. I slid into my seat, positioned directly across from the Angel. While I glared at him, Aurora fixed us up two beers from the crate––the famed Buckner Special.

I shook my head at her offer. “Sorry, Aurora, I don’t drink.”

She raised an eyebrow and leaned away from the table. “You born in a temperance stable or something? Well, I won’t hold it against you. How you liking the drink, Creed?”

The pegasus took a long gulp and settled the bottle on the table. “Divine wouldn’t be an exaggeration.”

“Wunderbar!” Aurora clapped her blue hooves together. “Back to business. I agreed to hand the Stable Dweller 1000 caps for the job. I think it’s only fair, Creed, that she make the final decision. If she wants it, she can take it.” She pushed the sack toward the center of the table, a bag of riches the size of a pony’s decapitated head.

I opened my mouth, but a thought held the words back––taking those caps would be unfaithful. But when did I become one for moral dilemmas? Of course the Stable Dweller took payment! Everyone could use a bit more money. So why was I hesitating? Because Creed thought otherwise?

My eyes met his over the bag of caps. I found him watching over me with that same aged stare he had during our earlier conversation. The questions about my stable life came springing to mind. That unnatural curiosity and the deliberation he took absorbing each of my responses…

That was all it was then. It was a test.

I guess the bad aim was a dead giveaway. Creed was giving me this test of altruism to see if I was the real deal. Rather clever for a cloudwalker.

For crying out loud, here was 1000 caps we could collect, and Creed had to be giving it all up for some confirmation! What would this angel do to me if he found out I was lying?

Shoot me? No. Creed was too pure a soul to murder a liar. He would probably give me a lecture on the virtue of honesty instead.

Leave me to wander a new wasteland by myself? Just maybe.

As much as I despised this pegasus at the moment, I had to think about the long–term haul. Either I get the caps or I get the one pony so feared that no one messed with him on Mason Road. He would get me to Baltimare, then I would cut ties there and find some more work in a bigger town.

I gave one last look at the caps I was about to surrender. Celestia be my witness, I would never find joy in hearing the jingle of caps ever again.

I shook my head and felt the words force their way out: “You can keep them, Aurora. I don’t need them.”

Aurora blinked and looked blankly at me. In a flash, she popped some sort of tablet into her mouth and swallowed. Only after doing so did she respond, “Really? You’re truly virtuous, Stable Dweller. That’s a thousand caps I can invest in expanding the Buckner enterprise. Thank you!” Aurora slammed two more beers onto the table. “Consider these your alternative payment. Two specials for you and Creed on your future journeys!”

“I already said I don’t––”

“The wasteland could use more ponies like yourself, Nova,” Creed said with a familiar smirk. I had to smother the desire to smack him in the teeth.

“I second that opinion.” All of a sudden, we had a fourth pony––oh, my mistake, a mule––at the table. He wore a black pre–war coat that complimented his scruffy black mane and black stubble. The stetson atop his head had taken a cannonball at one point, leaving little left of the top except a crown of frayed threads. From the smell, I deduced that he already had a few drinks in him––his default state, most likely.

“Oh, oh. Luna’s looking down upon me today!” Aurora jumped out of her seat and shook hooves with the mule. “The King’s making Buckner House his first stop!”

I pushed my chair back. “The King?”

“That’s right, m’lady,” the King began. He tipped the mutilated stetson forward.

“Once every apocalypse, an equine of great audacity embarks on an odyssey through the shattered bones of a world long gone. He and his round table travel the wastes and stop at nothing to seek out fables and myths, not realizing that they have become legends in their own right. They have to best the world itself to earn their namesake or destroy themselves trying. However bittersweet the last stretch may be, we have all completed our pilgrimage and found what we were looking for at that most fateful terminus… the World’s End.”

Creed whispered, “The King goes around to the various pubs and drinks their beer.”

Was that really it? Everything the King just said had sounded so… nevermind. I might have been reading too much into a pub crawl.

“Let me get you a glass, King! Only the best for such a honorary guest,” Aurora pleaded.

The King smiled and closed his eyes. This mule had a face of transcendent bliss. “Thank you, my dear, but I’d prefer straight from the bottle, as if I recovered my elixir from a centuries–old cellar.”

At that point, a flood of patrons was converging upon Buckner House. They stood at a distance upon sight of the King, whispering tales and counting their caps. As I brought my gaze back to him, I spotted one more empty bottle on the table.

The King himself had opted to stand atop the chair, balancing on his hindlegs to address the crowd with sweeping forelegs. “Brave knights… the first pint here shall start off our glorious enterprise! Forget the Horde! Forget the slavers! Forget the tin soldiers! No army shall stop a mule from quenching his thirst.”

All the drunks of Samedan answered with a raucous cheer. But the deafening volume of the crowd could hardly compare with the chorus of hellhounds they would raise once the equines had alcohol in them.

Creed motioned me toward the exit with his head. I followed him out into Samedan’s streets.

My PipBuck’s internal clock told me it was about noon. The three apples I ate for breakfast had sustained me this far, but I was in the mood for a hot meal.

I turned to Creed, the pegasus giving me a radiant smile. “So you’re traveling with me?”

“Seems so,” he answered. “I know it was tough for you, but you did––”

“You’re buying lunch then.” I marched off in search of the most expensive looking restaurant in town.

A dish of marinated brahmin meat later, I was in a more negotiable mood. Seeing Creed’s face darken upon footing the bill, a token of his philanthropy, may have helped. We sat down on a pre–war bench of a faded orange–black color scheme––likely salvaged in some city ruins and dragged back here––in town square while my lunch settled. Now we had to talk about getting to Baltimare.

I dragged my hoof along the patterns etched on the bench’s legs. All the curves snaked around one another to ultimately converge upon a star–shaped hole. “Mason Road’s the quickest route to Baltimare?”

“Yes, it is,” Creed said, his eyes wandering to the citizens of Samedan. “Under… normal circumstances.”

Just my luck. A detour. “We can’t use Mason Road?”

“No. Not unless you suddenly made amends with slavers. They’ve cut a deal with the republic and set up their own checkpoint along the road. Gladstone’s got Baltimare wrapped in her claws. The deal’s given the slavers have one long stretch of territory from Fillydelphia down to Hope’s Reach.”

Who was ruining my life this time? “Who’s Gladstone?”

“The general Red Eye sent to tame the Southern Wasteland. She’s one heck of a cunning griffon, having captured a swath of the wasteland within months and giving the slavers the best reputation of the lot.”

Great. The slavers had a stranglehold on the Mason Road, AND they were popular with the common folks. I could only imagine what the Stable Dweller’s reputation must be like around here. “How could anybody like slavers? They enslave ponies!”

Creed sighed. “I ask myself that every day. It’s a lovely war, ain’t it?”

“War?”

“Red Eye’s army is mainly occupied with holding its position at Hope’s Reach. Most of the wasteland tolerates the slavers for just two reasons: they have food, and they keep out the other savages below the Valley––the Horde.”

The Horde?

The pegasus just nodded, as though he could read my thoughts. “If slavers ever march into Samedan, they might just occupy homes, take dissenters into chains, and drink all the booze; if the Horde marches into Samedan, they’ll slaughter all the stallions, burn the place to the ground, take the foals and mares for Luna knows what… and then drink all the booze.”

I grimaced. “So they’re more ponies to avoid?”

“They’re the hellhounds to avoid.”

“Oh.”

With a flick of a switch, I turned on my PipBuck and viewed the full map of the wasteland. It displayed labels for all the towns within close proximity of Mason Road. South of Samedan was a river spanning from the far west to the east coast into Baltimare. The large portion below the river was mostly unlabeled territory, save for the ‘Valley’ and ‘Hope’s Reach’ above it. If Creed’s information was correct, then the Horde could control near half of the Southern Wasteland.

I had Red Eye’s slavers to the east and the Horde to the south; every path to Baltimare involved trudging through the lands of the dreaded. “There’s got to be another way to Baltimare.”

“We could fly,” Creed suggested.

We both got a laugh out of that idea. “But there is another way through… we hire a smuggler.”

“You know one?”

“Not personally. Her name’s Softlock. She’s got too much self–respect to sell out her customers, and she happens to set up shop close by. Celestia’s Folly, across the Sharps River.”

The label appeared on my PipBuck, hanging over Hope’s Reach and hugging the highway that went from Davos in the north to Horde territory to the south.

Creed continued: “There’s an Old World tunnel system running out from Baltimare to towns all over the wasteland. Somehow, it survived the end of the world, but few know it exists, and a lot fewer know their way around it. Softlock can guide us through.”

I turned off my PipBuck. My enthusiasm for crawling in the depths of an abandoned underground was only slightly greater than it was for walking into slavers or hellhounds. It was my best shot at making the journey to Baltimare.

“I know a river crossing out west that can take us to Postalmac. From there, it’s a simple walk to Celestia’s Folly.” He got to his hooves, adjusting his battle–saddle and inspecting the guns attached.

I followed him off the bench. “Alright then, let’s meet up back at the town gate once we restock. What do you have for provisions?”

“Instant foods, Old World rations, and local produce. That stuff will last us a week. I’ll need to get more ammo though. Give me ten minutes.”

“Can do.” I eyed the time on my PipBuck, which gave me 13:14 as the current time.

I eyed the time again—14:50. From the PipBuck, my eyes shifted to the great gulf that separated us from the town of Postalmac. The river channeled water the color of mercury out to the ocean, as it likely had before the apocalypse. A ferry boat crafted from decaying timber planks and several buoys rested on our side of the river.

The cargo the ferry was loading up was a wagon train and its accompanying slavers––given away by their red and grey barding.

Creed frowned as he looked over the scene. “Well this is inconvenient.”

“Didn’t we come out this way to avoid slavers in the first place?” I checked my firearms, wondering whether the stable–issued pistol would put a dent in that armor.

“I didn’t know they used this passage as well.” All of a sudden, he started unhitching his battle–saddles. From his pack, he pulled out a bomb collar.

“Take off the jumpsuit and get into this collar.”

Of course, I answered his request with a “What?”

“The moment they see the wings, they’ll try to enslave us. I’ve got a disguise for that. The moment they see the Stable Dweller, they’ll shoot.” Creed began slipping on the same kind of barding––Celestia knows where he acquired that––as the slavers.

“I know that, but why the collar?”

The Angel blinked at me. “To let them know you’re not fair game. Slavers don’t tend to care for a wastelander’s status outside the republic.”

“But why do you have a bomb collar?”

“Call it a reminder of the past. And no, I’m not a slaver. I robbed this uniform off one I killed. This is the only way, Nova. Trust me.”

Absolutely, there was only one option––turning around. If we went through with this plan, I might as well save the slavers the trouble by shooting out my brains.

“There’s got to be another route.”

Creed shrugged, now fully dressed like one of Red Eye’s soldiers, wings hidden. “There is. We could go west to Davos and travel down the Agnes Route. The only folks we have to worry about are the Talons on––”

“Talon mercenaries!?” I fell back and covered my muzzle.

Three days and two nights on the run. Possibly a hundred kilometers covered by galloping hooves. Not once during that time had I lost that feeling––imaginary crosshairs burned into the back of my head––until yesterday’s encounter with a certain stable dweller. I fooled myself into thinking I was safe from those feathered grim reapers.

But the Talons got here before I did. Now, the crosshairs were real, and Gawd’s claw was wrapped around the trigger.

Creed cocked his head, unfazed at my outburst. “Yeah. They run a checkpoint on the bridge leading out of this side of the river. Friends of yours?”

I was going to die, yet Gawd would hit retirement before I let her have the satisfaction. “No, no, no. I’ll wear the collar… It won’t blow up, will it?”

“Nah. I removed the battery. Just look defeated and say nothing unless I order you to. We’ll keep this up until we’re in Postalmac.”

As he ordered, I clamped the collar around my neck, feeling the weight of a hopeless future drop on my chest. Creed adjusted the latches and secured it tightly, allowing me to feel the steel upon every breath. The jumpsuit came next; it was difficult parting with my constant and comfortable companion. That and Creed was making me feel self–conscious with his staring.

“What are you looking at?” I questioned him.

Creed met my glare with a bland look. “Your cutie mark.”

“Oh, I’m flattered.”

“I’m not going to touch on that.” Creed helped me with packing the jumpsuit and attaching the saddlebags to my form. After one more glance over my body, Creed tied a pre–war scarf around my PipBuck. He stepped back. “How’d you get it?”

The mark in question was a polaroid with a grey and blue pony depicted on it––the image was blurred, however. I had a test–proven story to explain it: “I’ve got an eye for photography. My cutie mark is supposed to represent my ability to capture stories and preserve them for the future.”

“You have any good stories you want to tell?” He clipped a rope to my collar and tied the other end around his hoof. The slaver and the slave on a business trip to Celestia’s Folly. May the Goddesses help sell this cover–up.

“Ask me after we get out alive,” I said.

We moved out from behind a knoll, walking to the makeshift dock with little attention thrown our way. The slavers were in a jolly mood, smiling and talking to another as though they were having some sort of reunion. Getting onto the ferry was no issue either, since the attendants running the boat had no nerve. Any who were in our way stepped aside after taking one look at Creed’s barding.

Thanks to the wagons and the limited space, we had to find standing room at the railing with a fire team of four––a griffon, an earth pony mare, two stallions, a unicorn and an earth pony. I prayed to whatever gods I knew that they would keep to their own conversations, but I was let down very quickly.

The unicorn, of dark blue mane and sickly white coat, took notice within a moment, taking me in with eyes of an in–equine coldness. I had looked into the eyes of raiders before and seen the rock bottom of a pony’s morality and conscience. This slaver was not so simple. Just looking into those hazel brown pupils gave me a hint to terrors with which I had no familiarity.

After seven seconds more of this wordless interrogation, he shifted to Creed with a smirk, his bisected, slanted mustache taking on the motion of a raised eyebrow.

He spoke with a drawl on every vowel: “Howdy, newcomers. I don’t remember seeing either of you at roll call.”

Creed answered, “We’re just tagging along, going across the river to Celestia’s Folly.” On cue, the ferry shook, and the little raft began chugging away from shore.

“Quite a wretched place to be taking such a lovely mare.” Mid–sentence, the slaver repositioned himself so he was facing the railing, coming with a hair of brushing my shoulder.

He went back to tormenting me. With more want, his gaze explored further, and I could track its progress from which parts of my skin crawled. “Where are my manners? We’ve yet to introduce each other. The name’s Huckleberry.”

I had to kick myself mentally to remember the fake name I crafted beforehand. My mind would not stop thinking about how close his eyes were getting to my tail. My answer spilled out in a rushed delivery: “Picture Perfect.”

“Pepper Twirl,” Creed added with not one inflection in his voice. Even though the whole conversation was spiraling toward a bad ending, he remained immersed in his role.

The earth pony stallion spoke, “Longshanks.”

Followed by the earth pony mare. “Definite Cauliflower.”

She pointed toward the griffon looking out upon the river. “Gaston,” she answered for him.

Huckleberry brought us back into a stare contest. “Picture Perfect. Would you imagine that? The name fits the pony.”

At that point, he decided to put a hoof on my backside, his head craned low by my hindlegs. My body remained still even as my heart threatened to burst free and leap overboard. I did what I could to make myself a fortress, tucking my tail close and locking my legs together. My body naturally contracted away from the hoof, much as it would from a sword to my neck. He kept on the pressure, however, by swirling the cusp of his hoof right by the base of my tail.

Huckleberry tapped my cutie mark. “The cutie mark’s a bit off. It’s all blurry. What d’ya think about this inconsistency, Longshanks?”

The earth pony took his turn studying me. It did not take long for the smirk of a successful scavenger to appear on his face.

“Forget the cutie mark, sergeant. Look how she tries to hide herself. She must be a new catch!” Longshanks shouted. More eyes were turning toward us, those of the slavers, the wagon slaves, and even a few of the ferry’s staff. My naked back to the water, there was nowhere to hide and nothing I could say to defend myself.

Huckleberry raised both eyebrows in Longshanks’s direction. “Well, you’re pinpoint on that.”

The hoof pressed down harder to the point of making my legs buckle.

“And I would very much enjoy one last tryst before the Valley. What do you say, Pepper? Want me to help you break her in?”

The ‘Angel’ was just smiling along with these sick perverts. Say something, Creed! Or throw me in the rapids now, so I could drown a virgin! Say anything. Say––

“My client prefers his goods brand new. It’s frustrating, let me tell you, but that’s the deal I made.” Creed could be heard above the taxed ferry engine and all the other conversations. He never dropped the smile, and everyone in proximity acknowledged the lie by returning to their own business.

Huckleberry waited a moment then took his hoof off of me. “I can’t say I’m not disappointed, but it’s my own fault for not making the most of my leave in Amos. You'd think a stallion would make the most of his time before a tour in the Valley.”

Cauliflower bumped the unicorn’s shoulder, barely noticing how close she was to the sharp end of an auto–axe on his back. She consoled him with a sultry promise: “Aw, cheer up, sergeant. You know my door’s always open.”

Huckleberry for his part caressed her cheek with the same hoof he put on me. “Darling, I can’t afford you.”

“I’m not a hooker!”

“Then I really can’t afford you.”

Everyone broke into laughs at that. Except me, of course.

Longshanks leaned his body on a rifle, the barrel right underneath his chin. He asked, “Whose line was that, sergeant? You couldn’t have possibly thought that one on your own.”

“We all have our secrets, don’t we?” Huckleberry paused as the ferry shook again, having docked on the other side of the river. He exchanged his collected tone for one of more provocative authority as the guard railing fell back. “Time to unload. Ready to go to your Goddess like good soldiers?”

Longshanks was the first to jump on land. He shouted back, “So long as I don’t get accidently liquefied like Milt.”

“Couldn’t be worse than ripping your own vocal cords out from poison gas.” Cauliflower replied, trotting out alongside the first wagon.

Huckleberry entirely forgot Creed and me, trailing after his squad. “It was destiny that such a fate befell our beloved comedian, Jubilee.”

Gaston was the last of the group to disembark, his beak contorting into a bleak frown. The name, ‘Jubilee,’ once mentioned, seemed to add a few years to his form, such that the griffon departing followed his squad at a crawling pace.

Creed led me along, walking down one of Postalmac’s streets while the slavers moved out on the main road south. I looked back and caught sight of the party we were with, laughing in remembrance of all the awful ways to die.

Cauliflower’s voice could be heard amongst the ruckus. “Let’s not forget Bald–whiner! I’ve polished my medical skills trying to identify what the hounds threw over!”

Soon, the slavers and their wagons were out of sight. In their wake, the ferry attendants began loading up dozens of wooden coffins with Red Eye’s symbol painted on top.

Comet Scotia

Current reputation
Southern Wasteland: Neutral
Red Eye’s Slavers: Hated
Gawd’s Talons: Hunted

Chapter Four: And We Fought To Believe the Impossible

“Get this thing off of me!” I threw my hooves at the latches on this cursed collar. Why would the smith who crafted this thing make it ridiculously difficult for the wearer to remove––oh. I stomped on the asphalt and hissed, “Creed, get this collar off!”

In the shadow of a burned–out pharmacy, Creed freed me from the shackle. We had slipped into an alley the moment we lost sight of the ferry. I was not walking another block with this bomb collar on me. Not after coming within a sentence of becoming someone’s comfort mare. Goddesses, just looking into those eyes… but then there was the morally righteous pegasus who let Huckleberry have his thorough inspection in the first place.

Creed tossed the collar into his bags. “You weren’t harmed at least,” he offered. I returned his courtesy with a glare and a kick of my tail. Next time we were going incognito, he was wearing that collar.

But that situation could come later. We could not dwell in the alley forever. “How far is it to Celestia’s Folly from Postalmac?” I asked as I wore the jumpsuit once more. Never had I imagined that the clothes of the recently deceased could be so refreshing to wear… well, no need to dwell on that detail any more.

The Angel folded up his slaver disguise into a neat bundle and packed it up. “If we keep pace, we could reach the town by tomorrow morning.”

“So we’ll need to find somewhere to stay the night along the way.”

“You enjoy camping?”

The memory of my exodus came to mind. I picked up some outdoorsman skill on the run. “I can manage.”

“Let’s roll, then. There are lots of Red Eye loyalists here.” Creed started out into the town streets, battle–saddles readied. I walked out at his side.

Postalmac was evidently a pre–war town, possibly dating from before even Littlehorn, the incident that kicked off the journey to the apocalypse as we knew it. The town’s architecture gave away its antiquity––brick and mortar for stores, unvarnished wood for homes, crumbling asphalt for roads. Had it not been for centuries of decay, I imagined this town might have been the best–preserved artifact of Equestria’s golden age.

Creed and I stuck to the alleys, crossing the streets only when the citizens had their backs turned to us. The pegasus was spot–on when he said the place was crawling with loyalists. Red Eye’s banners hung from every building that still had its face intact. Town hall had even been converted to a church for that Unity religion he embraced. I doubted that any of his converts here even knew what an abomination the Unity really was.

What mattered, however, was that Red Eye could win over towns and their populations. There was no telling just how strong his grip was on this wasteland.

We came to a stop within the outskirts and rested between two of the only walls still standing. Collapsed homes were the only company we had for blocks—them and Pinkie Pie’s face on torn posters.

The head of the Ministry of Morale was said to have her eyes on every citizen in Equestria. She bit the dust two centuries ago when the Great War ended in an explosive bonanza, but there were still remnants of her legacy, watching “FOREVER” from fronts all over Equestria.

A poster per wall, though? That was overkill.

Creed had his ears perked up and his eyes turned to the west. Following his example, I made out the distant ruckus of rattling metal. It was a familiar tune from the previous night—the sound of a brahmin carrying junk merchandise.

“It’s a trader,” I whispered.

Creed nodded, peeking through a hole in the wall. “A merchant on the westbound road, coming in our direction.”

“Safe to talk to?”

“Let’s find out.” He pulled out a blanket and covered his wings. As the Angel strode out to meet the merchant, I took his position and watched out of the hole.

The trader appeared to be an earth pony mare of stunning red. When I say stunning, I actually mean so striking and brilliant that the whole world brightens up just looking at her long enough. She tipped a worn sunhat in Creed’s direction, briefly exposing the equally stunning orange mane underneath.

I eventually snapped out of the trance her hair trapped me in. My gaze wandered from the spectacle to focus on scouting out the area. Creed and the merchant met at the corner of a t–shaped intersection, barren of any accessible cover, yet out of sight of any vantage points. The skeletons of decayed homes were all the sites from which a possible ambush could be sprung.

Creed turned to me and tapped the ground. That must be the cue––the merchant was safe.

“Is that…? Stars above! The Stable Dweller! Well, stranger, you certainly have some peculiar company,” the trader remarked as I approached. “The name’s Eye Candy. So long as you’re not a window shopper, I’m okay with you staring.”

I forced a chuckle. We all did.

“Like I told your friend, you should probably stay off the road. Buck Crusaders hit a caravan heading out that way. They took the survivors captive.”

Buck Crusaders. They had to be raiders to come up with that name.

“Do you know where they took the survivors? Their hideout?” Creed inquired.

“The crusaders are holed up in an ancient processing mill,” Eye Candy said. “With this road under lockdown, Megacorps will have completed its encirclement of Celestia’s Folly… so, are you buying anything?”

Slavers to the east; horde to the south; some ‘Megacorps’ to the west. Was fate just trying to kill me whichever path I took? But from the sound of it, Megacorps may only be a raider band. I had the Angel of Mason Road on my side, so cutting through some ‘Buck Crusaders’ should be at least manageable.

“What’s Megacorps?” I questioned.

Eye Candy frowned and peered deeply into me as she explained: “The worst kind of evil to remain from the Great War… neither radiation, nor taint… Megacorps is a corporation.”

Of raiders?

“Of raiders!” the merchant hissed. “The descendants of surviving corporate lawyers from the north––I don’t know what they were looking for down here––who went insane when the bombs fell. They’ve organized themselves into ‘companies’ specializing in all the wretched trades of the wasteland.

“Most companies are set up in Hawkthorn, west of Celestia’s Folly. Somebody in town violated a copyright or something, and now the whole of Megacorps is laying siege to Celestia’s Folly. That town is protected by the best, but even she can’t beat corporate. Nobody does. Now, you want to look at my goods?”

Up north, raiders typically formed gangs no bigger than a dozen ponies. On seldom occasion, they even rallied under a raider king. So to hear that the south had as many as could form a corporation was… just unpleasant.

It was still the afternoon, yet today had offered nothing but misery and bad news… and that disturbing slaver. Why was I expecting anything else to go right?

I had the thought of telling Creed we should just cut our losses and take up work as farmers in Samedan, but the Angel had already made peace with his maker. He told Eye Candy, “We’ll rescue those caravan survivors. Nova and I happen to specialize in quality assurance.”

What in the world was quality assurance, anyway?

Eye Candy’s smile returned. “Nova is your name, Stable Dweller? I’ll be sure to remember that. If you two actually do succeed, send those caravaneers to Postalmac, so I could fit them for their journeys home. But first, want to buy some ammo or weapons for the coming battle?”

I shook my head. Not that I would fare any better with new firearms. Creed declined the offer as well, settling for a curt goodbye to the brightly colored merchant.

Her eye twitched, but the smile remained plastered on her face. “Good afternoon, then!”

Eye Candy watched us depart west. Postalmac grew smaller and more insignificant as we made distance on the main road, but the merchant remained a persisting spectacle––a fluorescent red dot against a colorless world.

In front of us, the Southern Wasteland laid bare to the horizon, upon which a mountain range began. The thickest fog covered the peaks, such that the mountains seemed to fade out at a certain height, as though someone were erasing them out of existence.

A few degrees to the south, I spotted the silhouette of an industrial plant. Since the structure was too lean to be a factory, it had to be the processing mill Eye Candy had pointed out. That mill was exactly where Creed was taking us next.

It dawned upon me that Creed was a little romantic in his perception of the world. It was not every day that someone would decide to tackle raiders and save hostages on a whim. No reward either. “The Angel of Mason Road.” With a title like that, he was just begging to become a hero. Like the Stable Dweller.

My eyes focused on E.F.S. for any new threats, I mumbled, “What are we even doing?”

Creed took a long breath and exhaled. His next words could not have been more blunt: “Killing raiders and helping innocents. Restoring the wasteland by ridding it of infestation.”

I swore I heard a snort from my companion as a yawn got the better of me. “I haven’t been out here long, Creed”—which was the truth to an extent––“but from what I’ve seen, I’d say you would need to do a lot more than kill all the bad guys to make things better.”

“You’re right.” I turned my head. Creed kept his eyes on the mill, his face and thoughts unreadable. “The wasteland won’t be fixed by the conquests of trigger–happy warriors or cowardly governments or empires. It’s best if we just wiped each other out.”

“I take it you don’t side with any of them,” I said.

He nodded. “Given the choices, the republic’s the only power worth trusting with the future. If the president and senate weren’t so shy about accepting the responsibility, they could’ve prevented the south from becoming a warzone.

“What the wasteland really needs is someone to get everybody off their flanks and remind them that life can get better than this. All the pieces are set; now we just need a catalyst, a spark.” Creed abruptly stopped in his tracks, crouching low with his neck stretched outward. I followed suit without prompt, facing forward to a closer view of the mill.

The structure looked like a two–story barn with a rooftop tumor in the shape of a modest cottage. The metal sheets it wore for walls had begun peeling away to expose a hollow interior, ruining the rustic appeal. From the top window stretched a conveyer belt built upon metal beams. The belt connected the mill to a modern slab of concrete also two stories high. This building appeared to have weathered the centuries better, but the incompetency of its architects showed in a collapsed corner at the far end.

Creed pulled me by the foreleg to an overturned flatbed. With binoculars in his hooves, he peeked around the corner of our cover to survey the area. I examined my firearms, unloading and reloading both the Stable pistol and the revolver. My shovel remained tucked to my side with the saddlebags, easily accessible should I have to fight close quarters.

“The Buck Crusaders are here alright,” Creed returned to my side. “There’s one of the vermin atop the old mill, but that’s all I could see at the moment. Can you locate any on your PipBuck?”

Turning my gaze toward the concrete building, I saw at least a dozen bars on E.F.S. Three of them hostile red and the rest yellow, probably the captives. As I turned to my right, where the mill stood, Creed came up on my compass as a yellow bar as well. The sentry he spoke of was highlighted red.

“I’ve got four bad guys––three in the left building, one on the mill––and a number of friendlies in the left one as well.”

As I was speaking, Creed had packed up the binoculars and taken account of his guns. “What’s the plan then, Nova?”

Now I was in charge? I could not remember the last time I organized a hostage rescue––that skill was not required of my old profession. Still, I could not possibly come up with a plan worse than disguising as a slave and riding a ferry with slavers. That said…

“Right, my plan.” I clapped my hooves together. “Creed, you wear a bomb collar and convince the Crusaders that you’re just a lost slave looking for his master.”

Creed smirked. “And deprive us of air reconnaissance? Or the only pony with some marksmanship?”

I returned his dumb grin. “Good point. You should fly up and shoot the sentry atop the mill. Then focus your fire on that open corner on the other building. You’ll get their attention, and I’ll sneak inside and take care of the trio.”

Upon hearing my role, Creed raised an eyebrow. “You’re going to be able to shoot three raiders?”

“No, but this will help. Activate S.A.T.S.” As I spoke the words––just thinking the command actually––Creed froze in place, presenting a patient target as I slowly dragged up my Stable pistol’s sights on his head. At the same time, I could see him flinch, one reflexive muscle twitch at a time, as he pulled away from the barrel. By the time I commanded S.A.T.S. to stop, Creed was already leaning as far back as physically possible.

One of his hooves slowly brushed my gun aside. His smile grew once the barrel was pointing elsewhere. “That’ll do. Ready to save the day, Stable Dweller?”

“Always.”

Creed took to the air, ascending to the height of a soaring bird before starting a flight path for the mill. I shook out my legs, eyes trained on the concrete building. The distance I had to cover appeared around 400 meters with nothing in between but a few disabled wagons full of ashes. With a flick of my tongue, the safety on the pistol was off.

My ears perked up at the staccato sound of gunfire. A raider’s death cry resounded through the air, and I broke into a sprint. For an earth pony, I thought myself adequately fit and well–built, yet my endurance could never sustain me for anything more than a short race. Reaching the metal double doors of the facility could not have taken more than a minute.

I just had to give myself another minute to catch my breath. Maybe take several breaths, lean against the wall, and spit out my gun. In the space of time I spent slowing my heart rate, I caught a few bits of shouted chit–chat inside the building.

“––ing pegasus!”

“I see him. Out that corner!”

“Jammed! Stupid trash! Acre, can I borrow your shotgun?”

“No! Take better care of your trash, Antioch.”

I poked my head in through the left door. Some twenty meters or so in front of me was a rounded counter with a terminal on top. Both sides of the room were designed to mirror one another, presenting the same walls of decorations, the same limestone pillars, and the same overhangs on the second floor. These corridor–length balconies met at the wall opposite the doors, on top of which rested a makeshift stronghold made of office cabinets and tree logs.

All three raiders had their guns trained on whatever space existed over the wall. There they stood with their backs turned to me––three heads I could line up shots on in S.A.T.S. I slipped inside the building, shutting the door behind me with practiced concealment. At twenty meters, however, I had doubts I could land perfect headshots. Even the rudimentary helmets the Crusaders had on could render a badly placed bullet non–fatal. So I took a few slow steps forward, closing the distance by at least a few meters.

That was when I felt a wire against my foreleg; I heard a pin drop to the floor. Three seconds. Dive right? Dive left? Fifty–fifty chance I was going to eat a faceful of shrapnel. Left!

I leapt to my left. The explosion swept the room from the height of a pony’s chest and up––I was prone against the floor at the last millisecond. Although my continued living surely meant I had chosen luckily, the resounding scream of the booby trap made it seem like I had jumped right on top of it.

My left hindleg suddenly received a hoof–sized scorpion sting as I laid there in shock. Whether it was the shrapnel or a bullet, it was the worst wake–up call I had ever received! I crawled behind one of the pillars under the balcony, grinding my teeth together from the searing pain in my leg.

“Behind that pillar!” shouted the raider known as Acre. “Fire everything you’ve got. It’s the darn Stable Dweller herself!”

My cover took on a beating from that point on. I brought my forelegs up to prime my gun, but they just ended up at my lips. After a few seconds fiddling with a phantom pistol, I spotted the real thing out in the open, likely dropped when my hindleg got torn up.

Where were you, Creed?

The Crusader with jamming woes, Antioch, answered, “The pegasus got inside! Left side. Enjoy the grenade, you pheasant!”

The explosion made my heart jump a second time. I tried looking at my E.F.S. to check on Creed’s status, but I could not tell where he was in the cluster of yellow and red.

The barrage continued for a moment longer. It died down just as Acre spoke up, “C’mon, Stable Dweller! Give up. Your friend’s dead, and you’re outgunned.”

I took deep breaths, trying to stop the thumping sensation in my skull. With my back against the pillar, I took a glance at myself. My jumpsuit had a new tear in the bottom left sleeve, out of which jutted a square shred of steel. The shrapnel must have penetrated only a couple millimeters or so. Blood continued pouring from the wound, but I figured bleeding out was the least of my concerns––I was in no condition to run.

The idea struck me at that moment. I could not run, so surrender was the only option, as it appeared to the raiders. I replied, “Alright, I surrender!”

The Crusaders hollered to one another upon hearing that. I even made out a hoof bump in the din. Acre called out, “Step out and lay flat on the floor. In plain sight.”

“I would, but your front door greeting tore me up pretty bad. I can’t move.”

“Ah, whatever.” Acre paused. “Antioch, go retrieve the distressed damsel.”

“Can I at least have the shotgun with me?” Antioch asked.

“Get your own, apostate.”

“Go to hell.” Antioch began walking away for what I presumed were the stairs.

From my saddlebags, I quickly retrieved my revolver and checked the cylinder. Five in the chamber. Hammer cocked back, tongue upon the trigger, I steadied the weapon in my mouth. The steps grew closer.

I turned on my side once it sounded like Antioch was on the same floor. Soon enough, the raider appeared in my sights––a malnourished green stallion dressed in a white–collared shirt, a red tie, and, below the chest, a red sash, which formed a cross with the tie. A butcher’s knife rested between his teeth.

S.A.T.S. engaged.

My revolver’s barrel fell right on the face of the well–garbed raider. My tongue pulled the trigger. The first shot struck Antioch just above his forehead, sending his batting helmet into the air; the second punched a hole into his neck and made him stagger backward; the third and final bullet found its way into his muzzle. Antioch died well before he crumpled to the ground.

A moment of silence passed in honour of the late Antioch.

“Y–you monster! Lying murderer!” Acre screamed. The bullet storm resumed. Nothing penetrated through the pillar.

“Heretics like you are all that’s poisonous with the wasteland!” I had to admit, the guy had to have a pair of iron lungs to be heard above the gunfire. “When I’m through with you, you’ll be praying to your god for death! Know that I will not give you such mercy!”

A pair of battle–saddles let loose two bursts. Immediately, the torrent of gunfire ceased, punctuated by two mortal cries. There was a thud upon the first floor. Peering out from behind my cover, I spotted a purple stallion dressed much like his dead brethren, save for some metal plates of barding and a shotgun by his side.

He crawled with his forelegs––blood smeared on the floor in his wake––to Antioch. Not much good that move would do for him. The knife was all that raider was carrying.

Through a couple flares of pain, I got back on three hooves and limped out to the pony I assumed was Acre. The last Buck Crusader froze in place once he noticed me. Were those really tears in his eyes? Sure, he was dying, but raiders did not really care about their lives anyway. They were the scourge of emerging civilization, and I was playing the sort of character that dealt with such problems.

“Luna! Celestia!” Acre gasped. “…I–I don’t want to die. Please, I can––I will get you any favor from Megacorps! I’m well liked…”

He should have just spit at me or cussed. That way, it would be so much easier for me to execute him.

But at that moment, Creed flew down and stood above the dying raider; he replied to the Crusader’s terrified look of recognition with a pleased smile. The Angel reared up on his hindlegs, giving the raider just enough time to whisper one more “Please” before a pair of hooves came down upon his skull.

The squelch made by the mixing of brain matter and shattered bone caused my lunch to briefly jump back into my throat. Absolutely nothing else could quite mimic that disgusting sound. Worse still, I had to hear it three more times before Creed was finished.

I took a long gulp from the canteen to clean out the acid.

Luckily, I was trained by the best to keep composure around carnage. What would my companion think if I vomited from business as usual? But if I had to be honest, I was still going to have unpleasant images in my dreams tonight.

Since Creed seemed busy cleaning his forelegs on the corpse, I decided to get on with looting the other bodies. But of course, my first priority was the Stable pistol. With that regained, I prodded through the contents of Antioch’s suit, uncovering at most ten caps and a few pistol rounds. The knife he had was about as valuable a weapon as a broken pool stick; my shovel had more flexibility in battle than this junk.

“What are you doing?” Creed trotted over, looking no less weary and jolly than before. If I squinted my eyes, I could make out the red stains on his coat––not to say he did a bad job of covering them up.

I shrugged. “Looting the bodies.”

“Aren’t you going to do something about your leg?”

I glanced back at my hindleg, which was still dripping blood. In negligible droplets, I thought.

“Yeah. You got any medical supplies on you?” We relocated to the counter, which served as my exam table. I laid on top, hoisting my injured leg up with only minor suffering.

Creed dug through his saddlebags, acquiring his canteen, a pair of pliers, a bandage, and some adhesive tape. Pliers to remove the shrapnel; water to clean the wound; a bandage over the cut; tape to wrap around the bandage. Thankfully, he never had to use his hooves.

“Try out that leg, Nova. See if you can walk okay.” The Angel pulled out a key ring. “I’m going to get the caravan hostages out.”

Creed flew over the counter and over the wall. The moment he was gone, I went on with looting. My leg was still stiff, yet I could manage walking on all four hooves now.

I may have rushed my examination of Acre’s body; one could only ignore the splattered remains of a head for so long. At least he offered better yield than did Antioch––forty caps, two dozen shotgun shells, two Buck tablets.

Buck was a strength–enhancing combat drug. Even though the raiders and mercenaries preferred the likes of Dash and Rage, Buck tablets typically sold for a higher price in places like Manehattan. That aside, I had no idea how the drug market was like in the South.

Taking some stairs on the right, I walked through the Crusaders’ stronghold. Bullet casings, empty bottles, and all manner of improvised weapons littered the floor. After seeing what they had as a welcome mat, I made certain to practice more caution as I passed through.

The other dead Crusader had a Dash inhaler and a submachine gun so abused that I feared holding it in my mouth. No, the real catch was a hunting shotgun, which Acre must have dropped when the Angel struck him down. The weapon looked like an antique from a museum exhibit, made dirty by weathering conditions and experiencing combat damage––it still worked.

I thought back to my poor showing against the raiders at the Buckner distillery. Surely with a scattershot, aiming would not be as essential. I assumed that the pump included was the means by which I could ready the next shot. It was just unfortunate I could not spare the shells I had to practice my aim.

“Good choice. I prefer receiving buckshot in my back to receiving a submachine gun spray.” Creed was hovering a couple meters off the ground.

I smirked. “I hear that before the bombs fell, they used buckshot to down low–flying birds.”

“No, for that they used birdshot.” Cheeky pegasus. How could he know that? “But I’ll heed the warning.”

Under us, the caravaneers were making their way out––quite a number of children in their midst. A few even stopped to look up and thank their Stable Dweller savior… and Creed.

“I’ve already given them instructions to reach Postalmac. We’ve done a good thing here, Nova.”

I was really playing up to the hero role. Huh. Was that pride I felt swelling inside me? More likely than not, it was amazement that we had taken down the raiders with nothing worse than a leg wound. I would be lying, if I said that I was not feeling a little joy. It was as though I had metaphorically taken on the wasteland––its cruelty and harsh reality––and won the battle. That must be what gave Creed his high.

And that must be what gave the Stable Dweller her strength.

As I watched the caravaneers exit the building, my eyes went back to the two corpses on the floor. The Buck Crusaders were well–known; Megacorps would know what I had done to them. The caravan survivors would make sure of that.

“I’m not so sure Megacorps would take too kindly to our fighting the good fight.”

Creed landed at my side. Transfixed on the mess we made, I completely failed to notice that he had rummaged through my saddlebags for a Buckner Special. He took a swig, still smiling at the corpses of Antioch and Acre.

“Let them do something or nothing at all. Either way, we’re just getting started.” The Angel laughed.

Comet Scotia

Current reputation
Southern Wasteland: Liked
Red Eye’s Slavers: Hated
Gawd’s Talons: Hunted
Megacorps: Neutral

Chapter Five: If I Could Build a Bridge Between Us

“It’s a lovely evening out, radio lovers. Just look at those foreboding clouds… melts a mare’s heart. I’m your host, Untold Song, and I’ve got a lineup of intriguing news.

“Today’s highlight is a surprise visit to Samedan’s Buckner House by the King. That King. So bring out your oldest beer from the vaults, pub owners. Things are about to get mental in the wasteland. Out west, we have reports that Steel Ranger representatives attempted to enter Tascleon, likely on some mission to requisition the town’s batteries. Here’s the best part: the rangers never got into the downtown area. A mob of fanatics, addicts, and hookers chased them out at gunpoint! Here’s to you, you wretched town, for holding your own. We’ll have more news after the break. For now, take it easy with some Sleepy Town Blues…”

A drunken jazz emanated out of my PipBuck. Its relaxed nonchalance as a background tune made an already tedious journey longer. Hours after leaving behind the processing mill, Celestia’s Folly was still a mirage on the horizon. Creed tried to cut the tension with conversation; I tried to forget he found pleasure in stomping ponies’ heads in.

We were crossing an abandoned farm, the soil plowed but never planted. One more victim to the eternal drought, as though it were not bad enough the world had already succumbed to a blanket firestorm. Creed thought aloud, “Some folks think the drought is nature’s retribution for the Great War… long overdue payback to wipe out the equines who started it.”

I looked up at the cloud cover with the suspicion this drought had equine causes as well. I asked, “And do you believe that?”

“No. The drought hasn’t exactly annihilated everyone yet, and it’s gone on for years. If I were nature, I would’ve brought upon a great flood and just sunk this vile wasteland.” Creed chuckled after a pause. Of course, he chose the flood. Pegasi could fly above the water level. “It must have something to do with the climate, considering how messed up it was after the bombs fell. Pockets of civilization have been surviving and maintaining food production even through the first decades, so odds are that ponykind will live through the drought.”

Ponykind would live. That was a certainty, at least. I supposed optimism for those little certainties was healthy for the soul. The only other certainty seemed to be that the wasteland in all its cruelty was constant. This catastrophe of a world was as good as it was going to get. That was why I made my wants simple––job, home, security––because none of them involved fighting the wasteland itself. Well, at some point after I took on the Stable Dweller name, that latter clause no longer applied.

Oh yes, it was thanks to Creed. Speaking of the Dashite, I realized I had gone nearly a minute without responding. He was tossing me glances now and then, patiently waiting for me to return to Earth. I opened my mouth, but the radiomare chipped in first.

“Did you miss me? We’re back with more news from earlier today. Baltimare’s own President Cornwell visited Urk to give a speech at the water treatment plant. I’ll spare you the political rhetoric and summarize the message––‘I hope you’re not still mad at us for screwing you over 64 years ago.’ He should’ve known making the speech on the anniversary of that incident was a bad idea.”

Creed grumbled. Upon his face, a furrowed brow formed.

Untold Song paused in that instance, leaving her soft breath the only sound audible. “Well, it’s not my place to say whether the citizens of Urk have gotten over having to sweep their streets of the swamp infestation, but as food for thought, I will tell you this: Baltimare soldiers had to arrest a couple of troublemakers trying to stash a gator’s egg in the President’s personal vehicle. And now, for something completely different––the Stable Dweller. The mare who slaughtered slavers and earned the respect of the DJ a week back. Remember how the last report said she was dead? Turns out Red Eye’s fan club had been hiding something from us all along! Now she’s come down south to clear up any confusion.”

At that news, Creed’s face lightened up, and the pegasus chuckled. “What a way to come back into the spotlight. And you’ve pulled open the curtains on just what Red Eye was hiding.”

“Fighting the good fight, as the DJ always said, the Stable Dweller teamed up with the Angel of Mason Road to clean house with the Buck Crusaders and rescue the caravan they were holding hostage. On behalf of all the civilized parts of the Southern Wasteland, I welcome you back from the dead, Stable Dweller, with this next song, Big Iron…”

“Word spreads fast,” I whispered. The guitar tune emanating out of the PipBuck was rubbing me the wrong way, and I was hardly five seconds in. It was a well–known fact that no one messed with Red Eye, not unless they wanted contract killers on their tail. I had a feeling the slavers would not hold off on the trigger to distinguish if I was the real thing. The risks of putting up this act were beginning to outweigh the probable returns.

“They were merchants. They’ll get a story from one end of the wasteland to the other as though it were just another commodity,” Creed answered, grinning that pleased grin.

No more than two verses into the song, I had enough. My hoof switched off the radio in a split second. I faked a chuckle when Creed raised an eyebrow. “Country isn’t my kind of music.”

“You wouldn’t be alone in that opinion.”

We traveled parallel to the main road, which would have run straight past Celestia’s Folly to a highway called the Agnes Route. According to the PipBuck map, the Agnes Route ran straight from the north to the deep south, well into Horde territory. Should the higher beings above look favorably upon us, I would not have to travel that road.

Our destination, Celestia’s Folly, rested due west. As the settlement rose on the horizon, the sun set behind it, the glowing clouds making for a stunning backdrop to a silhouetted castle. The city, boasting walls rivaling the stone cage around Fillydelphia, stood wholly above the wasteland, atop a hill.

At this point in nightfall, Creed finally diverted our efforts from marching to finding somewhere to set up camp. I was more than happy to agree. Not exactly because I lacked the endurance––granted I did––but more so because the long silences between us were growing unbearable. He was trying; so was I. That was not enough.

I was very proficient at socializing. In fact, they loved me up north. I was the salespony everyone should know. “Comet Scotia,” all the wastelanders would say, “she’s well–liked.” With loyal contacts in New Appleloosa, Friendship City, Manehattan, and Fillydelphia, I was set for a remarkably comfortable retirement. Then the Talons ruined me, and that stupid colt snitch too––I was digressing, though.

But I could not be blamed for finding it just a little difficult to have a chat with someone like Creed. He was a comic book hero, swooping in to save the day on a total whim. I was still writhing behind his back over the thousand caps I gave up to play along with his heroism. At the same time, he was a textbook psychopath, bathing in the blood of ‘evildoers’ and crushing heads with his hooves. Had no one else noticed the clash of values in that?

No, no. That was fine. I just needed to take a deep breath and hold fast. This was absolutely fine. He was going to get me to Baltimare, and he could dash into any heroics afterwards without me. I just had to keep up the act for a while longer.

Creed diverted our path to the north, having spotted a herd of abandoned carriages. The area around us was scattered with the decayed remains of a forest. The carriages sat upon the asphalt of a parking lot––a rest stop, from the looks of it. He motioned me to a ditch not far off. “I’ll scout from the air and see if there’s anyone who had the same idea as us.” He forwent waiting for my consent and flew up.

Minutes passed, but they could have been hours with how fast daylight slipped away. I watched the sunset and thought I saw a ray or two slip through the clouds… it was just an illusion. No one had seen the sun for centuries. Celestia’s Folly disappeared into the starless night; under the cover of a moonless sky, Creed landed in the ditch.

“We’ll set up a campfire in the center of this parking lot.” I followed his lead out of the ditch and into a graveyard of wartime luxuries. With the PipBuck’s green light, I illuminated the streamlined hulls of sky wagons, splendorous frames of self–propelled carriages, and the symbol upon them all––a wheel with four spokes torn off to resemble a peace insignia. Most vehicles up north sported the same logo, that of a company called Medium Rare Metalworks.

Creed and I had to maneuver through tight openings to get to the center. With the carriages right at my sides, I could see clearly then that the frames were rusty, the windows and wheels broken, and the contents stripped clean of anything valuable. These vehicles were just empty husks. As hollow as the world that created them.

Some individuals felt nostalgia for the Old World––usually the customers who bought junk like paintings and music records. That obsession made no sense to me. Wartime Equestria was, as I have been told, its own variety of hell. It had to have been beyond redeemable for someone to hit a megaspell–sized reset button. Still, the nostalgia created a demand for Old World junk, which suited me just fine, so long as there were caps to be gained.

There was a clearing in the furthest depths of the lot with a diameter no more than three ponies in length. Together, Creed and I made a pyre from the wooden components of the carriages around us. A lighter in Creed’s adept hooves started the flames. True to his word, he took to cooking our dinner, preparing two tins of carrots. Not the preservative–infested variant either––these were fresh carrots, grown from unsullied soil and nurtured by earth pony farmers. Without a hint of dishonesty, these carrots were the best meal I had eaten in years.

I wolfed down my portion within mere minutes, filling my stomach with a kind of warmth and assurance only a luxury meal could provide. It was a fleeting sample of a richer life than I could ever afford; such moments only strengthened my resolve to pursue that life anyway. I would have it all as soon as Creed stopped his generosity streak. We really needed caps.

Speaking of the winged devil. “Stable food must’ve been terribly dull. You devoured those carrots like a feral ghoul.” Creed took a pinch of a carrot between his teeth, tantalizing me with the recent memory of blissful eating. I realized too late that I was practically drooling at the display. He grinned that pleased grin, surely his signature of contentment, derived from my frustration… and from the fear he inspired in raiders, moments before their heads were stomped into glue.

The carrots in my stomach stirred in all the wrong ways. In spite of the rising acid, I laughed and shot back, “All of us in the stables just haven’t had the chance to taste food blessed by the sun.”

“It definitely shows.” Creed kept his eyes upon me, and I could tell he was looking for the telltale signs of a pony wearing a facade. Too bad I had years of experience to back me up. “You earthborne ponies are practically always borderline starving. If only the Enclave knew it could’ve taken over just by airdropping loaves of bread.”

I gave a hearty laugh, but it died seconds later in my throat once I realized Creed was not laughing with me. His grin was gone, replaced by a neutral expression. My tail began to twitch. I had to remind myself which saddlebag contained my stable pistol––it never hurt to have a gun ready when traveling with a suspicious psycho.

We stared one another in the eyes until a sigh from Creed broke the spell. He stated casually, “You don’t trust me.”

I was lacking in perception. Of course he had noticed something was up.

“What? After what we’ve been through in a single day?” I asked. After becoming a plaything for that slaver during one of his ploys and after cutting it close with a grenade during one of his heroic antics, why would I have even a shred of distrust for Creed? That brutal execution he pulled on the Buck Crusaders certainly added to his trustworthy repertoire. “We’re practically fire–forged friends.”

Creed took slow bites of his remaining carrots. If he was aware of the lie, he was a master actor for masking it. Audible gulp. His hooves clapped together, and his smile returned full force. “Of course. And seeing as we’re going to be partners for some time, we should get to know each other more… About that story you said you’d tell?”

The memory popped into mind instantly, just not in a form I could present. There was some tweaking to be done, so for the time being, I simply stared listlessly at him. Creed was a good sport, though, never changing expression in the momentous silence that greeted his question.

“Alright. I’ll start.” The Dashite stretched his forelegs. “This one’s about my old CO, the most experienced pegasus in all the Enclave. Had tons of foresight, while the higher–ups were twiddling with how best to rain hellfire on the Earth. He’d bring me below the clouds when I was just a cadet and show me all the awful things that happen in this wasteland.

“Believe me, I was terrified beyond belief; I wanted to make like Spitfire back to base and hide beneath my bunk. My CO was full of understanding, though––he just held me in place and forced my eyes and ears open to the horror. For weeks after, I puked, cried, and drank ‘til I purged all feeling away. That was when my CO told me something I’d never forget: ‘the world below is filled with evil and corruption. As is our slice of heaven here. But don’t you ever think that either world is beyond redemption. You, the Enclave, the individual wastelander, have a duty to restore it––to show the wasteland that there is such a thing as progress.’ He never told me how I had to restore the wasteland, and the higher–ups certainly didn’t agree with my proposals. So they did the best thing they could for me and banished me as a Dashite. That brings us to now.”

…I was not entirely sure what I had been expecting. Living in the wasteland certainly forced one to grow up fast, but what Creed went through sounded downright brutal. The thought that his story might be standard training for the Enclave military left me feeling a little chilly. Just imagine that: an army of Creed Brooks, angels of the wasteland.

I took a drink from my canteen.

Not many wastelanders knew all that much about the Enclave. All they ever saw was the occasional scout on patrol; in their minds, all the pegasi were the same shadowy soldiers in black bug–suits. Most of the confirmed information had to come from the Dashites––one in Friendship City, another in New Appleloosa––but I suspected they might have exaggerated a few details. The paranoia surrounding the Enclave was more likely than not the byproduct of their biases.

I dismissed the thought of asking Creed for confirmation. It was rather discourteous to probe so much and offer nothing in return. “You seem rather chipper for someone who’s been exiled from home,” I said.

“So do you.”

“Fair point.”

I knew my story by heart. Granted, this variation took a few liberties with the truth. But here was a good tale: “I got my cutie mark in photography, as I told you. Specifically, I gained my mark after taking some photos of a mare named Event Horizon. A pony larger than life, loved by all and gladly capable of returning the feeling. I was surprised the stable could even hold her.”

“Come now, Comet. I can’t be the only landmark to take photos of!” I was not truly making stuff up when I lied. All I said was the truth––bent, exaggerated, cropped, provided a pinch of distortion. That made it easier to sleep at night, when I first started.

“Event Horizon had a policy she strictly abided by for many years… make someone’s day, every day. She made the depressed smile, the grumpy laugh, and the dying––she gave them peace. She was sunshine, if it ever unveiled itself from behind the cloud layer.”

“You don’t have to be sad for long, Comet. If you always move on.” I was taught by the best.

“A few days after I took the photos, Event Horizon killed herself. Stole a gun from the armory, put it to her head, and pulled the trigger. Never an explanation why. I couldn’t understand, and I still think about why she did it. A pony whose purpose in life was to teach others how to find joy… just goes ahead and ruins their day by dying.”

“I think this is the only way…”

“Sure, it’s the best thing. Comet.”

“She lives on, at least, in the photos. She’s with me even if she wanted to leave me. She’ll always be with me,” I said, gesturing to my cutie mark. The delivery on those last lines was definitely too shaky and too affected. An amateur slip–up. I lost control temporarily.

“Do you have the photos with you now?” Creed asked.

I stared into the fire. “No.”

Thankfully, Creed decided then to call it a night. He tossed me a rolled up blanket, colored olive green, over the fire. The blanket felt like it could withstand arctic weather and weighed close to nothing. I considered it some sort of pegasus witchcraft.

He opened and closed his wings a few times. “We should be up at sunrise, tomorrow. We could reach Celestia’s Folly within morning… How does that sound?”

“I can wake myself up.” I shrugged.

Creed laid out his own blanket and assumed a fetal position with his back against the fire. “Good. Sweet dreams, Nova,” he yawned. Facing the fire, I rested with a clear line of sight on the Dashite. Within minutes, the only motions coming out of him were his steady breathing and some twitching in his wings.

The stable pistol in my hooves reflected the dancing flames from the campfire. It was unbelievable how polished and maintained the firearm remained; it brought ease to know I had a reliable weapon at hand, other than the shovel. As I played with the angles to see how the light lent its brilliance to the design, a realization struck me––I turned the safety on.

Comet Scotia

Current reputation
Southern Wasteland: Liked
Red Eye’s Slavers: Hated
Gawd’s Talons: Hunted
Megacorps: Hated

Chapter Six: I Don't Need a Miracle, I'm Much More Predictable (Part One)

By mid–morning, Creed and I were making the ascension toward Celestia’s Folly. The incline had been cleared of all but the dust at our hooves and the occasional corpse of a Megacorps raider––the tattered business suit was a dead giveaway. We were strolling right through no mare’s land without so much as a warning shot fired at us.

All was quiet atop this mound of earth. The banquettes of the fortress ahead were occupied by pony–shaped silhouettes and a number of prominent big guns. Howitzer barrels jutted out of turret walls like a dragon’s spikes. They still did not dissuade the raiders from bullying the dragon. The castle’s allegiance was marked by a golden flag, which depicted a cyan cod bursting from green seas, waving to us above the turrets.

“Whose flag is that?” I asked Creed.

A smile grew on his muzzle. “Baltimare Republic.” Finally, we had found a faction that did not want to kill us! At least, that was what I gathered from the tidbits of information the locals told me. The fact that no guns had been pointed in our direction yet was a promising sign.

Within meters of the walls, three lines of trenches and barricades had been erected, arranged in a salient around a metal gate. The city’s guards watched our approach with barely a reaction; most of them just grunted a “morning” or smiled in a professional, sick–of–the–job manner. They leaned against their posts in olive–drab cotton vests and steel panned helmets, occupied with the battle to keep their eyes open. Caught in a siege by murderous corporates, these soldiers appeared more bored than tense––no raider probably even made it within range of their guns.

A unicorn by the gate levitated a transceiver to his mouth, and without even an interruption in our pace, Creed and I were past the gate. Our hooves clopped upon the cobblestone to the melody of a hundred other busy hooves. The encircled settlement was positively packed to the brim with ponies.

I knew from the moment I smelled the bouquet of rampant hormones, herbal smoke, and rotting fish exactly what Celestia’s Folly’s staple was. Lines of hookers and pimps rested in the shadow of the walls; the main courtyard had been converted into an open–air market for every drug and weapon under the clouds; over by the bushes, a pair of beggars was playing tug–of–war with a plastic tin of cod.

Celestia’s Folly practically spoke for itself. Any more sentences on the depravity here would be redundant…

Also, there were a couple of drunks publicly urinating in a corner of the bailey.

Creed and I stopped at the steps to the keep, which appeared to now serve as the headquarters of the republican garrison. Given that it was the one building whose entrance was flanked by guards—whereas the rest of the bailey featured none—it was a fair assumption. It was upon these steps that we had a full view of this morally bankrupt settlement. Somewhere in the mesh of tarped stalls and roving crowds was our smuggler.

I glanced over at Creed and found him searching through the ponies. “What does she look like?”

“Grey earth pony mare. Purple mane. Has a bad habit of twirling around loaded revolvers.”

That was convenient. All I had to do was find the one mare who shot herself in the knee doing gun tricks. But the shifting disarray of smoke and motley colors in the marketplace complicated this game of ‘I Spy.’

“Split up?” I proposed.

“Good idea.” Creed stretched his wings. “You take to the stalls. Meet back here?”

“Sure.” I watched him ascend above the highest turret, drawing the eye of just about every vagabond and hooker in the bailey. It was hard not to stare myself. A pegasus was a rarer sight than a stable dweller, and I only met one yesterday. Now he was my partner. And that was following my transformation from naked fugitive to clothed hero. The past two days made less sense the more I thought about them.

As the wasteland’s winged protector flew over the tarps, I walked beneath their shade, keeping my eyes peeled for the telltale colors and revolver. Even with the siege ongoing, vendors still had their shops opened. Well stocked with every essential knickknack under the clouds—except food. I only needed to see their sale prices to understand how business was slumping.

“Y–you there! Yoooou look like you could use a little excitement in your life!” A jittery brown mare with bloodshot eyes called out to me. “Dash, Rage, Stampede, Mint–als… Whatever your fix is, I’ve got it!” She shouted the lines on repeat, failing to attract even a window shopper to her stall. Hard to trust a dealer who looked like she sampled her own product.

“Fancy bobbleheads? Yeah? No. Whatever.” The bobblehead merchant gave up on his pitch as I passed by. His attention went to the comic book in his hooves, which depicted some cowpony gunslinger scattering a tribe of stereotypically drawn zebras. His racks had an army of thick headed Pinkie Pie bobbleheads waving their unnatural smiles. Perfect gifts for children, if you were a parent that wanted to scare the living daylights out of them.

They bagged nowhere near the amount one of those rare ministry mare statuettes would, but I fancied a contact I had in Friendship City would buy the whole stock if I were selling them. Old World Blues they called her, thanks to her obsession for collecting artifacts. A shame I had to leave my best customers behind when the Talons started gunning for my hide.

One stand I saw had a vendor slumped over a manuscript, his head leaving a dark crimson stain where it landed. His pistol was on the ground next to him. I stopped to see his wares. This merchant seemed to have been a prolific writer, judging from the variety of self–authored books on his shelves. They had been crafted out of pre–war hardbacks, recycling art of the past to create art in the present. The last piece the wasteland would gain from the vendor was the bloody manuscript, titled Fallout.

Of the vendors and the buyers, the ones alive at least, no one appeared to be suffering from malnutrition. Not that they would last long without incoming foodstuffs or reinforcements. On that thought, where was the relief force? I had walked right through Megacorps’ encirclement with hardly any trouble. Well, I did suffer some shrapnel to the leg in the process, but the Buck Crusaders were pushovers past their traps. The Baltimare Republic certainly had some issues to sort out with its response time to crises.

A ball of white hair suddenly popped up at the bottom of my peripheral vision. My breath caught in my chest. My hooves stomped hard on the cobblestone. All the weight in my body was falling forward. I nearly had to flip myself backwards to keep from toppling onto whatever jumped in my way.

With that nasty crash averted, I could focus on my new priority—giving a stern rebuke to whatever had gotten in my way. A dip of my chin revealed that the hair ball was in fact the mane of a unicorn colt the color of radaway. Always the children giving me trouble.

He smiled up at me with wide magenta eyes and teeth as pearl white as his mane. Funny that anyone would care about dental hygiene out here. That peculiarity aside, “You want something from me, kid?” I asked.

The colt kept staring at my face, as if he was examining a faded pre–war painting. A microsmile appeared now and then, hesitant on whether or not to be. He spoke quietly: “You’re the one who kills bad guys with a guardian angel at her back. Right?”

So that was what the look was for. He saw me as a hero. “That’s what they say, kid. So what is it you waaaaaaa—”

At that moment, my eyes found a warhead the size of the colt’s head, attached to a tan launch tube. It was strapped across his back.

As I struggled to put into words everything that was wrong with what I was seeing, the colt started babbling, still quietly. “I can’t believe you’re here! The Stable Dweller, herself, in Celestia’s Folly!” He made a hop, and the launcher see–sawed upon his landing. My breath caught in my chest once more. Fortunately, the kid stopped immediately at one hop, looking as though he caught himself doing something his parents prohibited.

“We don’t get a lot of big heroes nowadays who’ll fight the big factions. Usually anyone who fights the good fight against them dies… Horribly! Well, except for the Angel… and Bittersweet!”

My head darted to the citizens around us, hoping someone would notice the warhead on this colt. But the vendors and customers seemed never to cast their gazes downwards, even at the peculiar sight.

“You’ve probably heard of her, Stable Dweller,” he continued, his voice raised and passion suddenly ignited. In a flash, he crouched and took on the stance of a young lion ready to kill. The lines he spoke next seemed louder than the combined noise of the whole marketplace. “There are stories they tell. Of her time as a soldier. Bittersweet’s fought in the Valley, using a thump–gun to scatter hounds. At dawn she caught them prepared for attack in a rally, at dusk gone with their dead in mounds.”

I had myself a second glance at the colt. When he spoke of this “Bittersweet,” his voice filled with reverence, and his stance magnified her importance. Even now, he was going on and on about his idol, gushing over this figure the same way an art collector would over a pre–war portrait of the Princesses.

It was simple. Bittersweet was his hero, whom he adored unconditionally. If he wanted to follow in her footsteps, then I had no right to stop him.

The pressure in my chest dissipated, allowing me to find breath for my words. “What’s your name?” I asked.

“…and she’s got the raiders caught by the balls in their own base of operations! And… I, uh, shouldn’t disclose… huh?” The colt gathered himself, still beaming, and responded methodically, “Private Lemon Burst, sir… er, ma’am.”

It seemed that I underestimated the lacking numbers in the republican garrison. It enlisted children, too. “So, private, why is there a rocket launcher on your back?”

Lemon Burst telekinetically unholstered the launcher and held it up to me. On the warhead, I noticed a two–step instruction box for firing the weapon. So simple a child could use it. “It’s a recoilless gun, actually. Bittersweet calls it the ‘Tank Fist.’”

Lemon Burst’s eyes were starting to twitch, probably caused by the strain of continuous magic use. I lowered myself onto my knees, so that our eyes were level. I convinced the young private to re–holster his “Tank Fist.”

“Bittersweet is the one who gave you this weapon?” I asked.

“Yup!” Lemon Burst pushed his chest out and held his right hoof over his heart. The whole stance fell apart the moment Tank Fist began dipping fast toward one side, nearly taking him down to the ground from the weight. But give the colt a few years to grow and train, and he would have the posture perfected.

“I wanted to train using the same grenade launcher she used, but she insisted I start with the Tank Fist. Once my training with her is complete, I’ll graduate to the thump–gun!”

I nodded, pushing to the back of my mind images of the young soldier in combat against raiders. He was happy enough to serve with his hero. And that little dance he went into at the word ‘thump–gun’ brought a grin to my face. “I think you’ll make for a great soldier, Lemon Burst.”

“Just like Bittersweet?”

“Just like her.” I stood up, recalling the smuggler I was supposed to be looking for. “Say, private, have you seen a grey and purple earth pony with a fixation on twirling revolvers?”

“Softlock? She’s over by the fountain, last time I checked.”

“Thank you kindly, Lemon Burst.” He saluted, and I returned the gesture. The young soldier took a moment to adjust the giant anti–tank gun on his back, and he marched off into the crowds. While Lemon Burst seemed not to attract anyone’s eye, I was quickly finding a number of onlookers focused on my jumpsuit.

One of the downsides of impersonating someone well known was that you had to keep up the act at all times lest a pair of eyes is watching during that split second when the mask is off. This act was easy to slip into, however. I threw on a grin not unlike Creed’s, the kind that would make a pacifistic priest buck you in the face, and walked right on through the market.

The real Stable Dweller could be some meek hermit with an urge to murder anyone who said a bad word to a child. It hardly mattered. Nobody this far south even knew what she looked like, let alone what personality she had. The persona was mine to interpret.

Making a detour around a medical camp for the condemned, I caught sight of the fountain. It was made from handcrafted porcelain, spouting clear, purified water. A miraculous sight somewhat diminished by the hungover drunks drowning themselves in its bounty.

A grey and purple mare, seated on the fountain’s edge, had abstained from the drink and looked all the wiser for doing so. A silver–tinted revolver with golden lining spun around her left hoof. Her head remained bowed toward the Earth. No matter how she angled the hoof, the gun kept its perpetual spin, neither losing speed nor falling off. As I stepped toward the gun juggler, her green eyes lifted high enough to see the Stable’s staple blue and yellow.

The revolver stopped, hanging on the cusp of her hoof by a thread of unfathomable magic. “You’re here. To help us or abandon us, I don’t know. But welcome to Celestia’s Folly, nonetheless.” As she spoke, her leveled voice ran through all the syllables as one, without pause, without loss of coherence.

“The name’s Softlock.” Her green eyes lifted to meet mine, and her hoof began twirling the revolver again. I backed up a pace, trying all my hardest to ignore the possibility that the gun was loaded. Softlock noticed almost immediately but merely chuckled and continued spinning.

“My name’s Nova. A friend tells me you’re a smuggler who knows a way to Baltimare,” I said.

“Your friend speaks the truth.” Softlock grinned. “Need a way to avoid slaver territory, then?”

“Yeah.”

“I’ll show you the way. But first, where’s the Angel that’s accompanying you?” She holstered the revolver and stood up. I pointed toward the stairs to the keep. “Let’s waste no time.”

With the meager amount in caps I had on me, I had to hope Creed would be capable of paying whatever rate this smuggler charged. We treaded through the shoppers back to the keep. Creed was nowhere to be found, though.

I sighed as we stood idle. “Maybe he flew off to kill the raiders around this place.”

“He’d have quite some trouble,” Softlock responded, lighting a cigarette. “A good lot of Megacorps’ associates already turned tail and ran when they heard the news on radio. How do you think you two got through the encirclement so easily?”

As she began puffing on the cigarette, I turned my muzzle away from the smoke. “Does that well mean that siege is over?”

“Nope. But we’re hoping that by the afternoon a caravan makes it through the gap you made. By Joe, we’ll need all the supplies we can get. No matter how much the darn merchants charge.”

“You’re expecting an assault?”

“Quite possibly the one to break us.” Softlock took a long drag. “Megacorps is more complex than meets the eye. It’s a wonder how the business world keeps those raiders from slaughtering one another. Now all the CEOs are coming together in Hawkthorn for something big. Worse still, we’ve gotten no word from the darn cowards in Baltimare.”

Softlock glanced over at me, the smoke burned halfway through. “You know, Nova, what you and the Angel did yesterday means a lot to those of us stuck here, even if the lot of us still stick our noses in clouds. It comes with living atop a hill, I assure you.”

At that exact moment, a puff of white mane appeared right in front of me. A familiar white mane, belonging to a familiar radaway–colored colt. “Hey! I forgot to—Oh, good morning, Softlock.” Lemon Burst turned right around, standing to attention before the smuggler.

“And a pleasant day’s greeting to ya, Lemon Burst. How’s the neck?”

“Still a bit stiff, ma’am. The doc told me I’d have to stay off the battlements for a week. Makes it a little hard to practice with Tank Fist. Oh, right!” And suddenly he was facing me. “Stable Dweller, ma’am. I forgot to inform you that Major Buccal Lift would like to see you at the keep. Immediately, if possible.”

The garrison’s commander, I took it. I had my doubts that the major wanted to have just a fireside chat. More likely than not, he needed an able body for some chore outside the walls. And who else would be more ideal for the task than the Stable Dweller? I looked to Softlock and asked, “You wouldn’t mind waiting for me?”

She waved me on. “If it’s Buc, you better answer his invitation. Go on. I’ll wait.”

With Creed still out of sight, I went on my way toward the keep.

“You’re going to smuggle her out east, yeah?” I heard Lemon Burst inquire.

Softlock paused. For another drag on the cigarette, I imagined. “Of course. The Republic would love to have her.” The soldiers manning the entrance opened the doors for my entry. Their eyes seemed to light up a little at the sight of the Pipbuck and jumpsuit.

“The major is expecting you,” one of the guards, an eyepatch–wearing unicorn, told me. “His office is the last door on the right.” As I walked past them, I could feel their eyes upon the back of my head.

“Was that really the Stable Dweller?” Eyepatch unicorn whispered to his partner.

His partner scoffed, “No, that was just some random wastelander with a stable–issued jumpsuit and Pipbuck.”

“It could have been. I mean, we didn’t even ask.”

“Just go back to guarding the door, door guarder.”

The ground level of the keep was a single corridor punctuated every twenty paces or so with overhead arches. Ashlar stones and mortar, the materials well older than Equestria. Different wings of the building branched off near the middle. The only natural light came in thin threads from behind a glass mosaic window at the end of the corridor. The rest of the interior was lit by a net of lightbulbs and wires above the lintels. The lighting and the brooding color scheme for the keep combined to give the whole place a subterranean atmosphere. Sort of like a Stable… after some terrible social experiment killed all the inhabitants.

Faded tapestries of an extinct order stuck to the walls like wartime propaganda posters; they depicted extravagant coronations and ferocious battles in hyper–fluorescent colors and melodramatic forms as though they were cause for celebration. The old occupants of this castle must have thought their states and glory would last forever. Arrogant fools.

The major kept his door open, and he had made an office out of the wine cellar, apparently. The doorway was right across from his desk, which sat upon the largest cask I had ever seen. It took a descent down three flights of stairs from the door just to get to the tap. Whatever job the major set himself to, he could ensure himself that he would never have to do it sober.

Major Buccal Lift lifted his lean body off of an ordinary wooden chair. At least, it appeared so. It was hard to make him out in the darkness of the cellar, given that he had a black coat and a dark blue mane brushed against the top of his head. Yet I could see the perfect white smile he gave me from another town over.

“The Stable Dweller! Just the mare I’m pining for! Come on over,” he called out.

Pining for? What was he getting at?

“Right, right. That was poor phrasing. My bad!” Buccal Lift chuckled alone, his clean teeth practically sparkling in the dark. “Your pinkness reminded me of my ex–wife. Now forget I mentioned that. Are you enjoying your stay at Celestia’s Folly?”

My steps into the cellar were small ones. A walkway along the wall gave me a quick path to the major’s desk. “It’s… an interesting settlement, to be honest. Well, actually, it’s very honest about itself, sir.”

“Drugs, prostitution, and smuggling are the lifelines of Celestia’s Folly. At least since our defense budget was cut. On that note, I take it you’re in town for business in one of those categories.”

“That I am, sir. I’ve requested the help of Softlock to get to Baltimare.”

The major’s smile only grew larger. “It’s a good thing you chose the best. She’s highly professional. Patriotic, too. Heck, she’s done more to help this settlement survive than all the bureaucrats in Baltimare.

“That reminds me…” Buccal Lift swept aside the papers upon his desk and replaced them with a cardboard box half as long as my shovel. A blue aura surrounded the box as it was levitated up. “On behalf of the garrison here, I’d like to reward you for your courageous efforts by giving you a job.”

Not even surprised. I stopped on the walkway, just a meter from his desk and the giant cask it sat upon. I nodded for the major to continue.

“You must aware by now that Celestia’s Folly is under siege by Megacorps.”

I nodded again. “That I am, sir.”

“Part of our strategy has been to keep reconnaissance on their base of operations in the city of Hawkthorn, about two klicks out west. The scout we sent has been updating us on the situation there, so we can prepare in advance for any major attack. Her name is Bittersweet.”

My ears perked up at the name. Lemon Burst’s idol. Of course he would send his best soldier to infiltrate a raider–infested city. My eyes went back to the box, and the hairs on my neck bristled.

“I’d like you to deliver this package to Bittersweet. It’s filled with ammo and provisions. She’ll be waiting for you in the city’s eastern borough. Softlock will guide you there without alerting a single raider. That’s how good she is… Just make sure she doesn’t see it, though. The pay is 125 caps up front. Another 125 I can requisition for you upon your arrival in Baltimare.”

Already, this job was ticking all the bad signs. Behind that perpetual smile, there was a larger scheme at work, in which I would be playing the unwitting pawn.

I started with the most glaring lead: “You don’t trust Softlock, sir?”

Buccal Lift stretched his neck and walked around his workplace. His cutie mark was just as pronounced as his smile—a sparkling tooth. “I trust she’ll stick to her smuggling work, not pry into the Republic’s business. Besides, she packs to the brim anytime she travels through the underground. Surely you’ve got the space for a package of this weight.”

“You’re right about the weight, but I think the price isn’t right, sir.”

The major’s smile faltered just a moment. In this darkness, the difference was clear as daylight.

Buccal Lift laughed off my concern. “There’s no risk to this job, Stable Dweller. Just follow Softlock and deliver the package upon arrival. Bittersweet will know what to do with it.”

“Normally, I would accept a caravan guard’s pay for an errand this easy. But I know an incomplete picture when I see one. The pay will have to be adjusted to compensate for the unmentioned risks, sir.”

“Or I could just order someone in my command to do the job without question.”

“You could, sir. But knowing the contents of this package, would any of your soldiers even leave the shadows of this town’s walls?”

The major stopped pacing. With his back to me, I could not see his grin vanish completely. “All the mares and stallions here have constantly fended off raiders for three weeks straight. You think any of them fears making a delivery?”

He was trying to get us off topic. It was time to be logical. “Just what is the final objective for Bittersweet’s reconnaissance mission? What use is the information to an explosives specialist?”

Buccal Lift turned and walked right back to his desk, leaning over the package to say, “You’re asking me to divulge confidential information on the Baltimare Republican Army’s activities.” With that, he returned to sitting in his ordinary chair. How smug.

“Valid point, Major.” I frowned. “So I’ll just theorize then here for a moment. Your garrison has received no relief from Baltimare. Not even a sentence from Untold Song. And this castle is the furthest extent of the Republic’s military presence in the west. The likelihood of a coordinated strike to relieve the siege is low.”

The major said nothing. His muzzle remained shut. All I could clearly make out at this point were his blue eyes, two irises drilling into mine.

I took the silence as consent to continue: “It just so happens that a rumor’s been circling around town that the ‘CEOs’ of Megacorps are meeting today to discuss a new strategy for attacking Celestia’s Folly. It’d be the perfect opportunity for someone to wipe out the heads of Megacorps in one fell swoop.”

Buccal Lift laughed without glee. “You honestly believe a single soldier, no matter how skillful she is, could assassinate all of those important ponies while they’re meeting in a highly secure sixty–floor skyscraper? I’m not risking her life and the limited provisions we have on the odds.”

So you just so happened to know the location and security detail of this meeting. You just gave yourself away, major.

“That’s why you’re not risking either of them.” I marched up to the desk and put my forehooves down upon it. “This package doesn’t contain bullets. It contains enough explosives to topple that building.”

Buccal Lift leaned in as well, bringing his eyes level with mine. “Now aren’t you just swelling with confidence. Does your Pipbuck come with a lie detector? Does your E.F.S. let you see through cardboard?”

“Yes. In fact, this thing also detects swindlers. And look at that, I’m getting high readings in your general direction.”

The major squinted his eyes. I stood my ground. He was the first to blink.

“Who?” he asked.

“The little colt you’re fielding against raiders.”

“You’ll have to be more specific.”

“Lemon Burst. Seems to be a fan of Bittersweet’s fireworks.”

Buccal Lift fell back into his chair. After a spell to think, he shrugged. “300 caps up front. 300 later. You’ll be seeing Bittersweet on the way if you’re hiring Softlock. But you don’t let her so much as see the bulge of the package in your saddlebags.”

Thank Celestia, that Creed was not here to bungle this deal. Six hundred was more than I expected to win out of this. “Why Softlock? Sir.”

“Cause she’s a good friend of both Bittersweet and the Republic. Had she known of Bittersweet’s mission, Softlock would’ve gotten herself killed tagging along. That I can’t abide by.”

“And what is she to the Republic?”

“A source of illicit funds—ahem, generous donations of a patriot, I meant to say.” The major smiled with that full set of perfect white teeth.

“You have a deal, Major.” We shook hooves across the desk. Buccal Lift levitated the package into my open saddlebags. That and a pouch of jingling caps.

At the doorway to the cellar, the major spoke up. “If I had to be honest, Stable Dweller, I’m more surprised at your intuition than angry. There’s no way you could only be two weeks out of a Stable.”

I flashed my own toothy smile out of his sight. “I’m a quick study.”

Comet Scotia

Current reputation
Southern Wasteland: Liked
Red Eye’s Slavers: Hated
Gawd’s Talons: Hunted
Megacorps: Hated

Perks
Putting on the Mask – You have taken up the identity of “The Stable Dweller.” The Southern Wasteland remains unfazed. Others are more likely to hand you errands… I mean quests.

Chapter Seven: I Don't Need a Miracle, I'm Much More Predictable (Part Two)

Creed and Softlock were standing at the stairs outside the keep. Before I went out to greet them, I made certain the package was pushed to the bottom of my saddlebags. If they asked, the major only invited me to extend his gratitude and share a drink. Wait. Creed knew I did not drink. Instead, the major invited me to extend his gratitude and share some dental hygiene tips. They would buy it. I would buy it.

On top of some combat barding, Softlock had assembled her gear for the coming trip in a brown duffel bag. Creed, as usual, had only his saddlebags for wear. Would it kill him to invest in armor?

Anyway, the two were sharing laughs over something Softlock was saying. “…Only Joe knows how those two idiots wound up keeping their heads once Volt Tech finally got the situation under control. I expected her to at least kick them out of the energy department for that fiasco.”

In between laughs, Creed got out, “And they tried to solve their problem with a hammer, a screwdriver, and a jelly–covered handkerchief? That’s rich.”

Softlock spotted me approaching not long after I exited the keep, yet she continued, “You give the two new guys a test scenario, and they nearly wind up reporting a state of emergency.”

“I thought the government hired on a basis of merit. What’s so hard to understand about transistors? First things first, when we’re in Baltimare, you’re going to show me these clowns, so I can teach them properly!”

Right as I stopped in front of them, Creed turned and asked immediately, “Done with your republican business, Nova?” He knew it was me approaching before he even looked.

“The major just wanted to express his gratitude for our coming here. That and he gave me tips on how to keep clean teeth,” I said.

Softlock chuckled at my answer. Nothing in her features seemed to suggest a doubt. “Sounds like Buc, alright. I was just getting to know the Angel here while you were getting a checkup. But now that you’re here, Nova, it’s time we talk about our itinerary.”

She unraveled a paper map from her bag, which essentially consisted of an aerial photo and stenciled labels for towns and routes. Celestia’s Folly was smack in the middle of it, lying to the right of a highway running up and down the map—the Agnes Route. Hawkthorn encompassed the sprawling urban area on the left side of the road. A series of dotted lines ran around a great lake south to another location called Tascleon. Crisscrossed markings in red could be found surrounding Celestia’s Folly and could be found all over the left portion of the map.

Softlock’s hoof fell on top of the marker for Celestia’s Folly. “We’ll slip under the encirclement through the sewers. Leads right out to Lake Paramount by the highway.” Her hoof traveled to the great lake and gradually shifted to Hawkthorn. “From there, Hawkthorn is a kilometer north. My friend, Bittersweet, can meet us in the eastern district. With her help, we’ll get to the heart of the city. That’s where the entrance to the underground is.”

I stared for a long time at the marker for Hawkthorn, the sprawling metropolis completely covered in those red markings. The map disappeared from view, returning back to Softlock’s bag. She handed me a faded black duster soon after. When Softlock made the same offer to Creed, he simply pulled out a bundle of clothes from his saddlebags. Only the Goddesses knew how many different sorts of attires he had packed.

“Cover yourselves up. For obvious reasons, you two can’t go walking into Hawkthorn as the Angel of Mason Road and the Stable Dweller.” As Creed and I got into costume, Softlock pointed a hoof at my Pipbuck. That little bullseye on my right foreleg went into my saddlebags, but I kept on the jumpsuit, which the duster covered completely. Although the disguise was probably fitted to Softlock’s build, it suited me perfectly.

“You two are traveling entrepreneurs looking for real estate in Hawkthorn to start a business up. And I’m a neutral third party showing you around town. That’s the truth, and no one’s going to deny that. Any questions before we set off?”

I bit my lip, holding the question in my throat. But curiosity got the better of me. “What’s an entrepreneur?”

Creed had as many reservations as I did. “What’s real estate?”

Softlock gave a smoky sigh before spitting out the cigarette into a nearby bush. “Anyone from Megacorps would see through your act the moment they opened up conversation. Just let me handle the talking, and no one’s going to bother you. Except the insurance companies… but they usually stay in the northern districts. Is that all?”

I looked to Creed and found him looking right back. His frown, as minute as it was, gave me reason to think of our alternatives. Even he had to consider the dangers of a simple walk into the heart of Megacorps. Before I could raise another question, he answered first: “That’s all.”

“Good. Let’s not keep her waiting.” Softlock started off—at a fast pace too—not even casting a glance back to see if we were following. Creed matched her speed without another word. I wound up trailing behind them by at least a dozen footsteps.

We made a pass by the fountain. The conscious drunks said their farewells to Softlock, who waved a hoof to the lot without losing pace. A few went out of their way to clumsily salute Creed, who returned the gesture with perfection. One of the fools, some orange mare with a tin can for a horn, whistled a shrill serenade in my direction. I turned my head away and quickened my pace. Once we were on the fringes of the marketplace, Softlock directed us to a saltbox house next to the western gate.

The interior of the old house was just a well–preserved skeleton. The really interesting stuff was under the original foundation: a chasm dug nearly ten stories under the Earth. After a dimly–lit descent down the stairs, we emerged out into a sterile atrium with massive pipelines and huge boilers. The underbelly of Celestia’s Folly was a city in itself for the settlement’s sanitary system.

A herd of staff and soldiers filed down a single lane in the middle of the hall. The residents were heading toward a mess hall in the far back. Softlock led us right into the tide, but in the opposite direction. Several times I bumped into the legs and shoulders of passing ponies, earning expletives and insults comparing me to something called a “grackle.” My attention was elsewhere. My gaze went everywhere except in front of me—to the umbrella of high–powered LED lights above, the towering storage tanks against the walls, the tile floor pressing cool against my hooves.

And the air… Every corrosive element had been stripped from the atmosphere here. No smog and no dust to burn the esophagus. What a luxury filtered air was. Breathing was weightless. Why would anyone want to go back out after experiencing this? Personally, I would have stayed inside the stable if I knew I could breathe like this every moment.

Everything was so incredibly clean, which was weird for me to admire, given my upbringing—my character’s upbringing.

Someone pulled on my collar with their teeth. My body was yanked out of the crowd into a passageway Softlock had started down. Once his teeth were off my collar, Creed lifted his foreleg, inviting me to walk in front. I made sure not to hold us here a second longer.

Two maintenance doors and a single guard behind a desk separated that stainless atrium from the sewers. The bricks used in this area’s construction had plenty of time to erode; they amalgamated into a layer of chalk–white grime. The conduits were built on a declining slope, so that water flowed toward the glowing exit at the far bottom. Encapsulated by overarching ceiling vaults, the sewers appeared like a metro terminus for the afterlife.

Softlock disappeared behind a utility door near the entrance we came from. When she returned, she had with her an inflatable raft in military camouflage. With a single rope to anchor it to the railing, the raft went into the current.

“You’re joking,” I said.

She looked me in the eyes. “Get in.”

Softlock threw her bag onto the raft and jumped in after it. The craft, nearly the size of an apple cart, swelled up around the new center of weight. It swallowed her up like a fly trap only to unfold a moment later. Not a hair upon her had been wetted.

I stood by the railing, staring at the rapids of sewage between me and the raft. I would have to leap a gap about the width of an open grave. Putting pressure on my hindlegs brought about an ominous flare of pain from my shrapnel wound. “I don’t suppose you have life vests for us.”

“Have some faith, Nova.” Creed floated down into his seat on the raft, landing with all the grace of a humongous butterfly. “We’ll drag you out of the water if you fall in.”

“Oh shut up, you grackle.” His brows scrunched up, Creed actually looked offended at that insult.

The smuggler pulled out a short switchblade, holding the cutting edge to the rope and keeping her eyes on me. I had to jump. I had to believe I would make it.

That was the secret to how I survive in the wasteland.

This jump was really a simple hop, when compared to what I have been through. I leapt out of a burning building once… from the seventh floor. Making the jump was easy, so long as you assumed you would survive the fall. That and you had to be lucky enough to land through the only hole in the only building to have king–sized mattresses stacked up in storage. Thinking back on that experience, I did start believing in other things after that day. But the point is that a little belief in myself goes a long way.

My legs fell from under me as I made my landing, but I made it. With all passengers on board, Softlock sliced through the rope and sent the raft hurtling toward the light at the end of the sewers. We drifted out into Lake Paramount to the hot and heavy late morning air. The coloration of the water was greyer than that of the Sharp’s River—all these dark spots across the surface gave the appearance of a giant bowl of watery oatmeal.

With a wooden paddle, Softlock steered our raft for the shore least overgrown with reeds and weeds. As we approached the north, I spotted the remains of Hawkthorn’s skyline. Two skyscrapers, nestled close to each other, that had survived the balefire bombardment. The shorter monolith seemed to be a standard office building; its neighbor seemed to be the crown of an intercontinental ballistic missile. Its eight–or–so faces converged upon an antenna at the tip. Sixty floors, the major had said.

“The moment we reach shore, you two have to be in character. So keep your guns concealed. Watch what you say. Don’t get bold. Fighting should be our last resort, and if we do get into trouble, our best bet is bribery.”

Creed nodded, staring straight ahead in the bow of the raft. Softlock and I were left staring at one another. We sat in silence for some time until she remarked, “You’re nervous.” A declaration and a fact, rather than a question.

A nod sufficed for her. “That’s good. They’ll see you and suspect nothing.”

I pulled out my trusty canteen and took a sip. This whole plan felt like a repeat of Creed’s ploy on the ferry, seeing as my only defense was my lack of one. It was going to be fine. Just fine, since Huckleberry and company were not involved. Instead, the threats were all the ferocious corporate raiders infesting the city. Absolutely fine.

I took another sip. My canteen was empty.

Softlock tossed me one of her own canteens. “Fill up, Stable Dweller. My supplies are yours.” I happily took her up on the offer. “Listen. This question’s been on my mind since you got mention on the radio for being alive and all that. And I ask because I’m curious, not because I have any doubts of your talents. But how did you manage to defeat an entire town of slavers?”

I stopped pouring water into my canteen. Ideally, I had ten seconds to conjure up a story before skepticism started settling in. Keeping in mind that Creed was in earshot, I had to think of a way to conquer Old Appleloosa without much shooting on my part. Once when I was an apprentice, I went on a business trip to the wretched town. What I noticed first were all the cages, filled with enough slaves to outnumber their captors three to one.

“I didn’t do it alone,” I sighed. “A slave revolt broke out while I was in the middle of clearing out the town… They charged the slavers, unarmed mostly. You can guess what happened…” Now came the long pause that would ensure my words hung in the air. I had to deliver these next lines with a controlled, shaky stutter and a weak, but coherent voice. “I couldn’t save enough of them. Too many died… I–I need a moment. Sorry.”

Softlock let the paddle hover over the water. Her rapt look of sadness was a good indicator that my delivery was not too sappy. Even Creed was looking behind his shoulder, just as deeply invested as she was. My acting just won me twenty more seconds—realistically fifteen if I considered the impact of mounting temperatures upon the patience of an audience.

I had a slave revolt so far, but I needed a way to start one… Stealthbucks. Some sort of black ops equipment from the Great War that let users become invisible, which was perfect if someone wanted to steal a slaver’s key and unlock all the cages. Invisibility also offered some practical avenues to my tale. I would become death, sneaking into barracks in the dead of night and bashing the evildoers’ brains out with an invisible sword. By sword, I meant my shovel.

For the climax, Old Appleloosa would go up in flames. The slaves would probably want to burn a few of the buildings anyway. Next, the rifles and machine guns would open up, dropping ponies to the ground with just the shock of their reports. Then came the screams of the dying, an agonizing chorus to the vicious rhapsody. The uprising flared as the crackdown began in earnest, turning the streets into rivers of blood and all that poetically edgy nonsense.

The slaves, given strength by vengeance, slaughtered the slavers. That left only the commander of the settlement—the infamous Gallia Fortuna.

“Gallia Fortuna?” Creed interrupted my story just to eviscerate the name with his mocking pronunciation.

“Her name, not mine.” I shrugged. “Northerners have strange names.”

The infamous Gallia Fortuna. She was a middle–aged griffon with a large scar running across her face. She was holed up inside town hall, having tied one of the slaves to a chair to use him as a hostage. As I approached, Gallia cocked the hammer to her pistol and took cover behind the child. I just wanted to clarify that: the hostage was a young colt.

I stopped with ten meters between me and the slaver; Gallia pressed the gun barrel close to the hostage’s head at that point, drawing out a whimper from the colt.

She smirked. “I know you. You’re the Stable Dweller the DJ’s taken a liking to. You should’ve stayed in your shelter, little pony, instead of invoking Red Eye’s wrath.”

“Your whole gang’s out of the picture, Gallia.” I reached for a grenade in my saddlebags, watching the griffon’s beak all the while. “Your reign of oppression ends tonight.”

Gallia laughed so hard at my threat that her head pulled back, exposing the back of her throat. I activated SATS at that moment, lining up a shot with the grenade between my teeth. After gauging the trajectory, I reeled my own head back and pulled the pin with my hoof. My head shot forward, and the grenade flew from my mouth, following an arc over the distance, over the hostage, and into Gallia’s gullet.

I charged the griffon as she choked on the metallic apple, spinning around to buck her with my hindlegs. As she staggered backwards, I brought the hostage down with me onto the floor. The timer on that grenade was seven seconds… maybe four seconds. Whatever the duration was, Gallia could not dislodge the grenade in time.

“G–good Go–d!” she coughed out right before the boom. Then Gallia had no throat. Or a head for that matter. The commander was dead, and the slaves had taken care of the stragglers. By sunrise, Old Appleloosa had been liberated.

“Sneaking in with a cloaking device and starting a slave revolt… Fascinating.” Softlock said. Our raft washed up on the shore right about the time I finished my retelling. “I could use one of those Stealthbucks. I’d do the wasteland a huge favor by walking into Amos and killing Gladstone with an invisible gun.”

“They’re only compatible with Pipbucks, sadly,” Creed muttered.

All three of us unloaded our packs from the raft. Softlock directed us toward a patch of reeds further down the beach, in which we could stash the boat. Our landing area used to be a park for a few lakeside condos. Two hundred years of neglect had turned the condos into architectural fossils overgrown with plants. Softlock walked around the condos, bringing us onto the parkway.

Every road in the Equestrian Wasteland suffered from holes, cracks, and partial collapse, but none looked as disfigured and irreparable as this one. The parkway looked less like a road and more like a black ocean. There were crests of asphalt jutting across the lanes, which were incidentally the only parts of the road not yet driven below ground level. One could drop a train car into the abyss, have it land on its nose, and it still would not be high enough to resurface. In fact, many discarded carriages found a mass grave at the bottom of the very road they once populated.

Regardless of the drop, Softlock led us onto the parkway. Leading into the city center, it was the quickest path to the meeting point, but we had to slow down to exercise caution. There were numerous gaps to cross, many of which I doubted I could make with the condition of my hindleg. Creed carried me over those rifts, and he did so without voicing a single complaint.

For an earth pony, getting airborne was akin to falling into the sea, not knowing how to swim. But my anxiety got better each time. I certainly knew that Creed was a bloodthirsty psychopath, but I also knew that he would never drop me.

We slogged through this twisted parkway for the next hour. Softlock brought us to a halt below a crooked sign labeled “Exit 46. Chopine Road.” While Creed and I struggled to climb the final crest, the smuggler passed the time by juggling that gold–laced revolver of hers. Thankfully, Exit 46 had fared well after the end of civilization. It looked much easier to walk upon.

“Raunchy Cavalry controls the next portions of the parkway, so we’ll be taking a shortcut on Chopine Road until the rendezvous.” Softlock stepped up her pace, moving on just as I finally obtained solid footing.

A few blocks into the new neighborhood, we came across a concrete field encased in barb wire fences. Most of it anyway. Someone’s carriage had cut a clean hole through the safeguard before it crashed into a pipeline further inside. The area was probably a power plant, which would explain the various transmission towers and transformer yards surrounding this place. The nearby rails were littered with flat wagons carrying timber. Massive domed facilities in the center of the plant dwarfed every other piece of infrastructure. Strangely enough, for a power plant, there was a serious lack of smokestacks.

Softlock suddenly grew more talkative: “If you look to your right in front of you, you can see Hawkthorn’s greatest innovation—the Octuplator!” Her gun–spinning hoof pointed to the colossal white domes. “Named so for their ability to utilize a special megaspell that increased energy output of this power plant eight–fold.”

Creed cleared his throat. “You haven’t actually been inside those facilities, have you?”

“Never had to,” the smuggler shrugged. “And we won’t need to.”

“You wouldn’t find anything inside anyway. For you see, those are storage units for pollutant cumulus, designed by Equestria’s army engineer corps as part of the Public Air Act—”

Softlock cleared her throat. “Thanks for the textbook exposition, Creed, but I’m the tour guide here.” That earned her a deathly glower from Creed.

I walked close to Softlock’s side, keeping some distance due to her penchant for spinning revolvers while walking. “Softlock… what are you doing?” I asked.

“What does it look like, Nova? I’m getting into character. You two are looking for real estate, remember?”

“What—”

“You don’t need to know what it is. Just listen and nod when I point out locations for you.” She turned her head and smiled to Creed. “You got that?”

“Crystal clear.” Creed’s expression did not change.

I looked around for any raiders, but the only trace of their being here was a graffiti slogan on the wall of an administrative building. It was an… elaborate image of the male anatomy, followed by the words ‘Fewer regulations, fewer problems.’ The power plant’s own slogan had the misfortune of sharing the wall with the graffiti: Fidelas Power Plant – Equestria’s first environmentally friendly power plant.

From the wall, my eyes went to the literal trainfuls of lumber decaying close by. Sure, they used wood fuel instead of coal power, but to call that “environmentally friendly” was a questionable selling point.

And on the topic of questionable ideas, “Softlock, do you know anything about the history or locations of this city?”

She tapped her chin with the barrel of the revolver. “I may remember a few things from history class. But it’s alright to get some parts wrong, since these corporate scumbags don’t know a darn thing about that stuff either. C’mon, let’s step up the pace. We’re a block from the rendezvous!”

A smaller, pony–sized hole was cut into the fence, providing our exit from the power plant. We returned back to the suburbs, where every household had a white picket fence and the latest carriage in the driveway. According to Softlock, the meeting point was four houses down Pyrex Avenue, going by the street signs still standing; Bittersweet was apparently waiting for us in the sickly purple house with raiders lazing about its dead lawn.

We took cover behind the rotting picket fence of a house right at the intersection of Pyrex Avenue and Fisher Street. A dozen sharply dressed maniacs patrolled in front of the purple house, and an unknown number more were likely waiting inside. Their suits, once sparkling white, had accumulated enough dirt and blood to acquire a palette of brown and red. On top of that, the raiders had slung holsters for rifles and pistols. Many of them had an oddball weapon of their choice: crossbows, pitchforks, flagpoles, amputated chair legs.

“Money Shot,” Softlock whispered. “Mercenary company.”

“Isn’t Bittersweet supposed to be waiting for us and not the other way around?” I asked. From my saddlebags, I pulled out the hunting shotgun. Creed primed the battlesaddle under his duster, and Softlock pulled out her revolver.

She checked the chamber and snapped it shut as quietly as she could. “She would’ve swept everything within a kilometer radius before giving the clear.”

“Maybe she missed a spot. It happens,” Creed said.

Softlock snapped back, “With Bittersweet, it doesn’t. For all we know, she may have hired those mercenaries.”

“Care to ask them if that’s so?” he scoffed. His face may have appeared neutral, yet I could see the corner of his lips twitching. Hiding a smile, Creed? I already knew he took glee in stomping the heads of raiders into fine paste. The opportunity for an ambush on the ambushers was probably akin to a birthday gift for him.

I stared right into those wide, violet eyes of his. “We are not fighting those raiders.”

“We can take them,” the Dashite remarked, his disguise already half–discarded.

“I was hoping you wouldn’t be that stupid.” A new voice, one stern yet weary, drew our attention to the roof of the building we were sitting by. A lime green unicorn mare with a pale amber mane looked down upon Creed and me. Two suppressed pistols hovered in her turquoise magic, one for the each of us. The black barrel pointed between my eyes barely wavered. The shotgun practically fell from my hooves on its own.

“First time I meet a Dashite, and he’s about to kill himself fighting a battle he can’t win.” Creed made no movements, not even shifting his eyes away from the unicorn. I could only guess that all of his angry intentions were funneling into the glare he was giving her. A raised eyebrow was the only reply. She brought up a hoof to adjust her thin–framed glasses. “Not even wearing barding either. Only the Goddess knows how you’ve survived in spite of the odds.”

“I don’t care for odds,” Creed muttered. “I work miracles.”

“Hmm. I don’t need miracles.” A cough from Softlock pulled her gaze and lifted her smile. “I wouldn’t forget about you, Softlock. How goes the Folly?”

“It’s more of a dump than it was before. We were down to four days’ worth of provisions, when our VIP here—” I flinched as she twirled the revolver in my direction. “—broke through the encirclement. Town’s going to finally see a merchant later this day.”

“And Lemon Burst?”

“He’s alright. Buc is keeping him in the bailey after an accident during his shift on the battlements. A sniper shot off his helmet and left him a little stiff in the neck.”

The unicorn jumped down from the roof, switched on the safeties on her pistols, and stowed them into holsters fitted for her combat armor. A single–barrel grenade launcher, which was likely that thump–gun Lemon Burst relished, rested between her stomach and her saddlebags. The setup resembled a makeshift imitation of Creed’s battlesaddles. She frowned at Softlock. “And the sniper?”

“We zeroed in on their position with the howitzer.” The smuggler chuckled. “It was a beautiful shot, Bittersweet. The lads dropped the shell right on that sniper’s head.”

Bittersweet was back to smiling. Without a single greeting to Creed or me, she walked right past the picket fence and stepped onto the road. I jumped up and pinned her tail with a hoof. My valiant attempt to keep the raiders from spotting and gunning her down earned me a retaliatory kick in the foreleg. Every bone in my leg quaked from the impact, throwing me in enough pain to land me on my side.

“What are you doing, ya pink wombat?” She accused me with the sort of tone my mom might have used had she known what my profession was nowadays.

Holding my aching leg close, I sputtered, “W–what am I doing?”

“That’s what I’m asking!” Creed galloped to my side, throwing off his disguise to aim a couple of guns at Bittersweet. She stood her ground as she might to face the firing squad. “Get your feathers back in order, Indigo Bunting. You’ll cost me a few hundred caps if they find out who you are.”

Softlock suddenly appeared next to Creed, hastily draping his wings with the jacket he just discarded. “You mean you hired those guys? You hired Money Shot?”

Bittersweet nodded to the everlasting chagrin of Creed. “Mercenaries without morals or compunctions. Give a corporate raider a bag of caps, and the only question they’ll raise is how to best go about the job.”

Right on cue, one of the tailored raiders stepped into view. He was a purple stallion with a green beret sitting crooked on his cobalt blue mane. Almost every body part was twice as thick as Bittersweet’s or mine; next to the unicorn, the mercenary stood taller by at least two heads, surpassing even Creed in height. A massive rifle with a drum magazine was strapped across his back. Add onto that image an eyepatch, and you had a rather menacing, well–dressed raider.

The biggest shocker came when he spoke—“Thank you for the introduction, Bittersweet.”—because his voice was disproportionately soft. I could probably speak louder in a whisper than he could at normal volume.

“This must be the rest of your party, I presume.” He did a curt bow, which allowed him to pluck some sort of card from a pocket in his suit. The raider blew the card toward us; it fluttered to the ground facing me.

There was a name, company, and address listed on the card: Grapeshot, Money Shot, 90 Shoeshine Street. Creed peered at the business card over my prone form. We looked to one another and discovered that we had the same stupified expression.

Grapeshot gestured to the rest of his company by the purple house. “We’re Money Shot, the leader in guns for hire, ethics excluded. Unlike our competitor, Raunchy Cavalry, we have universal customer satisfaction.

“I am the manager of this company, Grapeshot. We shall provide your party security for the duration of your stay in Hawkthorn.”

It took the grand sum of three seconds for Softlock to warm up to Grapeshot. She stuffed a cigarette between her teeth and offered another to the corporate raider. Though my foreleg still stung, I worked through the pain to scoop up my shotgun. Businessponies or not, Money Shot was still a band of raiders. They would take glee in backstabbing us, torturing us, and cooking us alive. Obviously, I wanted to have a live firearm ready if I was going anywhere with them.

Creed probably adhered to similar sentiments religiously. But it was he who took the shotgun right out of my hooves. He put on a distant smile as he returned the weapon to my saddlebags. Once he helped me off the ground, Creed whispered into my ear, “Just try to act natural. Our priority should be getting to Baltimare.”

“You wanted to attack these raiders just a minute ago!” I hissed.

“I let my feelings get the better of me. That time I was out of line.” He sneaked a glance at Softlock, Bittersweet, and Grapeshot, all of whom were engaged in a discussion of economics, but the language was nothing I recognized (Bear in mind I was a trader before the Talons came after me). Anyway, Creed kept his eyes mostly on Grapeshot. “Besides, the protection means we could forget sneaking and simply waltz into the city.”

Sneaking into a city full of raiders was difficult, but viable. Hiding the fact that I was a Stable heroine with a bad reputation among raiders made the situation somewhat more complicated, but still viable. Throwing in an escort of raiders was pushing the viability of the situation toward the impossible.

I was believing more and more that the Goddesses got a thrill out of seeing how many times they could screw me over before I finally keeled over dead. Actually, it was about time I stopped pretending someone up there was looking out for me.

They could go to hell.

The Goddesses were certainly not the ones who helped me jump out of that fiery building. They did not make that miracle happen, because I did so first. Once I had faith in myself, what would I have to fear? I pulled my duster closer around me. “It’s just until we get underground.”

Creed gave me a pat on the back and worked out the wrinkles in his own disguise. “Until we get underground.” The self–proclaimed cleanser of the wasteland trotted up to Grapeshot and shook his hoof, offering thanks for the security. How he held up such a good act in spite of himself was beyond me.

“We should get moving,” Bittersweet announced. “Someone might call the cops if we loiter too long on the lawn.”

Grapeshot whistled a piercing four–note tune to his company, all of whom answered the call by filing into two columns. “Where shall the smuggler and her two customers be escorted?”

“The Joe’s O’s on Clapton Street,” Softlock answered.

“The Devil’s Den? Okay. That should take us about fifteen minutes. Twenty if the Daily Peddlers and the Comfort Express are still brawling on Batt Boulevard. Thirty if we get lunch along the way. Follow me.”

We trailed behind Grapeshot, walking between the two columns of Money Shot mercenaries. Every one of them looked and smelled like the raiders one would find in the north, but their discipline as a group was unlike anything I had ever seen. Not a single one turned to look at us. They trained their eyes on the surrounding suburbs, keeping watch for the vultures of Megacorps who preyed on first–time visitors.

Grapeshot whistled a new four–note tune, setting the columns on a march to the ‘Devil’s Den.’ Bittersweet and the mercenary manager led our party of twenty two, exchanging more corporate lingo than I could ever hope to understand. Meanwhile, Softlock slipped into the role of tour guide for Creed and me, the “entrepreneurs looking for real estate.” My role just involved listening, thankfully.

Just a fair warning: every bit of information I provide on the city should be taken with a grain of salt, considering the mare who informed me.

Prior to the war, Hawkthorn had been a moderately sized settlement that thrived on its lumber industry. It only really grew once the Agnes Route was developed, connecting the more populated north with the resource–rich deep south, a hotbed for ethnic conflicts known as the “Salad Bowl.” Once the war broke out, the city turned into a transportation hub for military traffic heading into the Salad Bowl and the headquarters of all Ministry of Morale operations in the south.

At least that statement was true. We had entered the downtown area of Hawkthorn as Softlock explained the Ministry of Morale’s presence in the city. Coincidentally, a massive billboard with Pinkie Pie’s face showed up on top of a monorail at that moment with her trademark catchphrase: “Pinkie Pie is watching you FOREVER!” Her face also showed up on what posters had survived the centuries and on concrete walls as graffiti and on storefronts and on empty coffee cups. If I had known nothing of the ministries, I might have suspected this city was her own little fiefdom.

Other than that, the only other claim Hawkthorn could hold was that it was the birthplace of a pastry saint called Donut Joe. Though we had to tiptoe away from that topic after every member of Money Shot began denouncing the guy as the devil in disguise. They never elaborated on what made Donut Joe so hated in Megacorps, at least not in a way that outsiders could understand what they were saying.

Our history lesson ended as every story of wartime Equestria did—the bombs fell on Hawkthorn. But the zebras did a lousy job of destroying the city, since only two of their balefire missiles actually hit anywhere close, and they missed everything outside of the southern and western districts. Then the survivors went berserk and turned on one another with the collapse of society and government. Apparently, Megacorps was founded during this chaotic period by a small group of corporate lawyers from the north. To make a long story short, they used their business virtues and logistical skills to control the whole city, starting from the downtown area we were walking through.

We were right at the feet of the skyscrapers, most of which had been reduced to their bare bones, such that a stormy wind might topple them. The presence of other Megacorps raiders was greater on Batt Boulevard, where they had established several fronts for their legitimate businesses. The vendors selling bird–on–a–stick and molerat stew were particularly popular due to the time of day. Money Shot took the opportunity to grab lunch.

Creed and I stayed under a decrepit bus shelter with a single trapper to watch over us. Suits of all varieties, representing well over a dozen different companies, surrounded us with hungers to fill and business to settle.

According to the trapper, an itchy earth pony stallion with a coat colored like gold sand and a mane of darker brown, Batt Boulevard was the site of a major “lawsuit.” Whatever this lawsuit was about seemed to have been lost on the two companies involved, since their conflict evolved into a rather bloody street war.

Raiders in neon orange sanitation jackets wandered around, lugging still warm corpses off sidewalks and out of store windows. Once intact buildings had new holes blown into them, and the gap was sometimes filled with nothing more than a crude sign saying “More open than usual.” Random brawls would break out periodically between members of the opposing companies, which went largely unnoticed by the rest of Megacorps, even when the fights involved knives and guns.

The trapper saw me watching one fight between two ponies armed with nothing more than razors. He assured me, “Our neighborhood ain’t always this bad. The eastern district usually tends to be the most stable work environment in the city. But sometimes some simple dispute that could be solved with reverse fulfillment winds up escalating. Then the investors bug out, the suppliers set up shop, and someone sues.”

“What would that dispute be in this case?” I asked.

The trapper pointed to a trio of black suits on the roof of a deli, who were watching the razor duel. “The Comfort Express has a contract with the Daily Peddlers—” His hoof traveled over to a pair of white shirts with suspenders on a street corner, who kept watch on the black suits. “—to obtain Med–X for their products. Unfortunately, one of the Peddlers broke away from best practices and supplied a bad shipment, which winds up causing one of the Express’ products to overdose.

“The Express lost a possible return in investment of 2720 caps. And mind you, that amount could’ve been made in a single quarter, given the demand for a smaller, tighter product. The Peddlers refused to reimburse the amount demanded, so… a lawsuit happened.”

The fight had concluded. The winner limped to the pair of white shirts; the loser bled out in plain view. The trapper reached into his pockets, coming up empty–handed. “Say, have you got any Dash?” I bit my lip. Surely, there was little danger in selling a drug to an addict, but I was unsure how to barter with a corporate raider. So I remained silent, much to the confusion of the trapper. “I’ll buy it off of you. No fine print, no enticements. Just name a price.”

I gulped. “How about… 25 caps?” That was the typical price at which New Appleloosa merchants bought dash from scavengers.

He shook his head. “Nope. You’re setting your sale price too low. I’ll pay 75.”

Triple the amount? What was he thinking? No. No thinking, no hesitation. Come on, Comet, seal the deal. “Alright. 75 caps.” He extended a hoof toward me. A simple handshake would conclude the transaction. Working through a few subconscious misgivings, I met the hoof with my own.

“March 9 Mint,” he proudly stated.

“March 9 Mint?”

“March, because I was conceived in march; Mint, because my parents were high on Mint–als when I was conceived. Do you want to know about the 9?”

“…No thank you.” He was still waiting for something on my part. A greeting? A compliment? Just a formality, maybe. A name. It must be some sort of Megacorps ritual. “Nova.” With that, the exchange was closed. The dash inhaler left my saddlebags, and 75 jingling (such a hollow noise) caps entered them. After a few seconds of waiting, I asked, “Why did you do that?”

March Mint blinked and looked for an answer on the ground. When he found it, he looked up and simply said, “You undervalued the drug relative to its demand.” A shrug. “I didn’t want to cheat you out of money, so I raised the price to the competitive average.”

An honest businesspony? And among raiders? Now I had seen everything.

“Don’t look at me like that. Just because I work for corporate, you can’t believe I have an ounce of decency. I swear it’s that radio witch, who gives Megacorps a bad PR.” March tucked the dash inhaler in his bags, which also contained a batch of arrows for a crossbow on his back. “Not entirely unjustified to concede the point. But most of our companies abide by best practices, and we respect the intelligence of our customers.

“The likes of Raunchy Cavalry, on the other hand… those slimy, cutthroat cartel accessories wouldn’t mind breaking every rule of honest business. That’s what better firepower does to a company—inflate their arrogance. I daresay they’ve even committed the cardinal sin of corporate espionage!”

March Mint’s rant was ridden with high–octane hypocrisy. Only a raider—and some slavers—could possibly fool themselves into believing they had the moral high ground, when they called themselves the best mercenaries, “ethics excluded.” Next to me, Creed breathed heavily and closed his eyes. One ear twitched erratically at the mere sound of the trapper’s voice. Obviously, he felt the same vibes. The biggest warning sign was the occasional quiver in his lips. If his smile ever fell, while he was as pent–up as he was now, I knew it would be impossible to prevent what happened next.

As a testament to his self–discipline, Creed kept up his smile.

We had just four more blocks to cross. For those four blocks, my life depended upon whether Creed could hold back his murderous instinct. I had no intention of testing his patience. My best bet at this point was to keep my mouth shut and give March Mint no reason to continue speaking.

Another Money Shot raider handed March a bird–on–a–stick, which had the body shape of a small crow. Softlock walked over, asking if either Creed or me wanted something from the vendors. Since the pegasus had practically shut himself off from the world, I answered for us both with a “No, thank you.”

Softlock dug into a tin of cod herself with a blissful grin. “Suit yourself.”

“Don’t you ever try to cheat me again, you understand?” Bittersweet, who was laying a verbal beatdown on a trembling yellow mare with an unusually untarnished suit and four bodyguards, was not far behind the smuggler. It was telling when even her hired muscle were backpeddling from the confrontation.

“When this ponzi scheme collapses on your head, your name will be worth as much as the bit I use to remove food from between my teeth. Your lot will be scraping the bottoms of boots for the next century just to repay all the caps other companies will sue you for! Now get out of my sight and have a nice day.”

The swindler galloped so swiftly from the old soldier that her bodyguards were left in the dust. Bittersweet stomped over to Softlock, still grinding her teeth together. “There’s too many jag–offs left in this world, even after we bombed it enough to set us on a new axis.”

“Yes, Bittersweet,” Softlock said between bites. She was reaching for something in her duffel bag.

“And the worst part! The worst part is when the liar, the cheat, approaches you. You can take one look at her face, and you know instantly everything coming from her mouth is going to be utter bull—” Bittersweet froze, all her fury rendered to naught, at the sight of a ziplock bag full of sunflower seeds on Softlock’s hoof. “—splendid. I’ve been dying to have these for weeks.” Bittersweet levitated the bag over and began popping seeds in her mouth like Party–Time Mint–als.

“Feeling better?” Softlock smirked.

Bittersweet threw a foreleg around Softlock’s neck and drew her friend close for a hug. “I feel like I can fight a thousand nights straight.”

Grapeshot allowed for a brief lull after lunch for anyone who needed to use the restrooms. Those had to be paid for like every commodity in Megacorps. I refrained, given my doubts over the standards Megacorps set for sanitation. We were on the move again within five minutes, albeit without as much caution exercised as before. We were deep within the heart of Megacorps, where the density of business fronts meant that any combat would cause major headaches for the companies situated here.

We reached an intersection between Clapton Street and Layla Road, which ran at a latitude and at a longitude respectively. The local Joe’s O’s was located on a street corner with two entrances for its two faces. The architecture captured the self–absorbed optimism of the times with its obnoxiously unconventional design and striking red–white color scheme. From the foundation up to the windows, the pastry shop was constricted with a skirt of metal and a couple of pink bands. Over time, whole chunks of the metal had disappeared while the remaining parts rusted. The windows were wide enough to encompass an entire pony from muzzle to tail, but all the glass had been smashed and replaced with plywood boards.

There was little doubt who the vandals were. Corporate raiders had turned the windows of the shop into a plywood canvas for all their kind, polite commentary on Donut Joe—Joe the Devil, Infidel, Glutton of the Business World, Corporate Espionage ponified, Baked Bad, Swallower of Vital Assets and Trade Secrets. That list, of course, was leaving out the expletives and graphic artwork. Those lacking in literacy had opted for shooting every caliber of gun at the neon signs atop the street corner and the steel cut–out of the founder himself.

This pastry chef had been asking to have his store front descecrated. If not because of the strange animosity Megacorps harbored for him, then because his shop stood out like a rainbow sherbert alicorn among wastelanders. All the other buildings around the Joe’s O’s were austere residential buildings or muted offices with glass curtain walls.

Bittersweet was the first to reach the entrance of the shop. A curt nod from her drew a whistled tune from Grapeshot. Money Shot proceeded to arrange themselves into a ring around the Joe’s O’s. The few corporate raiders from outside companies received the hint and wandered away from the perimeter.

“Cave dweller!” Bittersweet shouted at me. “Come here. We’re going to do a sweep of the place, and I’d like to have a portable light with me.”

I glanced at Creed and Softlock, both of whom urged me to obey with urgent jerks of their heads. The consensus among my companions seemed to be that doing as told was the best way to stay on the old soldier’s good side. My pained foreleg served as testimony to the fact that doing otherwise was simply not an option.

My Pipbuck’s light doused the pastry shop in a green glow. Even on its highest setting, the light could not reach the end of the room, which stretched for the length of a flat wagon on both faces. Every spot the glow fell upon had patches of brown, as though a river of paint had flooded the place. Hundreds of equine skeletons also populated the interior, assembled unceremoniously into seven heaps across the checkered floor. When the bombs fell, either there must have been a hell of a rush hour at the time or there was a rush of civilians to get underground.

I kicked a few skulls on my way to the center of the room, where Bittersweet was standing silent. “Well, the folks here certainly had a strange idea for their last supper,” I joked.

She shook her head, staring, unblinking, at me with her emotionless blue eyes. “All of them survived the bombardment. They and two generations born underground left the tunnels thinking they could rebuild in the ruins of Hawkthorn.” Her eyes traveled to the corporate raiders outside. Softlock was showing off to March Mint with her spinning revolver, Creed stood on watch, and Grapeshot was lounging by a post box.

“The history Softlock told you was a lie meant to satisfy Money Shot. The truth is that the city really died on this street corner. Megacorps slaughtered everyone who came out this way.”

Under closer scrutiny, those patches of paint did seem closer to maroon than brown. Whatever Donut Joe’s crimes may have been hardly compared to this level of retribution. Yet the brutality of Megacorps could only be matched by the stupidity of their victims. Stable–Tec kept their shelters locked up for many generations with good reason; nothing aside from an abomination released from another dimension should have forced these ponies from their refuge.

Safety seemed not to be in Bittersweet’s list of priorities. She barely looked around the donut shop before strolling inside. “Aren’t we supposed to do a sweep?”

Bittersweet crunched on a handful of sunflower seeds. “Already did. An hour before the rendezvous. I didn’t need you for that, Stable pony. Give me the package.” I dug into my saddlebags and pulled out the major’s parcel. Bittersweet levitated the supplies into her own saddlebags, watching Softlock out the window all the while. “We’re done here. Go get your Dashite and—”

The crack of a rifle echoed over the city streets. Conversations ceased; hooves remained rooted to the spot; even the wind turned still. All was quiet around this street corner. For two seconds.

My ears picked up the sound of scattered seeds as Bittersweet’s levitation gave out. Her face contorted through a rapid–fire series of emotions—shock, disbelief, grief, fury—as she yelled into the streets, “AMBUSH!”

There was a gun in every window with a clear shot on the Joe’s O’s and our own guns outside. Rolling thunder was the best description I had for what I heard, and I instinctively dropped to the floor just from the sound. The donut shop was completely redecorated by the incoming bullet storm. The foam inside chairs, the chips inside plywood, and the bones of the long deceased floated in the air like a shower of confetti.

Bittersweet ran right up to the windows, holding the thump–gun next to her shoulder. “Pull her inside!” she shouted. The gun fired, and a moment later, the face of an entire building across from us crumbled onto the sidewalk. I crawled through a carpet of bones to reach the cover of the metal walls.

I lifted my head and saw the slaughter. At least five Money Shot mercenaries were sprawled out dead, some of whom had been torn to pieces by some sort of explosives. Creed was pulling a body toward the nearest entrance to the Joe’s O’s. Although his progress was painfully slow, the smoke screen created by the building collapse kept the shooters from zeroing in on him.

Three of the attackers, dressed in grey suit jackets, made a dash from the opposite corner. Grapeshot, in the midst of another four–note whistle, popped up from behind the post box and fired his rifle. Actually, it turned out to be an automatic shotgun, so the three goons at the receiving end flew back with parts of their chests and heads missing.

Money Shot fired back in earnest after finding cover behind trees, trash cans, and carriages. By following Grapeshot’s whistles, they managed to hold their ground by suppressing the shooters with concentrated fire.

Creed made it inside the shop, dragging the body behind a metal counter. A glimpse of a purple mane confirmed my worst fear—Softlock had been shot by the sniper at the start of the ambush. The smuggler was losing blood from a button–sized hole in her throat. Bittersweet ran to the counter, ripping a handkerchief from her bags to slow the bleeding.

The wall behind me suddenly exploded with searing heat, forcing me back on my stomach among the skeletons. The metal wall, which had been holding up well to bullets, was practically melting now. Outside the windows, the attackers were putting on a laser show.

What were raiders doing with this many laser weapons? They were literally sweeping the sidewalks with beams of sizzling red light. It burned right through the thin cover Money Shot had, incinerating suits and melting holes into flesh.

Grapeshot rolled out from behind the post box as a ray cut through the steel. The manager made a charge onto the street, unloading every shell he had into the windows and the assailants inside. Suddenly, every laser weapon was focusing on him. The asphalt bubbled under his hooves, and the hairs on his coat were tinged black from glancing shots. Nearly to the other side of Clapton Street, Grapeshot stumbled as a laser struck him in the side; 10 more fell upon the manager and brought him down.

As I turned back to the situation inside the Joe’s O’s, my day only got worse. Bittersweet marched out from behind the counter, looking pissed enough to wrestle with death. Her retaliation with a grenade launcher was so ferocious that the streets were veiled with dust from all the property damage. Creed stood up and dropped a bloodied handkerchief on the floor. The look of unease on his face told me all I needed to know—we were done for.

With most of Money Shot presumably dead, the donut shop had become the main target of all the attackers. Both plywood and metal were burned away, and the beams began striking the floor around me. I trudged through the debris and bones in the direction of the counter. I just had enough time to pull out my pistol, when a shot went through my duster. Flames flickered to life around the hole.

I had just seconds to take it off before the whole thing was alight. I practically dived behind the counter to join Creed. Softlock’s body laid across the floor, eyes closed and head limp.

“Oh no,” I muttered eloquently… Eloquently? Where did my pistol go?

Creed’s jacket was thrown aside. The pegasus had his battlesaddles readied. “So plan A for reaching Baltimare has been derailed.”

“What’s plan B?”

“Survive first, damn it. I’ll think of a plan B after we do that.”

March Mint vaulted over an open window into the building. One of his colleagues tried to do the same, but a laser beam struck her in the back, killing her instantly. A third mercenary attempted to gallop through the door, but he disappeared into a fireball as a rocket struck behind him. March Mint crawled over to us, and he was shouting three words over and over: “—ing Raunchy Cavalry!”

Bittersweet fought by herself, denying any of the raiders the chance to close in on the shop. One of them lobbed a grenade into the window, only for her to grab the metal apple in mid–air and fire it back with her magic. The detonation spread a cloud of dust over an entire face of the shop. With her pistols out, Bittersweet ran back to the counter.

“Forget the underground passage—” Her pistol planted one between the eyes of a raider just as he appeared outside the windows. “—We’re making our own way out!”

Creed’s guns opened fire. With the assailants now at the walls, the best he could do was keep them pinned. “What are you suggesting?” he shouted.

Bittersweet disappeared into the kitchen. It took just fifteen seconds before something detonated inside. A canister flew out of the threshold, landing within the center of the room. White smoke billowed out, making it impossible to see anything beyond the counter. The old soldier reappeared, yelling at us to “Follow me!”

What I said before applied now—there was no alternative, except to obey. We ran into the kitchen to the sight of the carriage–sized hole in the wall Bittersweet made. Before we left, I glanced one last time at my only ticket to Baltimare, who quickly disappeared as the smoke screen overtook the counter.

Comet Scotia

Current reputation
Southern Wasteland: Liked
Red Eye’s Slavers: Hated
Gawd’s Talons: Hunted
Megacorps: Hated

Perks
Putting on the Mask – You have taken up the identity of “The Stable Dweller.” The Southern Wasteland remains unfazed. Others are more likely to hand you errands… I mean quests.
Names to Run Away From – Creed Brook has a reputation of killing all the scum on the Mason Road. With him as your companion, raider encounters become much less common. Cleansing evil does not require mercy. Slavers and raiders are instantly hostile upon encounter and harder to talk down.
The Old Soldier – Bittersweet is more familiar with the wasteland’s conflict and its factions than anyone else. With her as your companion, interactions with the various factions are facilitated, even if they hate you.
Token Evil Teammate – March Mint has expertise in business interactions. With him as your companion, your bartering options are considerably improved. After all, merchants are reluctant to say no to a corporate raider.

Chapter Eight: I Too Fear the Change Coming On

My lungs would first constrict themselves to death before they allowed me to take another step. The mutiny did not stop at the lungs; from the hooves to the heart, I was engulfed by the pangs of exhaustion. As my body succumbed to defeatism, all I could was lean on Creed and try to stay conscious until the next breath.

That we were even alive after that ambush in the donut shop… miraculous. Bittersweet was a bit like those action stars from the movies, knowing at all times how to move with the absolute certainty that she would survive. Split second choices. Grenade fired, escape route created. We must have run through twenty buildings or so at sprinting pace. Twenty seconds were all she needed.

Those corporate raiders from Raunchy Cavalry hardly had a chance of catching us with all the debris and dust we left behind. So we were safe for the moment. At least as safe as you could get in a city of raiders.

By the Godde—by me, the air in this alley was heavier than the saddlebags on my back. Sweat was pouring into my eyes, and my jumpsuit was starting to cling to me. On the dimly bright side, I could finally fit into this outfit without gaining weight. With that one bit of good news, I was feeling just peachy. Never mind the loss of my only ticket to Baltimare. I had talked enough about the death of hopes and dreams. Besides, I was hardly the worst one off in our party of four.

Aside from a fixed glower on his face, Creed appeared as indifferent as ever. The pony he was keeping an eye on was not faring as well. March Mint had slumped against the wall, curled into himself, holding his hooves to his face. All I heard from him were these sporadic, shallow breaths. He was going to be unreachable for a while. As for Bittersweet, well…

“Damn them to a seepage pit in the depths of Night’s Veil!” she cursed at an innocent trash can. Taking a note from Grapeshot, Bittersweet kept her voice confined to a whisper. “They should’ve shot me instead. Do their jobs right like proper mercenaries. She was never supposed to be targeted… She never even had the package.”

Bittersweet shut her eyes and steadied herself with a hoof on the wall. After that display of combat competency in the Joe’s O’s, I was inclined to believe she was our best chance of getting out of Hawkthorn alive. Knowledge of the city’s layout and its inhabitants were in high demand at this point, what with having every company in Megacorps likely searching for us.

Not that Creed was a pushover in the pony killer department. Yet I doubted he could resist making a detour on our way out and slaughtering a few dozen corporate raiders. Miracle worker or not, I had to rely on someone who seemed to keep our survival the top priority.

That was exactly why Bittersweet needed to stop grieving the dead and start saving the living. Let us be honest—we need to be pragmatic in the wasteland and remind one another of the importance of staying alive. So no one could justly call me insensitive.

I stepped forward, but Creed trotted in front of me and reached out first.

“Softlock was one of your dearest friends, and you probably feel like there was more you could do to save her. But you don’t need to feel responsible for her death. You didn’t have any part in the shot that took her life.” His words to Bittersweet were deliberate and gentle. They were the kind of whispers that echoed within the listener’s head, becoming her thoughts.

“We don’t have time now to honor her memory, Bittersweet. Although there is something we can do to make sure she didn’t die in vain.” Creed said. She opened her eyes with white sclera and no tears to shed, appearing haunted all the same. When the pegasus withheld his words, the old soldier took her hoof off the wall and gave him her full attention.

Those violet eyes, locked on hers, might as well have been hypnotic pendulums. Creed knew he could persuade Bittersweet of anything in her state. Not that manipulating someone emotionally distressed was really all that difficult. “We can get revenge. We can kill the ponies responsible and prevent them from letting anyone else feel that pain. Do you want to avenge her?”

Bittersweet took a deep breath and broke eye contact momentarily. “I just want to thank you, Creed, for trying to save Softlock.”

The corner of Creed’s mouth twitched in the second she was looking away. I would have been frustrated too if I was not getting the answer I wanted.

Bittersweet fixed her stance, steadying herself on her legs. “She was beyond saving, but you dragged her off the street anyway.”

Creed frowned sadly—his eyes softened, his breaths slowed—and remained silent. Certainly he was feeling compassion… for a desperate… and lost… It was exactly the same expression he had given me, when I told him my sob story.

Bittersweet faced the street outside the alley. “You’re right, though. Grieve later; focus on the present.”

March Mint was still curled up, grieving in the present. Understandable. He had many more friends to mourn.

“Then you’re ready?” Bittersweet dragged her eyes from the street to her hooves. Only then did she nod. “And you, Nova?”

“Just about,” I answered. I had my breath back, which was the best I could expect from this weak, treacherous body of mine.

“Great! We’ll be set to follow you out of here in just a moment, Bittersweet.” Creed dug through his saddlebags with his muzzle and emerged gripping a chrome combat knife. He set his eyes and blade–wielding smile on March Mint. “One thing first.”

The sole survivor of Money Shot kept his head bowed inward as his executioner approached. If he even noticed Creed’s hoofsteps, March made no motion to indicate so. His company was dead, and he was likely as lost as a child without a family. No one could imagine how he felt. Now March would die in an alley to a raider’s greatest fear.

“Creed, just let him be,” I muttered. The pegasus turned his head, but kept walking toward March. “Creed. He’s already worse than dead. You don’t have to do this.”

March stirred. His eyes appeared from behind his forelegs like a stage actor parting the curtains.

“Don’t start empathizing now,” Creed groaned.

“He’s just lost everyone he loves.”

“Good. That means no one will miss him.” There was no way I was going to talk him out of killing the poor fellow.

He paused just long enough for Bittersweet to turn around and deduce his intention. Her eyebrows scrunched up, and her horn lit up. The knife swung free from Creed’s grip, jerking his head in her direction.

“Great. Now you two have cocked it up.” Creed backed up a couple of steps at the insistence of Bittersweet’s requisitioned blade.

“I turn for a few meditative breaths and you try to stab one of us to death. What are you thinking?” she hissed.

“Slit the throat, when he isn’t aware. He wouldn’t have enough time to scream and give away our location.” Despite his overriding bloodlust, Creed was capable of practical thinking. Too bad it was entirely devoted to efficiently killing ponies.

“So that’s what you were thinking while cheering me up? Cutting down someone else who was mourning their lost loved ones?” The knife made jabs through the air following each question.

“I thought you would know better than to feel sorry for his kind. He—” Creed pointed a hoof at March. The raider scooted himself closer to the wall behind him. “—causes this kind of sorrow and suffering for his own enjoyment.”

March suddenly spoke up, “But—”

“Shut up.” And he quieted down.

Even as Creed adjusted himself to face Bittersweet, his hoof stayed on the trapper. “He and his kind. They killed Softlock, and they may have already quartered her corpse. A leg in each district and the head on top of Oasis Tower! It’s only right to put them down before they hurt anyone else. Don’t you want to avenge her?”

Bittersweet bared her teeth—surprisingly yellowed by negligence—and shot Creed with an expression far too remote and too venomous to be characteristic of her previous outbursts. The knife leveled to the height of his chest; it remained unwavering, aimed at his heart.

“You’re using my dead friend to justify your murders. Get me joining in as your accomplice.”

Creed brought his hoof back down and stood as straight as possible. Even as he was being threatened, he still had the gall to look down on her. “You killed well over a dozen raiders in that ambush. Why’s this one different? Because you feel sympathetic?”

Creed gave me a sidelong glance. It told me all I needed to know. That he was accusing me of disloyalty to him and everything he stood for; that I was wrong about Creed and everything he fought for. No psychopath could act so composed. He may truly care for the well–being of weak wastelanders. That was just the extent of his compassion.

“You’re using my dead friend to justify killing someone on our side!”

“He’s not on your side. You just paid him to provide security.” Creed gestured around the alley with a hoof. “Not a good investment as it turned out.”

“Pay’s got nothing to do with it anymore, Creed.” Bittersweet began stepping around the pegasus to the spot March occupied. “I can trust… umm…”

“March Mint,” I murmured.

“—March Mint. I can trust him more than you. In fact, I’ll need his help in my mission.”

The trapper cocked his head and gaped at Bittersweet. “You will?”

Creed squinted. “Mission?”

The old soldier pinned me down with her turquoise eyes. Suddenly, I found myself the scapegoat for all the cruelty of the world. How else was I supposed to explain the contempt in that look she gave me? “Tell him.”

“What?” I breathed.

“Tell your companion what you and the major arranged.”

Out of us gathered in the alley, I was the only one who could not be blamed for anything that happened! Yet a string of unlucky circumstances have brought me here to make me confess that I am indeed a liar. Neither my mistakes nor my attitude screwed me over; instead, it was the whim of someone who seemed not to like me from the way I looked. What a world we live in.

“Nova… you didn’t mention anything about a bargain,” Creed muttered.

“It’s a package delivery. That’s all.”

Creed shook his head and bit on something inside his mouth. “How much did he pay you?”

“600 caps,” I waved my left hoof. “We needed the caps to pay Softlock. So yeah, I lied, because your damn generosity would’ve lost us another thousand caps!”

Bittersweet still had contempt in her eyes, but I suspected she must have felt a little self–satisfaction in making a fool out of me. Her eyes were still focused on mine. She probably wanted me to sing an old timey from the radio for her next.

“And what’s the package for?” She levitated the cardboard box out of her saddlebags. Bittersweet really was going to talk about her plan right in front of March.

“Do we have to do this here?” One of her suppressed pistols flew out of its holster, safety flicked off, and aligned its barrel with my forehead. Surprisingly, the novelty of a loaded gun in my face was lost the second time around. I sighed, “There’s bombs in there. To bring down Oasis Tower.”

Creed went from glaring at Bittersweet to giving me a confused frown. Then he did a double take. Without a word to say. March Mint on the other hand looked as though he had swallowed his tongue.

Bittersweet tucked away the package and withdrew the pistol. She kept the knife floating where it had been this whole time. “All the CEO’s are gathered in Oasis Tower. I’m going to cut off the head of Megacorps with that package. March is going to help us.”

Even if March was still too shocked to give his confirmation, Bittersweet continued, “Blockades and sentries surround the tower. The CEO’s really want to make sure no one gets to them, so they’ve decided not to cut corners for once. They’ve poured a lot into security detail, so I assume there’ll be last minute traps set up inside the surrounding buildings. Being a trapper, March should be able to help us avoid setting those off.”

“You’re pulling this out of your butt to spite me, aren’t you?” Creed stated.

“I will admit, Creed, I only remembered that possibility very recently.”

“We don’t even have any reason to believe that March will help us.” As much as I loathed Creed’s bloodlust, I had to agree with him on that point. Looking at the corporate raider now, I could only tell that he was thoroughly confused by the way this argument was progressing. You and me both, March Mint.

“He has a perfectly valid reason. Seventeen reasons actually.” Bittersweet paused for a moment, concentrating on something on her barding. “Dropped them at the pastry shop. Hmm. Where was I… Didn’t you find it odd that we caused so much property damage around that intersection, yet no one interfered? None of the companies would’ve tolerated that much risk without the sanction of upper management. Especially at the heart of the city. The whole board would’ve needed to approve an ambush like that.”

Creed and March were watching Bittersweet. I was just wondering how long we could squat in this alley before a Megacorps search party found us. Like the afternoon heat, we had settled here and failed to move a meter since. We could have left March here and moved on; now that he knew what Bittersweet was planning, we had to bring him along. Between the killer angel and the mad soldier, enough tantrums had been thrown to make me consider surviving on my own.

Of course, I realized instantly that was suicide.

“We’d never know which CEO gave the order ultimately.” Bittersweet put her hoof on March’s shoulder. The trapper immediately flinched at the touch. “So we might as well eliminate the uncertainty and kill them all. For Money Shot—”

“What the hell happened to using dead friends to justify murder?” Creed hissed. He stomped his hoof down and took a step toward them.

“I don’t have a psychotic, bloodthirsty intent. Thus, this is entirely different.” Bittersweet pressed her advantage on the moral high ground with a feint. Reacting reasonably to a knife in front of his face, Creed pulled back.

“Now I see your point perfectly. Murder a poor little raider out of revenge, and I’m the bad guy; murder a dozen well–off raiders out of revenge, and you’re suddenly the good guy. Thank you for helping me see the error of my ways, righteous one.”

“I thought by now you’d realize it’s more practical to bring March along than it is to gut him for an attack he had no part of.”

“I find it’s practical not to bring along a born backstabber with us on your special mission.”

“Loose the chuff! Did raiders burn down your hometown or something?”

Alright. This argument was going nowhere.

“You can’t be so dense as to trust a raider you met a couple hours ago.”

I had to stop these two before they started dueling for honor.

“I met you that long ago, and you’ve shown more violent tendencies that he has in that time.”

“I’ve shot an alicorn through the eye with a shotgun from 1500 meters away,” I proclaimed. Creed and Bittersweet stopped and snapped their heads around with flat–browed expressions of zero amusement. “Good. You’re listening. So let’s wrap this up and get out of this damn alley. How about we skip all the debate and just ask March Mint if he wants to help us.”

Bittersweet snorted. “Of course I—”

I shook my head. “Nope. No. You didn’t.” It seemed like we had spent months here already. “March Mint, do you want to help us destroy Oasis Tower?”

The trapper gaped and froze on his first word: “Well, uh—” I could feel Creed twitching and longing for blood outside my peripheral vision. “Yeah. I want to bring down Megacorps… for what they did to my company!”

As March got to his hooves, I closed the distance between me and Creed—I had to jump to his left side to avoid cutting myself on the floating knife.

“Put that away,” I told Bittersweet. The blade remained right where it was—poised to strike Creed’s heart. “Please move the knife away. You’ll make this part harder than it already is.” She raised her left eyebrow as high as physically possible, as though I had trouble reading her mind. With some ponies, it came as easily as understanding the message of a billboard sign. With her point made, Bittersweet finally pulled the knife away.

Once that threat was out of the way, I pulled Creed’s muzzle to me, staring him in the eyes and making certain he was not aiming at March. His eyes were a slightly dull hue of violet. That was something I had not noticed before about him. “Creed, just forget your burning hatred until we’re out of this city!”

“He’s got to die, Nova. We can’t trust raiders to watch our backs.”

My tail whipped the ground. Through clenched teeth, I urged, “Please don’t kill him. You do that and we’ll lose Bittersweet. Then we won’t have a guide to help us escape this city. And sure… getting out will be easy for you. But for me?” I gulped as my imagination conjured up the worst scenario. Creed did say they might have quartered Softlock already. “You kill that raider, Creed, and that’ll mean two things—my time wasted for a silly argument and my life sacrificed for your stubborn beliefs.”

Creed looked at me and said nothing. That was not a guarantee.

“Think about the long term, Creed. How about getting to Baltimare? You remember that plan? Let’s not abandon that plan. Asking the smuggler didn’t work out, but all roads lead to Baltimare, right?” What did that even mean? Stop spouting nonsense, Comet. You make a living out of saying the right words.

But how do you change the mind of someone out for blood?

The epiphany found me before the question through the magic of déjà vu. I remembered a lesson from a similar dealing in Fillydelphia—do not dissuade, incentivize.

Confidence sold everything, and now that I had the right words, I was the most confident mare on this side of the wasteland.

“You could kill March Mint right here in this alley, and nothing would change. The world couldn’t care less.”

“Hey!” March rasped.

I shrugged an apology his way. Now the selling point: “But think about the consequences of bringing him along. Have the other corporates see one of their own helped the ponies who brought down Oasis Tower and killed their CEO’s. Once the dust clears, accusations will fly as the various companies claw at each other’s throats for control of Megacorps.”

Creed’s lip twitched at the corners. No need to hide the smile, you killer angel. “Soon enough, there’ll be more dead raiders across the Southern Wasteland than you could ever realistically create… yet it’ll still be your doing.”

All I had to do was smile along with him and indulge his desire. I felt something twist in my stomach as Creed wore that satisfied smirk of his; I had difficulty smiling as the memory of that Buck Crusader’s shattered skull came to mind.

“You know what. Let’s bring March Mint along,” Creed said. Bittersweet cussed under her breath. “Though I need a guarantee that I get to kill him if he does anything suspicious.”

Bittersweet tapped her hoof on the ground. “That reasoning makes me sick to my soul, but whatever gets you to stop trying to kill one of our own… Check your gear. I’m making a report.” She stared back and forth between the knife and Creed, but eventually it wound up back in his possession. A boxy military transmitter emerged from her saddlebags.

As Creed tended to his battlesaddles, March made baby steps toward the pegasus. I kept an eye on those two while I tried my best to figure out the shooting mechanism behind my new shotgun. In the middle of loading a new clip into his guns, Creed spotted the corporate raider. A dour frown quickly lifted into a forced smile.

“Your name is Creed?” March asked. “The Angel of Mason Road?”

“Yes,” Creed replied. He went back to reloading.

“You won’t try to kill me after this is all over, will you?”

His hoof stopped over the piece that cocked the guns. “Depends on if you’re still with us by that point.” Creed pulled the piece back to a two–note tune of mechanical clicks, his grin wider than ever before.

March started backpedaling. “Okay. Just making sure. Glad to be working with you…”

“I need quiet,” Bittersweet muttered. The transmitter was pressed against her ear. “Come in, Major. This is Private Bittersweet, reporting that everything has gone to Tartarus and split that dustbin right down the middle… They knew about the package. Probably someone on the inside… Well, some of us are still alive. Softlock’s dead.”

Bittersweet’s pistols floated before her, spinning into different angles at her convenience. All I could make out from the transmitter was static at this distance. Through a little experimentation and some pointers from Creed, I learned that pulling the pump on my shotgun made it cycle a new round. Fortunately, no one asked me to check my missing pistol.

Bittersweet continued, “Yeah, I said the same thing… Of course I’ll finish the mission. Just make sure you have that wine ready when I get back… I suspect Azure Bloom… cause he’s enough of a fake to wear an eyepatch for ‘cool factor.’ Make sure he doesn’t run. I want him to myself… Copy that. Over and out.”

The radio and pistols were stored away. The moment Bittersweet turned and saw us, she commanded us to “Forget the guns. Use something that won’t make a lot of noise.” With that limitation, all we had for range were Bittersweet’s pistols and March’s crossbow. Creed certainly did not mind restricting himself to a knife; I just had a shovel.

At the entrance of the alley, Bittersweet peered out into the street and signalled us over one by one. “Get behind me March. Stack up behind him, Stable pony. You watch our backs, Creed. Follow my lead.”

A quick glimpse of my Pipbuck map informed us of our location. Very far west of the Joe’s O’s; close north to Oasis Tower. However, the straightforward path intersected with some major roads, which were bound to be barricaded by Megacorps. Ruined blocks such as the one we were walking in provided much more cover than the streets we took into the city. As a result of collapsing infrastructure, different stories just blended together into one grand heap of rubble.

The flimsy apartment buildings barely survived the bombings, even though entire floors had been swept onto ground level. The trails of brick and concrete left behind provided convenient ramps into higher areas. That meant we could more easily sidestep the destruction left behind by such intense defenestration. Entire portions of the street were just concrete, bricks, carriages, personal belongings, and skeletons compressed into the tight space.

An apartment complex called the “Fairest Tree” was the next destination on our route. It had a sister building across one of the main roads, which was blocked by a series of checkpoints and armed corporates. According to Bittersweet, this place held the only safe path through the security on the road.

The Fairest Tree was about twenty stories of tannish red blocks, arranged by the mind of a child. It had an uninventive design that had clearly sacrificed aethestics and symmetry to fit as many rooms on a floor as it could. With the way the building bulged at its wings, I would not be surprised to learn that it looked like a big figure eight from the air.

But I may have been too hard on its appearance. Unlike the sleek apartment buildings we walked through on the way, the Fairest Tree had not suffered any collapses. Its interior was relatively well–preserved. If someone just decided to clean up the two centuries’ worth of dust and molding, this place could turn into a luxury hotel. The moment we set foot in the lobby, we discovered that one company may have had the same idea.

Indistinct conversation was exchanged in one of the backrooms at the end of the hall. The four of us tiptoed past a number of apartment doors, forced open likely by the same raiders we were sneaking up on. With every other meter we covered, Bittersweet had March ask me how many I was seeing on my E.F.S.

Two reds. One yellow. Three individuals behind one closed door.

The chatter was comprehensible now that we were basically hugging the door. A stallion was saying to his female colleague that “We have to take advantage of this new asset! This is a profitable market to tap into with a low price.” It seemed like he was situated right where the windows would be.

The mare stepped back and forth across the width of the room. She scoffed, “Us? Opening up a venture in their market? The last CEO who tried busting that trust wound up declaring bankruptcy.”

“That’s exactly why we do this off the record. Slash the price level, remove the regulations, and ensure customer loyalty.”

The mare stopped pacing right where the stallion was. They were both red blips. The yellow one had not moved for over a minute. “I didn’t realize you adhered to Gold Racket’s philosophy. I thought that school of thought was… banned.”

Bittersweet’s horn lit up with a subdued glow. Her magic shot out in two beams into the hinges of the door. A third beam wrapped around her pistol.

“If only because the CEO’s brought back the damned system after he was gone.” The stallion sighed. “The more things change, the more they stay the same.”

Bittersweet lifted her pistol and pulled the slide back. Oddly, not even a soft click could be heard. Her hoof went out to the door and started pushing it inward. The rest of us stood back and let the old soldier take the lead.

The door gradually swung open without a sound. The two raiders stood in the light filtering through the window, staring into each other’s eyes as their conversation continued.

The mare wrapped her forehooves around her companion’s neck and said, “You can’t change the system when you’ve got no friends in upper management. And you can’t get friends unless you’re profitable. Of course, the net income doesn’t have to be reported.”

With the door set against the wall and with the room scouted out, Bittersweet set the gun’s sights on the two corporates.

The stallion gaped. “So you’re okay with going on this venture with me?” Receiving a nod in reply, he smiled so wide that his gums showed.

The pistol reeled back, an adrupt noise akin to a cough echoed from the barrel, and the female raider slumped instantly. The other one went wide–eyed as the weight of his dead colleague fell upon him; a bloody hole in his forehead appeared before he could recover from the shock. The two raiders crumpled in a pile by the windows.

Bittersweet trotted to the two raiders, shooting both of them again before approaching for a closer investigation. I looked around the apartment in the meanwhile, looking for the feature that excited these two corporates so much. The television set was cracked open; the kitchen had been taken over by moss; the beds were just unsanitary, even by wasteland standards. If they were hoping to re–open this place as a motel, the effort would have required a level of renovation on the scale of a megaspell. There was surely nothing profitable about it.

“Stable pony.” I turned to face Bittersweet. “That yellow blip. Where did—”

The sound of flowing water disrupted her. A flush of water. And it was muffled behind a wall. We all looked at the only closed door in the room, the one in which the yellow blip was currently moving around in.

A third raider opened the door and skipped out shouting, “I just can’t believe a toilet like this still works! Everyone will want to use—” He reeled his head back and stopped two steps out the door. A crossbow bolt had flown through the side of his head. The yellow blip disappeared as the raider was falling to the floor.

Looking from the dead body to March, Bittersweet commented, “Good job.” The trapper remained in place, holding the crossbow to his chest and keeping an eye on Creed. Likewise, Creed was keeping his eye on March.

To my surprise, Creed smiled at him and echoed Bittersweet. “Good job.” He broke eye contact after doing so and allowed March to breathe easier.

Bittersweet stepped out of the newly opened door with a smirk on her face. “A toilet. They’d found a working toilet for themselves. No sense letting it go to waste. Relieve yourselves and take a break.”

March Mint was the first to take up the offer. He trotted right over the raider he killed. I frowned and asked, “Is it really a smart idea to stop so close to the raiders for a bathroom break?”

Bittersweet kicked the bathroom door shut. “Either you go now, or you wait until we get back to Celestia’s Folly,” she said. That settled the matter immediately.

Bittersweet did keep my concern in mind as we took turns using the bathroom—how that toilet still operated was beyond my knowledge. She simply cast the same spell that was used on the door and her pistol; she muted the sound of the toilet flush. The effect likely faded over time, given that I heard her pistol clack as she checked her clip. Still, that was a type of spell I had never seen used by unicorns up north and a very useful one at that.

Our purpose for visiting the Fairest Tree laid in the basement of the complex. An underground passage ran between this building and its sister across the road. The metal walls and claustrophobically low ceiling reminded me of a Stable. The tunnel even acquired a Stable’s survivability. It would hardly be surprising to discover that someone stole the design from Stable–Tec.

The place was just as creepy as a Stable thanks to Donut Joe. Or rather his likeness on the posters and merchandise scattered across the floor. We waded through mounds of goods belonging to the Joe’s O’s franchise. Everything from thermos bottles plastered with his face to advertisements for jelly eclairs at half price.

“What the…” I muttered. It seemed that anywhere I looked, there was Joe staring right back at me.

March Mint snickered to himself as we walked. “So that’s how they did it.”

“What do you mean?”

“The Whitewash Cleaners,” the trapper answered. “They were paid to liquidate all assets of Donut Joe… His merchandise, his stores, his existence. I’d heard tales of the bonfires at the start of Megacorps, but I always thought that method was too time–consuming and expensive. Not to mention how angry the real estate guys get when they see smoke blocking out the view of the skyline.

“Seems the Cleaners thought the same. So they dumped it all in this passageway and forgot about it. Problem’s out of sight and out of mind.” March chuckled at the revelation. These corporate types were characters I was never going to understand.

Once we were across the road, the rest of the journey was straightforward. Oasis Tower was just three blocks down the street. What might have once been a shining skyscraper was now an empty steel cob with dark holes where windows used to be. Its eight faces were marred with partial collapses and bent beams. Even though Oasis Tower had survived the bombs and centuries of neglect, the scars showed that the building barely remained standing.

Now we were going to deliver the coup de grâce.

Within a block of Oasis Tower, we stopped at the foot of an office building with a double skin curtain wall. Here we faced the brunt of Megacorps’ security detail—the entire plaza underneath the skyscraper was filled with suited raiders. Barricades had been erected on the roads, some of which boasted machine gun nests. At the front entrance, an armored taxi carriage stood guard with a gun turret that looked long enough to lob tank shells across the city. There was a good probability too that snipers were posted in the buildings around Oasis Tower, just in case any intruders sneaking in wanted to receive the Softlock treatment. The CEO’s had spared no expense.

I pulled my head back behind the corner of the office building. Which one was more impossible—escaping out of Hawkthorn by myself or getting inside Oasis Tower? I had been hoping I would tag along on this whole mission without ever having to do anything myself. No one shooting at me so long as Bittersweet knew a way around these raiders; no one asking anything of me so long as Bittersweet had those explosives. It seemed like a good idea at the time.

“You wouldn’t happen to know any more underground passages—” I turned and ended up staring at only Creed. “—Bittersweet? Where did she go?”

I found her further east by an entrance into the office building. Bittersweet was tapping her hoof on the sidewalk, staring inside the glass doors.

Creed and I walked over to her. “What are you doing?” I asked.

She rolled her eyes after barely looking even a second at me. “Breaking in.”

March strolled out the doors right on cue, holding up a net of shotgun shells with his left hoof. “All the traps in the lobby are cleared, Bittersweet.” He glanced at me and held out the shells. “I saw you had a shotgun, so I unloaded the ones rigged to tripwires to get you some ammo.”

My surprise lasted only a few seconds. It was hard to pass up on free ammo. “Thank you,” I said after the shells were in my bags. March smiled at the words of gratitude.

“Inside,” Bittersweet ordered. She waited to close the door behind us.

We filed into a dark lobby that essentially consisted of a security checkpoint, a mail room, and a hall for elevators and stairs. The simplistic architecture was embellished by rainbow streamers on the ceiling, motivational posters on the walls, and decaying newspapers on the floor. Strung up by wires above our heads, huge letters in bold red welcomed us to “Hoity Toity Media Center.”

My forelegs were stepping on sensationalist news headlines that were just hilarious to read—Baltimare Mayor Caught Bedding Mules! Equine Blood Again Spilt by Salad Bowl Savages! War’s Over After Lecharo!—but in a darker sense of humor. Most of this garbage was propaganda… some of it was outright hate speech against any non–equine species. This newspaper—the Hawkthorn Inquirer—was worse at informing its audience than a DJ in a Tenpony suite.

It was fine to learn about the local newspaper, but that did not clear up—“Why are we here?” Creed asked. He kicked away a few newspapers under his hooves, wearing a grimace that deepened with every second he spent looking at the headlines.

“Hold on a moment,” Bittersweet said. Her horn lit up and cast her silencing spell on the metal detector that restricted access to the hallway. The turquoise magic seeped into the frame. “Go through quickly.” Our possessions immediately set off the detector and bathed us in red light. The actual alarm, however, was soundless.

Once we were all gathered by the stairs, Bittersweet addressed the question: “We’re still going to bring down Oasis Tower, but we can’t realistically get inside that building with the security out front…” She looked to the stairs and back. “I’ll explain on the way up.”

This building was almost as tall as Oasis Tower, and that was sixty stories high. And the elevators did not work. And we were ascending by way of the stairs… There better be something valuable to pilfer from this place.

Looking up the first flight of those concrete steps, I found my wish granted. My enabler was the ministry mare herself—Pinkie Pie—on a workplace announcement plastered to the wall. The image was a picture of her holding a massive calender scheduled with various wacky activities and events—Cupcake Monday, Prank Tuesday, Gaming Wednesday, Treasure Hunt Thursday, Cupcake Friday, Waterboarding Saturday. “Come visit me in my office if you don’t feel at home!” Pinkie Pie urged me in fat pink text.

The media center was the headquarters for all Ministry of Morale operations in the city. That meant there were all sorts of important war–time artifacts gathering dust in here. The ministry mare herself set up her office in this very building, leaving behind confidential documents, personal trinkets, and possibly even memory orbs. My customers ate that stuff up back in the north! I could make a killing!

Bittersweet led us up the stairs in single file, talking about her plan as we went. Maybe she might mention something about Pinkie Pie’s office at some point. “I did reconnaisance of this area not long after the siege of Celestia’s Folly began, posing as a real estate buyer. I knew that the CEO’s convened at Oasis Tower for their quarterly reports, so that’s where I started.”

March held us up each time we passed by the door to a new floor. He kept examining the frame for some reason.

“While the structure of Oasis Tower was certainly weakened, it couldn’t be brought down by a concealable amount of explosives. The media center, on the other hand, is an older building that I had access to blueprints for. The right amount of charges at the right spots should topple this place right on Oasis Tower. The force of one skyscraper falling on another will likely do the trick.”

“Bittersweet,” March whispered. Bittersweet stopped and turned her head toward us, bathing the lower steps in a turquoise glimmer. “…all these doors have been tampered with. Likely booby–trapped.”

She made a quick glance at the floor sign and nodded. “Understood. Can you go ahead and clear the doors to the 12th, 18th, 25th, and 39th floors?”

“No problem,” March answered. He started racing up the steps ahead of Bittersweet.

She pointed a foreleg at Creed. “Go with him to the 39th floor. Our contingency exit is up there. I need you to do a sweep in case we need to use it.”

The pegasus gave me a grin and started up the stairs. Bittersweet’s foreleg blocked his way when he reached her. She spoke through clenched teeth to Creed, “And don’t kill him once he does his job.”

Creed kept up his smile, which was remarkably devoid of its usual arrogance. “I’m starting to think you have a sour opinion of me.”

“That’s how I view ponies who draw knives behind my back.”

Creed ascended without another word.

Bittersweet faced me at last. “I’ll plant charges on particular weak spots and pillars. They’ll be set to blow by a timer, so we have to move quickly.” I raised my hoof halfway up my chest. Bittersweet’s stony–faced gaze was the reason why it never made it any further. “What is it?”

“This is the southern headquarters for the Ministry of Morale, right?” But I knew it was. If I gave Bittersweet an excuse to avoid seeing my face, she would have to accept. I could get my way with anyone, even a pony who seemed to detest my very appearance. “I want to visit Pinkie Pie’s office real quick.”

“Why.”

I pulled my lower lip up and raised my eyebrows. “To pick up some artifacts. I’m genuinely curious about the history of Equestria.” When I spoke, the words spilled out quickly and cleanly; of course I made sure not to spout off like an auctioneer with a full bladder.

Bittersweet blinked. Her tongue was moving around in her muzzle, but the lips stayed shut. “…22nd floor. Meet March on his way down and get him to open the door.”

“Thank you, Bittersweet.” I climbed deliberately the steps nearest to her before picking up the pace on the next flight. The next flight after that was no problem. Likewise with the next flight after that. The prospect of discovering some wartime mementos belonging to Pinkie Pie revitalized my fatigued body. The realization that buried treasure was within reach was an invisible elixir that turned mares dead on their hooves into the fastest ponies alive.

My forehooves had to drag me over to the wall, so I would not have to rest with my face on the floor. That was it. The last flight my legs would take me up. This was my stop—no, it was just the 21st floor. What I would do for a helping hand.

“Nova? What happened to you?” March Mint stepped down the stairs, looking no worse than if he had just woken up from a nap. He inspected my limp form with darting eyes. “Doesn’t look like you got hit by anything.”

“22nd floor,” I muttered. “Open the door please.”

March immediately went up the stairs again, only stopping halfway to ask if I needed help getting up there. Normally, I would object to letting someone carry me around—not out of fear of getting dropped, but rather out of concern for how badly such a sight would hurt my image. Fortunately, there were no witnesses, and the trapper, adhering to some kind of code among corporates, could be trusted to secrecy.

“Thanks for the help, March.” I took small steps toward the door to ensure I could trust my legs again.

“Anytime. Providing assistance in any form is just procedure for my… my company…” The raider coughed into his foreleg, shielding his face from view for a couple of seconds. With a sniff, he continued, “Here’s my business card, if you ever need my help again.”

I took the card and shook March’s hoof. As a businesspony, he had performed better than anyone in the Wasteland could have expected. I would have even paid him for his help had he asked. But he headed down the stairs without another word.

The stairway door led right into the reception room for Pinkie Pie’s office. Visitors had the choice of lounging on designer sofas or baking a snack in the kitchen. Judging by the disco ball in the middle of the room, there was probably a concealed DJ set for dance party emergencies. The warm color scheme, availability of baked goods, and plethora of security cameras all seemed characteristic of the Ministry of Morale. There were the standard security measures as well, but they had either been disabled by neglect or destroyed by raiders. A few busted ceiling turrets and the three skeletons with ripped suits hinted at that much.

Mahogany double doors separated the reception room from the office. They were closed. Given that raiders were not exactly renowned for their etiquette, the sight of these doors—closed and apparently untouched—was enough to turn my chest taut. Assuming the survivors of the turrets went inside, I had to guess Pinkie Pie had one more surprise left to sort them out.

I pressed against the wall and tapped on it with a hoof. There was definitely steel behind the pink paint job, which meant it could shield me from most automated guns. Maybe not so much against killer robots with laser eyes, but if those were inside, I had the sensible strategy of running for the stairs.

I took a long sip from my trusty canteen. You could not become rich without taking a few risks.

The doors opened at the slightest prod of my shovel, unveiling the spacious office of the ministry mare. Just a desk and two chairs for visitors. That was it. Not even shattered glass from the back of the office, from which a cool breeze swept through the non–existent windows.

I poked my head out into the threshold and scouted out the corners of the office. Nothing showed on my E.F.S. No mechanical whirring or gun clicking or lazer charging. There were just the desk and the chairs. The whole design was a ruse. It had to be.

Even as I was walking straight toward that desk, it was still a ruse. The fact did not change as I walked around and stared at the framed family photos. Nor was I convinced otherwise when I sat back in Pinkie Pie’s chair—this thing was bolted to the floor as it turned out. I dared not reach for the drawers or the mysterious briefcase sitting square in front of me. That was the sort of play that might trick a zebra infiltrator, but I was wiser than a simple spy.

I started walking along the edge, taking in the size of the room and the disappointing dearth of density. Splashes of yellow, purple, blue, orange, and white tinted the walls—that was the extent of expression in this office. The rest was perfectly modern, emphasizing an impersonal atmosphere during personal meetings.

The view up here at least was captivating. I could see the western portion of Hawkthorn, including the crater of a megaspell detonation. From kilometers away, it looked like a burnt pothole that rainfall had filled with debris and greenery. More barren was the ring around it at ground level, flattened utterly into an urban desert with ashes for sand. Any building that existed outside that ring could count itself lucky.

There were more suburban developments further west, but those were rapidly overtaken by forests—whatever remained of them—and the mountains. Anything higher up was obscured by a stagnant fog. Sharp’s River flowed to the right, disappearing into the mountain range. I could see a castle on its northern bank, yet it was a larger complex than Celestia’s Folly with a settlement built around the walls.

Since I have been able to pace this room and admire the view without setting anything off, the only option I had now was to search the desk. Hopefully, the previous visitors had taken care of the remaining security measures before they disappeared; hopefully, they left the contents of the desk untouched as they had the door. I reached out for the latches on the briefcase, throwing my eyes from the left to the right to my E.F.S. as I did so.

“Huh?” I tugged at the latches, but they stayed in place. The briefcase itself was not moving from its spot at my pulling. I tried the drawers afterward, but they were not budging either. Eventually, my hooves were just touching everything on the desk to see if I could move anything. This stuff was bolted in place.

Nothing sprung out to kill me either. I had just tried to steal some items from the ministry mare’s office, and the security could not care less. Sure, I was happy to still be standing, yet the lacking resistance meant there was nothing here to take. The disappointment was irrepressible. This place was a ministry headquarters! Documents, orbs, and technology from a ministry were worth thousands in the market.

Pinkie Pie beamed right at me from all the photos. That was a knowing smile. She was probably laughing in her grave right now. Here was the fool, Comet Scotia, who thought she could steal secrets from the head of national surveillance. Fair enough. I was not leaving with any government property.

But a photograph could still have value to the right customers, especially one that was personally valuable to a ministry mare. The joke was on her. I brought my shovel down on photo frames, cracking the glass with the back of the blade. Here we had a photo of Pinkie Pie and her family, a photo with just her sisters, a photo with her best friends… and a small red switch behind it.

I flipped the switch instantly. Behind me, I heard mechanisms in the wall groan. Soon there was a new doorway in the office. Jackpot.

“You thought you were clever,” I giggled at the photo on my hoof. The pictures went into my saddlebags, which were sadly light now that I thought about it. Having some government property to fill them up would sure be nice.

Two ceiling lamps provided all the lighting in this room. I had my Pipbuck’s flashlight on, which revealed the vast server farm to my immediate left. That and the table piled with Party–time Mint–als on my right. I dropped twenty–seven full containers into my saddlebags. Pinkie Pie’s real workspace was right in front of me—a curved desk, a spinning chair, thirty–three surveillance screens.

Undoubtedly, this place was the panic room. Memory orbs or statuettes would have been nice finds, but I figured that Pinkie Pie would keep the important goods in her office at Manehattan. Eleven tapes of surveillance footage were all that remained after decay had ruined everything else on the desk. They were each labeled with a date and a pony’s name. Donut Joe was one of those names.

I examined the screens and the hardware behind them, hoping to find at least a way to restore power. While it was easy enough to completely lie about the contents of these tapes, adding some half–truths to the lie always helped to sell my products. Besides, I had time to preview at least one tape before we rendered this building into dust.

The double doors outside closed shut with an echoing thud. Previewing would have to wait, it seemed. I swept the tapes into my saddlebags and sauntered out into the office. Bittersweet stood by the doors with a neutral expression. She raised her glasses up slightly, her eyes focused on the view outside, and asked, “So you found the panic room?”

“Yeah. Wasn’t really that hard to find.” I walked toward her.

Bittersweet’s tail swished around. Her eyes went to the desk. “You didn’t touch the briefcase first, did you?”

“Of course not. I wasn’t fooled.”

“Good thing too. These panels have deluxe industrial fans behind them. They would’ve blown you right out of the building.”

So that was your last line of defense, Pinkie Pie… defenestration.

“I made sure to disable them once I found the panic room.” Bittersweet scratched her neck and shrugged her shoulders. Her eyes were now on the ceiling.

“Did you set the bombs?”

“On the lower floors.”

“How long do we have?”

“Enough time.” Bittersweet stared me in the eyes. “Listen. There’s something I’ve wanted to ask you since I found out you were in the Southern Wasteland. About Old Appleloosa.”

Oh, this story again. How did I tell it before? I mentioned a slave revolt… Stealthbucks… something about an evil griffon. I remembered the most important details.

She trotted around to my left, still looking at me with her body facing the west. Her horn lit up, even though my Pipbuck provided enough light to illuminate the room. “I just wanted to know how you took out all those slavers.”

I sighed, contorting my face to display a little sadness in recollection. “That was a while ago. It was certainly a tough fight.”

Bittersweet smirked. “Yeah, I’d imagine so, when the alicorn appeared.”

Wait. Did she just mention an alicorn? That was not something the DJ had talked about in her news report. I thought only the traders of New Appleloosa learned about the whole story. Why did she mention that?

I cleared my throat, speaking with some genuine surprise in my tone. “How’d you know there was an alicorn involved?”

She shrugged. “I’d heard the story from someone in Amos.”

That was impossible. The only witnesses there were freed slaves, and they would have to relay that information across the Equestrian Wasteland to get it near any caravan going south! No, there were not even caravans that went this far south. The only northerners I knew that moved down here were Talons and… slavers.

“Not going to lie. I was pretty surprised to come face-to-face with the Stable pony responsible for killing a green alicorn. Their shields can withstand some heavy firepower. That you managed to drop a boxcar on one left me in utter disbelief.”

Bittersweet was a few steps to my left. If I could pull out my shotgun as I turned to face her, I may be able to shoot her before she pulled her pistols out. Her reflexes were way faster than mine, though. How could I possibly distract her?

Damn it! I had no chance of defeating her! I had to run for the panic room and seal it shut. My only reasonable option.

I would be shot in the back though. Maybe I should fight and hope for a lucky shot?

“You wouldn’t happen to have a horn hidden under that stupid mane of yours, would you?”

Alright, here we go. I gave a shaky laugh at her question and started turning right. Then there was a poke at the back of my head. It was too small to be her hoof. Any denial dissipated once I heard the click of her pistol’s priming mechanism.

“Yeah, I thought so.”

I had been caught in my act. By someone working for Red Eye, in fact. That was how she knew. What a stupid mistake this whole idea was. And I was doing so well up to now—I was just kidding myself. If I had to be honest, my fate had practically been sealed the very night I messed with the Talons. That was the whole reason why I was not counting my caps in Friendship City right about now.

Considering that Bittersweet had not shot me yet, I had to guess there was a verbal beatdown coming my way. “Stealing the identity of a praised hero previously thought to be dead… can’t say I’ve heard that one before. But ponies like you… I’ve encountered all my life.

“Luckily, barely anyone knows enough about the Stable Dweller to realize that she comes from Stable 2, not Stable 13. You probably didn’t even know that yourself. Gladstone was very selective with DJ Pon3’s broadcasts before she cut them off for good.” General Gladstone, Bittersweet’s boss, had intended to keep the Stable Dweller dead. It seemed that I messed with Red Eye’s slavers just by coming here.

“Whatever good you’ve done so far doesn’t change the fact that you’re a filthy liar.” She sure took her sweet time rolling over those last two words. I imagined she was smiling, taking enjoyment in abusing an unarmed enemy. “To profit off of others’ trust. To manipulate them into doing your bidding. To have them kill or die if it means advancing your goals.”

I took a deep breath and tried my luck: “Didn’t you say something similar about ponies who draw knives behind backs?”

Bittersweet said nothing. Hopefully she was mulling over the hypocrisy. If not, she was going to speed up the execution.

“You’re a smart pony, Nova, and you’re right. But that doesn’t put you on the high ground when you’re the bearer of dishonesty.”

So now she was speaking with morality on her side? Virtue really was twisted by the wasteland. “That’s a line of crap coming from a slaver.” What I said from this point on did not matter anyway. If she wanted me dead, no amount of sense would stop her.

“Slaver?” Bittersweet whispered. “I’m no slaver.”

“Now you can cross ‘telling a righteous lie’ off your bucket list,” I said. My heart was counting down to the gunshot. “The only way you could have learned what happened in Old Appleloosa is if you were talking to the survivors or if you were working for Red Eye. His forces control the radio tower and hence all the broadcasts that come down here. Only slavers would know the truth. So admit it!”

She was not saying anything; she was not pulling the trigger. My life could end in the next second, and I could not do anything more.

“I was a slaver,” Bittersweet muttered. “But I retired. Before then, I fought with slavers at the Valley. My hometown is a base for slavers. Some of my friends are slavers. I’m not a slaver.”

The pistol pulled back from my head. My heartbeat returned to normal. I turned to face Bittersweet, but her glare stopped me. “I won’t kill you, because you’re just an inexperienced stable pony way in over her head.” She holstered the pistol and stared out west. Her expression lightened up a little. She sighed. “You make stupid mistakes, but I can forgive you for making the mistake of—”

When Bittersweet turned to face me again, my shotgun’s barrel greeted her. “—lying to me.”

You did not survive in the wasteland by trusting someone who both admitted to being a slaver once and pulled a gun to your head. It was her fault alone for looking away after taking pity on me. Now I had my sights trained right on her muzzle. How was that for irony?

“I am an inexperienced stable pony in over my head!” I said to her. “And if you make any sudden movements or light up your horn, I’ll panic and fire!”

“That you will,” Bittersweet acknowledged. Her expression was more upset than furious, seeing as it was barely strained. “I suppose this situation is more favorable to negotiations with you.”

“You’ve gone ahead and outed me as a liar. Now it’s your turn to talk.” I shook my shotgun for emphasis. “What association do you have with the slavers?”

“I fight for the Baltimare Republic now,” she answered. “You already met my commanding officer, Major Buccal Lift.”

“You could also be a spy.”

Bittersweet performed a horribly faked gasp with her tongue out. “That profession’s suited to the dishonest and wicked. I can’t stomach the work.”

I did pull the pump already. At least I thought so. My gun should be loaded and ready. “You didn’t answer the question,” I stated.

“Need I repeat myself? I left the slavers after my tour in the Valley was finished.”

“You could be telling me only a partial truth. Then you’ll shoot me in the back when the opportunity arises.”

Bittersweet covered her face with a foreleg and shook her head. “I could’ve shot you a minute ago with my pistol to your head.”

…She did have a point.

“You wouldn’t be able to shoot me anyway. Not with that stance.” Bittersweet pulled the foreleg away and pointed at my shotgun. “You’re holding it the wrong way.”

“I know how to use a shotgun,” I grumbled. I checked just to be sure though. Admittedly, the way I held it now was sort of uncomfortable. The weapon was so long that just aiming the thing involved some unnatural twists and the placement of my hooves where—at that moment, a blue aura emanated from the shotgun.

The shotgun was gone from my grip. I was blinking at air, yet my mind refused to accept what just happened. It was snapped back to reality at the sight of my shotgun floating by Bittersweet. I fell back on my haunches.

Bittersweet smiled. “Now I can believe you when you say you’re an inexperienced Stable pony.” She placed the shotgun down before my hooves. “I can’t believe that actually worked.”

To say I was flustered would be an understatement. Maybe I was a little red in the face, but I had an unshakable command over my outward appearance. Besides, this slip–up of mine had happened as intended! Bittersweet still suspected I was someone from a stable, which meant she would protect me out of pity, if nothing else. That was the best outcome of this encounter I could hope for.

Bittersweet opened the doors with her magic. “Let’s get a move on, Stable Dweller. Those bombs won’t wait for us to get to safety.” I followed her out after scooping up my weapon. The doors swung shut after us.

We heard March Mint’s ragged breathing before we climbed the next flight. The trapper was jumping the stairs three at a time to reach us with his eyes popping out of their sockets.

“Morah commeth… Fawnda trahs we… desrammed.” March was speaking in hieroglyphics in his exhaustion.

Bittersweet held up a hoof. “We can’t understand you. Catch your breath.”

I offered him some water from my canteen and soon regretted my generosity. March drank the whole canteen dry.

“Your free service is appreciated,” he rasped. After clearing his throat, he told us the bad news, “I was on my way out after the job was done, just as you permitted me to, when I spotted some employees from Skullcavers and Grillers Incorporated checking on those traps I disarmed. They’ve left, but it’s likely the whole company will be back to sweep the building for us.”

“Skullcavers and Grillers Incorporated?” I repeated.

“Cannibals in suits,” Bittersweet frowned. “We’ve got to hurry up and plant the final charges. March, disarm as many booby–trapped doors as you can and run to the 39th if they get near.” March raced off down the stairs. “Stable pony, you’re with me.”

I fumbled with the canteen, nearly dropping it down a flight. “What? Are you sure you don’t want me up on the 39th too?”

Bittersweet was already heading up to the 25th floor. “I need someone to watch my back while I set the charges.”

I followed close behind, trying and failing to match pace. “I’d really recommend Creed. Creed’s whole reputation is built on killing raiders.”

“Exactly why I need him elsewhere.”

Speaking of the devil, Creed was standing by the stairwell door for the 25th floor, standing ready with his battlesaddles aimed at us. He diverted his guns as soon as he noticed me. “As I was admiring the view, I couldn’t help but notice the twenty or so raiders running toward the building.” Creed opened the door for us. “I know a pony of your craft shouldn’t be rushed, but we’re short on time.”

Bittersweet ran right for a support pillar near the stairwell door. The entire floor seemed to be a workspace for journalists, judging by the big billboard declaring the “RULES FOR WRITING A MINISTRY–APPROVED ARTICLE.” Those rules stretched across most of the wall. Desks were separated by low dividers; sections were divided by tight walkways. A fissure split one half of the office from the other.

Once her saddlebags were set on the floor, Bittersweet immediately piled up all her explosives—enough cannisters and grenades to dig into the Earth and strike oil. “Take these,” she ordered Creed. “We need to keep Megacorps’ attention away from the media center.”

The pegasus picked up one of the cannisters and held it to my Pipbuck light. “That’s a lot of bombs, Bittersweet. Do you give me full discretion with these things?”

Bittersweet looked at Creed momentarily. Then her attention fell to the charges she was setting on the pillar. “Yeah, whatever. Go wild. Just don’t burn down the building before we can leave.”

Creed saluted with an electrified grin on his face. “I’ll find you on the outside.” He took off for the windows and dove out into open air. Bittersweet and I only needed to wait ten seconds to hear screams and detonations on ground level.

Now that I had a good look at some of these rules, I was beginning to notice a correlation between the ministry’s standards and the newspaper’s headlines…

1. Do not discuss confidential information of the government or military.
2. Give no names to members of non-equine species.
3. Do not publish opinions that aim to disrupt the war effort.
4. Any article on the Battle of Lecharo must not mention the Volunteer Stripes Regiment, Cows from Hell Brigade, or Mules’ Armored Corps.
5. Any article on the Battle of Lecharo must mention the heroic actions of the 8th Air Engineer Corps and the 1st Armored Division.
6. Any articles written about zebras must include at least three adjectives that are synonymous with “treacherous.”

“Stop looking at the wall, Stable pony!” Bittersweet shouted. “They’re coming up the stairs.”

“My name is Nova, by the way.” I shut off the Pipbuck light and leveled the shotgun at the door.

Bittersweet picked up her saddlebags and headed for another pillar. There were twenty cannibal raiders already inside the building, and I had to be the one to hold them off. I could hear them in the stairwell, shouting to each other about open doors and a corporate spy in a white suit—March Mint without a doubt. In a few seconds, someone was going to bust through that door.

The muffled voices were growing louder, and their steps were like a rolling thunderstorm crashing over my head. I crouched behind a divider, using the slim surface to steady the shotgun. My hooves had trouble keeping the sights on the door.

There were at least two of them on the floor right now. Their steps stopped outside that door. It was as simple as pulling the trigger and pulling the pump. No other thoughts, Comet.

The door slammed open. The weapon kicked back with a concussion that stabbed at my eardrums. All the bullets wound up hitting the door frame, missing the first raider in. The striped suit corporate did a double take in the threshold, holding a golf club between his teeth.

Pull the pump. Pull the trigger.

The follow–up shot still sent my ears into a world of hurt. At least it sent the raider out of the world of the living. The body dropped at the door. His friend floated up a machine gun, firing the entire clip in a wide cone. The gun–toting raider then hid behind the wall.

I pulled the pump and fired again. It struck the door frame. So I pulled again. And again. My bullets struck the wall right where the raider was hiding. The body slumped on top of the first raider.

“25th floor! I want you guys up there now!” someone in the stairwell shouted. The rest of the company was on its way.

“Bittersweet? Bittersweet, are you finished?” I asked. My shotgun was loaded again, aimed right at the door.

“Last charge. Keep them back.”

Gunfire buzzed right over my head. I brought my head down until my eyes were right above the divider. Another raider with a machine gun had emptied the whole clip into my general direction.

Pull the pump—how many were there coming up again? Forty? Seventy? Forget it. Forgot it.—and pull the trigger. The buckshot made a mess when it struck the skull. But that was another raider on the pile of dead.

There were enough corpses blocking the door that the other raiders were unable to see outside. I could see their manes sticking out. Somebody resorted bucking at the bodies, nudging them forward by millimeters.

Pull the pump. Pull the trigger. My gun clicked. When I repeated the cycle, I received the same result. Shells. I needed shells to load the shotgun! Revolvers could fire six times, yet shotguns had only five shots? Why did no one tell me about this fact?

I jabbed the shell at the bottom of the shotgun, in which shells were supposed to be loaded. Eventually, I managed to stuff it inside. That was when I noticed the grenade bouncing close to the body pile.

“Bittersweet—” The grenade turned into a high pressure fist of shrapnel, punching back everything within the vicinity. My divider fell on top of me in the shape of ribbons. Burnt paper was snowing from the ceiling. I was lying on my back with a painful ringing in my ears.

That was probably why I could not hear the screaming. That is, the screaming raider hovering a scythe in her magic and making a beeline for me!

Pull the trigger. No, pull the pump! Pull the trigger. Pull the trigger. Pull the trigger.

The scythe came swinging at me. But it only struck the shotgun, veering it to the side and letting my shot embed itself in the raider’s shoulder.

That stroke of luck gave me seconds. With my shotgun emptied, I had just one weapon left to defend myself. My teeth went around the handle, my head shot forth, and my shovel came unsheathed from the saddlebags. I was fully aware what my weapon’s reach was, and I knew I was not going to miss. The blade swung from underneath the chin, cracking the raider’s head back in an uppercut.

I was back on my hooves before the body bowed forward and fell face–first on the floor. The other bodies had been blown away by the explosion, leaving the doorway wide open. A dazed raider ran through the threshold with a pistol. He was too far out of reach.

Right as he spotted me, two holes ripped out of his suit. “Let’s go, Nova!” Bittersweet told me. The raider crumpled at her hooves. Both of her pistols were out, watching the door—whatever was left of it anyway.

I grabbed my shotgun and stored it in my saddlebags. My shovel was holstered. We had to get to the 39th floor now.

Bittersweet stayed behind for a while to pile the bodies on the stairs, forming a low barrier to slow the other raiders on their way up. Even though she had to shove fully grown ponies with her magic, the old soldier had no trouble catching up to me on the 29th floor.

There were ten more flights to climb. Full sprint. And cannibal raiders were chasing us. Knowing my life depended on my endurance did not make me run any faster! There was sweat stinging my eyes before we even made it to the 30th floor. My lungs were begging for reprieve by the 33rd. Do not even get me started on how my legs were feeling by the 34th.

“Hurry up! Go!” Bittersweet called out to me. She should try lifting this foreleg—it weighed well over fifty kilograms.

I forced myself up six more steps at her urging. That should be enough, right?

“No. You can’t stop now!” Bittersweet fired her pistols over the railing. “You want to get cut up and fried? You want to know how these raiders treat ‘seized assets?’”

I already felt like someone had run me through with spears. Just lifting my legs… it just hurt so much. I could not keep going.

Bittersweet glared at her pistols and holstered them. All of a sudden, I was wrapped in her magic and dragged up the stairs. Her face contorted in the effort, her horn glowing brighter than ever before. We were on the 38th floor.

Halfway up the next flight, I stopped moving. Bittersweet gasped and released the telekinesis spell. “You’ve got to. I can’t carry you anymore.”

The raiders were so close. So many hooves. The sound of an approaching army. I lifted my legs even with my muscles burning. Although my lungs signaled otherwise, there was still air circulating through them. I was carrying my body up each stair by my will alone. It would be better if I died in the effort.

Bittersweet bucked the stairwell door open to the 39th floor. “March! Get the glider ready!” she croaked, stumbling into the room.

I was close behind, having just as much trouble walking as Bittersweet. The desks had been cleared to the sides, leaving a stretch of open floor from the door to the broken window. The black glider was right in front of us.

“You… You must be… kidding.” I trudged toward our contingency exit with some help from March Mint. Bittersweet was already by the glider, readying it for flight.

“We’ve got a bit of a problem,” March uttered. “There’s black smoke everywhere. I can’t see much anything outside this window.”

He was not exaggerating. They were spiraling plumes that had ascended all the way from ground level. If I craned my neck out, I could see the source—the streets were engulfed by the smoke and puddles of molten gold. Everything down there had been set on fire.

Bittersweet chuckled and slapped her forehead. “Aren’t I a daisy? I gave Creed every last thing I had. And it was all incendiaries.”

I stumbled over to her. “I think… he used them to their full potential.”

“Close the door will you, March?” Bittersweet looked out into the smoke. She pointed at something directly across from us, but what that could have been was beyond me. “We have to fly this thing to the Hawkthorn Stock Exchange.”

I could see a slice of the city through a slit in the smoke. “You sure we can make it?”

“Don’t delude yourself. We’re not making it to my original landing point on the roof. We’ll have to hope that our glider flies through one of the lower floors.”

“Can this thing even support all of us?”

Bittersweet shrugged. “I haven’t tested for that, so I don’t know how the weight proportion would work. But it’s either the exchange or the street.”

March Mint walked over. “Comet should take center. She outweighs us all—”

“What?”

He paused, swallowed, and continued, “—because of her loaded saddlebags. Her bags give her the most weight of us three. If she takes center, then we should be able to retain course for the exchange.”

Bittersweet stared at him, then stared at me. “What he said.”

My head was pounding. The fact that Bittersweet was shouting five commands at me every second was not helping. Once I was drilled in how to run and hold a glider, the two of them set about squeezing me in between.

March looked out into the smoke, breathing a little heavier. “It’s a far distance that we might not make with our combined weight. Visibility is reduced considerably by smoke. Manufacturer of the glider is unknown. In conclusion, there’s a low chance of profit. I don’t like this venture at all.”

“That about sums it up,” I muttered.

“On my mark,” Bittersweet began.

That was when a knock came at the door. “It’s time for reimbursement!” a raider shouted on the other side. The door was blown into splinters right afterward.

“Run, jump, fly!” Bittersweet shouted.

We moved our hindlegs as fast as we could—the other two mostly—kicking our glider toward smog–filled air. There was ground underneath my hooves.

Now the ground was many stories beneath me. I did not see much of the world from a bird’s eye view, since we were within the clouds a moment later. Our flight suffered all sorts of turbulence and of course blindness. For all I knew, I could have been flying through space—no sense of direction, no way to judge depth perception.

Then we were cast back into open air with the whole city stretched before us. And we were falling very quickly.

“The grey building that looks like a jukebox!” Bittersweet shouted. There were thousands of structures in our immediate path. How did she expect us to find—oh, it did look like a jukebox.

We were closing in fast, but the pavement was approaching at the same speed. You could see a building the size of a bottlecap at one moment, and you could see the building for its true size within an instant of that first realization. That was how we struck the stock exchange.

We had flown well below the roof to a hollow floor with the entire exterior wall missing. Our glider slammed into the ceiling and dropped its velocity to zero on impact. We the passengers were still moving at the same speed, however. I went head over heels onto the floor, rolling right into a cardboard box. Not a soft landing, I assure you.

I stared at the floor and my sprawled legs. I knew I was alive, but my body seemed paralyzed as if the fact had not occurred yet. After just a minute of flight, we were back on solid footing. That minute felt like a lucid dream.

“Oh my god,” March whispered. He crawled out of a cubicle. “We survived.”

“Yeah, uh, I’m still alive,” Bittersweet said, sitting up a few meters away. “How about you, Nova?” I waved my hoof. “That’s good. That’s good. Now then—”

A series of explosions resounded from the south. As we looked out, Hoity Toity Media Center was engulfed in several fireballs across its lower floors—the charges had detonated. The skyscraper was several blocks away, yet the shockwaves made me consider how safe we really were here.

A defeaning roar came from the collapsing building, and it had nothing to do with explosions. Steel beams were bending and breaking under the weight. The media center began to lean toward Oasis Tower, filling the immediate area with a flood of dust in the process. The skyscraper crashed into its neighbor like a domino, but the effect was more like an implosion than a chain reaction. Oasis Tower’s top portion bent inward and fell upon itself as the media center disintegrated.

The dust cloud was a tsunami, emerging from the disintegrating foundations and pouring over several city blocks. The cloud eventually reached even us, blotting out the city and the collapse of Oasis Tower.

Comet Scotia

Current reputation
Southern Wasteland: Liked
Red Eye’s Slavers: Hated
Gawd’s Talons: Hunted
Megacorps: Vilified

Perks
Putting on the Mask – You have taken up the identity of “The Stable Dweller.” The Southern Wasteland remains unfazed. Others are more likely to hand you errands… I mean quests.
The Old Soldier – Bittersweet is more familiar with the wasteland’s conflict and its factions than anyone else. With her as your companion, interactions with the various factions are facilitated, even if they hate you.
Token Evil Teammate – March Mint has expertise in business interactions. With him as your companion, your bartering options are considerably improved. After all, merchants are reluctant to say no to a corporate raider.

Chapter Nine: Shadows Cast Without a Streak of Fear

I could not see more than five steps ahead of me. The dust hovered in place over the streets we walked, concealing in white fog everything but the ground at our hooves. It clung to our manes and our coats; it entered our eyes and our lungs. We were drowning in the fallout of our recent demolition.

Bittersweet and March Mint used my Pipbuck map now and then to orient ourselves. We had a path going north that would take us out of the city. Although we had an idea of where we needed to go, we had no idea what was right in front of us. The fact that the Megacorps raiders in the area were just as blind was our only advantage.

In the moments after Oasis Tower collapsed, the raiders had been sprinting toward the ruins. Since everyone was looking in the direction of the destruction, we had little trouble sneaking out of the Hawkthorn Stock Exchange. After passing half a dozen blocks at a hesitant pace, we made it to the affluent neighborhoods of Uptown Hawkthorn. These streets were silent.

The closer we approached to the outskirts of the city, the more sale signs we saw stuck into the lawns. I could not be bothered to guess who would want to live in these homes, but admittedly, some of these houses did look pretty even after the bombs fell. That was probably why the insurance and real estate companies of Megacorps clustered around here.

March spoke up, “We’re coming up on Big Short’s place. A friend of mine in insurance. If you’ll give me a minute with him, I can guarantee a safe passage for us the rest of the way.”

Bittersweet looked at the trapper, her eyes straining to stay half open. Her voice was lacking its usual command over words: “I don’t think we should be stopping or letting anyone else know we’re here. We just need to push through a few more blocks to get to open wasteland.”

“No, that’s a bad idea—” March stopped in his tracks. “—and it’ll get us killed.”

“I’ve scouted this area out for weeks. I know a safe route.”

He shook his head. A little halo of dust fluttered down from his mane. “You’ve had weeks. The guys in real estate have been here for years. They’ll know just where to ambush us.”

The trapper had a point. This neighborhood was far less claustrophobic than the inner city, yet there were still vantage points surrounding us—in the cellars, windows, bushes, luxury carriages. This district was a sandbox, where raiders could exercise their homicidal creativity. Not to mention, the fog was going to clear up as we approached the outskirts, meaning that we were going to be walking the final stretch without any cover.

Fortunately, great minds thought alike, and Bittersweet acquiesced to reason. “How close is this friend of yours?”

March trotted to the closest intersection and turned left. Following his lead, we wound up on a narrow cobblestone road that appeared at odds with the modern architecture of northern Hawkthorn. A high brick wall on our right; modest brick houses on the left; tall grass at our hooves. I could see why there were no sale signs in this narrow alley.

This ‘Big Short’ lived in building 207. On the front doormat, March Mint raised a hoof to knock but paused. His head snapped to me, and his mouth started tripping over words. “Stable—uh, Nova, can you remove your, um… jumpsuit? I don’t think Big Short will take kindly to playing host in his residence to the Stable Dweller.”

Bittersweet sniggered as she looked at me.

Understandably, I would have to go into disguise again… by wearing no disguise at all.

“Sure.”

I took off the suit and set myself to folding it. That was when Bittersweet started levitating it and smacking my torso and flank with the whitened clothing. “H–hey! What are you doing?” My pink coat was disappearing under the dust.

Bittersweet shoved the jumpsuit into my saddlebags. She waved a hoof to keep away the stray wisps from her muzzle. “Ain’t dusty enough. Get that Pipbuck off too.”

Once I had my precious high–tech wristband away, March knocked on the door. On the fourth knock, Big Short pulled it open and popped his head out. The unicorn was chalk white himself without the need of a coating of dust. His suit complemented his hair in color with the exception of the pink notched collar. As he wheeled his head around to take us in, I realized that the color of his hair was the least of his worries—his mane had been decimated to the point that there were just six isolated patches of hair remaining. Without a word on either Bittersweet or me, Big Short invited us inside.

His house had once been a catalogue image of a suburban household. Now, all the furniture, paintings, and marble surfaces were covered by piles of papers and scattergram posters. As we entered the living room, Big Short floated a Sparkle–Cola he had just finished to the top of a bottle pyramid. The placement was just a little too shaky, resulting in the clamorous collapse of the three meters high structure. Now there were empty bottles among the papers too. All in all, this place was really tidy by wasteland standards.

Big Short sat down at his desk and worked at a typewriter. “Be a colleague, March, and get me a Sparkle–Cola from the icebox.” March started walking away, but the insurance unicorn yanked his tail back with magic. “Aren’t you going to introduce these strangers in my residence?”

March smiled and set to both tasks. “The unicorn’s Bittersweet. The earth pony’s Nova. They’re friends of mine who need to get out of Hawkthorn.”

Slamming the enter key on the typewriter, Big Short spun around to look at us. His hoof scratched at his frayed stubble. “You guys didn’t happen to have anything to do with that calamity downtown, did you?”

“Of course not,” Bittersweet said a breath too soon. Her lie came suspiciously quickly on the heels of the denial. “We were just looking around the area, and we got a little too close… looking for houses.”

I had to call upon all of my inner discipline to stop myself from smacking my forehead. Did she just say whatever came to mind without thinking it over? For crying out loud, we were just in the downtown area by skyscrapers and donut shops. What house could we possibly be looking for there?

Big Short could see that much too, and he looked as though he had not slept in a week. “Eeyup. Likely story.” He floated the Sparkle–Cola out of March’s grip as the trapper came back. Taking a long sip from the bottle, he whispered, “March, what the hell have you gotten yourself into? And thanks for the Cola.”

“These two were at the wrong place at the wrong time. They just wanted to use the Devil’s Den passage, and the Raunchy Cavalry bankrupted us.” March slumped into a spare chair across from Big Short. His head drooped for a few seconds then bounced back up to give the insurance raider a level stare. “They killed Grapeshot. They killed my company. We were the only survivors.”

Big Short frowned. The Sparkle–Cola was gently lowered to his desk. He nodded for March to continue. “I just want to make sure my customers are safe. Reputation is all Money Shot’s got left.” March leaned forward and supplicated his friend in silence.

Big Short sighed. “That’s your mission statement? I hope you realize I’m not exactly on good terms with the real estate guys at the moment. We’re clearly on the verge of a crisis, what with the falling house prices around here, yet those stubborn con ponies continue to ignore my data.”

Bittersweet spoke up a beat after Big Short: “We’d pay well for passage. An unrecorded transaction between us wouldn’t attract attention at this moment.”

“You don’t know anything about real estate,” the insurance raider remarked, shaking his head at her. “I wouldn’t accept a thousand caps to try and pass you outsiders through those guys.”

“Come on, Big Short. Please. We need somebody to speak on our behalf, or else we’re not getting out alive,” March said, suddenly standing up. He approached Big Short’s desk and threw down his hooves on the tabletop. He made Big Short jump a little in his chair. I was just as surprised myself. “Besides, you owe me for Fort Mckay. A saved life for a saved life. It’s a fair deal.”

The insurance raider averted his gaze, still scratching at his stubble. He was making minute shakes with his head, yet his mouth remained shut. His eyes kept flicking back to March Mint. After a couple breaths, Big Short finally looked March in the face. “This is a bad idea. This is a really bad idea. Real estate will kill me.”

“No, they won’t,” March whispered. “You’re too important to this industry.”

Big Short stood up so quickly that his chair flipped over, and he kicked up a shower of papers. He bared his teeth and shouted, “I don’t matter at all! Can’t you see it’s all over?” He filled his chest with air and sat on the floor. After a few deep breaths, he continued, “Megacorps has been on the downturn for years. Now that Oasis Tower and the media center are destroyed, the value of real estate here is going to plummet. That skyline was worth a million caps. The industry’s going to collapse, and then they won’t need me anymore.”

March went wide–eyed and stared away for a moment. What Big Short was saying must be catastrophically awful in corporate lingo. Bittersweet for her part seemed hardly fazed by the news, so it must not be anything serious for me then.

“You mean—” March gasped. “—we’re about to enter a recession?”

Big Short levitated his manuscript out of the typewriter and into March’s hooves. “See that? That’s my letter of resignation,” he sighed. The insurance pony stood up and used his magic to prop the chair back up. But when he moved back into position to work at the typewriter, his hooves remained hanging limply at his sides. Big Short stared blankly at the new page as a convicted bandit might at their prematurely dug grave.

As it became clear that March was totally invested in reading the letter, Bittersweet stepped forward to give her patent pep talk. That was when I decided to cut her off and speak for us instead. She could not sell a lie or a pitch without tipping off everyone to the fact that we were responsible for dooming Megacorps. How Bittersweet managed to employ Money Shot was beyond me… It took a professional businesspony to turn around another businesspony.

“That’s it, then?” I asked Big Short. Bittersweet had a scowl you could feel pressing against the back of your head. “You’re going to resign and give up on the only life you’ve known?”

The insurance pony blinked and looked up, brows furrowed at my question. “That’s what a letter of resignation entails, yes.”

I walked over to March Mint and snatched the letter out of his hooves. Holding his own words to his face, I said to Big Short, “Then you’ve already left the industry. We both know your mind’s set on it. And a good move too, given that Megacorps will exist only in name after a few weeks.” I laid the manuscript next to his typewriter, never breaking eye contact with Big Short even as his eyes flicked to the letter.

“Nobody in real estate cares for what you have, and once they’re gone, there’ll be nothing here for you and your skills. So nothing you do from this point on really matters, does it?” I smiled. “But paying back a debt to a friend? That’s not a matter of business; that’s a gesture of goodwill.”

Big Short brought a foreleg under his chin, his lips squeezed together. He slouched slightly forward in his seat as he thought. It was important to let the stallion have time to absorb and recognize how sensible my words were. If I still knew my craft as I had back in the Equestrian Wasteland proper, he was already won over.

At first, he might try to desperately hang on to his previous rationalization: “I can’t. I’ll get killed.”

So my response would be something to crush that clinging doubt: “Your life was already over the moment Oasis Tower came down.” Then I would nod at the letter and check his doubts with a reminder of how bleak his future was. “Do this one favor for your friend. It’s all you have left.”

Big Short was leaning over his letter. He looked up at me, his mouth agape. After a spell in his own thoughts, the insurance pony finally asked, “Just who are you, Nova?”

Smiling down at him, I gave an answer that was not entirely a lie: “I’m the voice inside your head, telling you what you already know.”

He looked down, absorbing the essence of what I said.

“Doesn’t really answer the question,” Big Short commented. And he looked up, eyes expecting more, missing the point of what I just said.

“Will you get us out of this city by sunset or not?” Bittersweet interjected from the far side of the room. The question was all the more surprising, because she had not pulled out a gun to get what she wanted.

A firm scowl from the old soldier was enough for Big Short. “Okay. I’ll do it,” he said. His hooves pressed against and massaged both of his temples, as though they were feeling around for what bits of mane he had left. He closed his eyes and muttered, “Just give me a few minutes to think of a cover story.”

March Mint brushed past me and sat on the floor next to Big Short. “Just take your time. You don’t have to rush toward any more deadlines.”

A hoof grabbed my shoulder and spun me away from Big Short’s desk. The room blurred and refocused just as the face of Bittersweet came into the center of my vision. Having to look her in the eyes never failed to make me a little distressed.

“Give me some of your pistol ammo. I’m all out of bullets,” Bittersweet ordered. Giving the best shooter in the group my ammunition was the most sensible option. Could I really be expected by now to defend us with a gun? I handed her three of my Stable pistol’s magazines, but one look at the bullets inside made her give them back. “It’s not the right caliber. Give me your pistol.”

Giving the professional soldier my pistol was of course the most—That was assuming, of course with absolute optimism, I had not dropped it at the donut shop. My hoof dug to the bottom of my saddlebags without hitting anything remotely shaped like a pistol. An idiot I am.

I could only mutter that “I… don’t have one.”

Bittersweet’s eyebrows arched up and furrowed down, as though they were compromising between an incredulous look and a glare. She asked after a moment, “Do you have any other guns that have ammo?”

“I’ve got this revolver and—”

“And how many bullets?” Bittersweet levitated the gun as I offered it to her.

“Uh, less than six?”

She pointed the barrel at the floor, opened the chamber, and instantly turned her muzzle away from me. Her face was calm and unreadable. But what she said next… I never heard so much disappointment packed into a single word: “Two.”

I quickly reached for my only other firearm. “And this shotgun. Two dozen bullets!”

“They’re called shells,” Bittersweet flatly corrected me. Her magic took the shotgun from me.

“Come on. Give me a break. I’m tired,” I stated truthfully. The fact that I was still standing on my four legs was something worth commending myself for. I could still stand after climbing over thirty flights of stairs! That was worth even an accolade!

Bittersweet pulled the pump. “Give me the shells.”

In total, we had a hunting shotgun, a revolver with two bullets, a crossbow, and a shovel for weaponry to defend ourselves with against all the raiders in Uptown Hawkthorn. Odds like these made me wish Creed was still with us—Hopefully, he had not killed himself in that firestorm he created. But for now, I just had to believe in luck to get us out of here.

As it turned out, Big Short knew how to spin a deceitful tale despite being a raider whose job was to present the facts.

“Don’t think of it as deceit,” Big Short corrected me as we exited his house. “Think of it as looking at the facts in a different way for a more favorable narrative.”

“A lie’s a lie, no matter how you spin it,” Bittersweet remarked. You could feel the spite radiating off her words. The fact that Big Short specifically told her not to say a thing if we were stopped probably had something to do with that. Honestly speaking, she really was just that awful a liar.

March Mint and Big Short took the lead; Bittersweet and I followed them and watched our backs. They knew a broken road clogged with carriages we could use for cover—that was our way out of this city. But it meant we were going outside the cover of the dust cloud.

The end of the day was encroaching on this shattered affluent neighborhood: Shadows were growing longer, windows and holes were becoming opaque, our field of vision—what we could perceive from the inanimate—was receding. And without a Pipbuck on my leg, there was no telling where the raiders were hiding and how numerous they were. They were most certainly here already, but we would need to take a few more steps closer before they had us in range.

Bittersweet and I, going by the moniker, Picture Perfect, had been in Hawkthorn today to find a suitable neighborhood to open shop in. Our business is ‘urban beautification.’ As outsiders to Megacorps, we required the assistance of a mercenary company—March Mint representing said company—and a well–informed real estate expert. Technically, Big Short was in insurance, but we had to ignore that detail if we were going to sell the story.

Once we were in the downtown area, Oasis Tower and the Hoity Toity Media Center suddenly collapsed, and we were caught in the fallout. After that sudden ‘industrial accident,’ we unanimously made the choice to leave the city as the leadership vacuum made investments in the area ‘too risky.’

Those were the exact terms Big Short used. When we do get confronted, he informed us, we should treat the inevitable interrogation like an interview.

An equine silhouette stepped out from one of the houses a few dozen meters ahead of us. We continued on, making smaller and smaller steps as more such figures emerged from vantage points on the street. They walked forth and boxed us in, their attire the first thing I could distinguish in the twilight—white suits with pink notched collars, the same style that Big Short wore. The second were the rifles and pistols they wielded.

Just like an interview, excepting the condition that an unsatisfactory answer or performance would mean execution on the spot.

One mare of a king blue coat and pale lilac mane sauntered out toward March and Big Short, meeting us face to face. She had a submachine gun strapped across her chest. The other raiders had their weapons pointed at us already; that made her the leader… the manager or whatever they call them.

She smirked and spoke a name, “Big Short.” For some reason, those two syllables had to be marked and drawn out. “Going somewhere are we—”

Something to my left strobed the street, and the long quiet was swiftly violated by the screech of automatic gunfire. Both my legs and my heart leapt at the nearby impact of the bullets. The goon with the machine gun ceased fire only to receive equivalent return fire from the manager’s muzzle.

“Hold your fire, Bungalow! Forsaken intern,” she shouted the trigger–happy raider back into the shadows. “I could’ve picked up some unemployed vagrant off Agnes Route and put them in a suit, yet they’d still do a better job than you! This is going on your damn performance report.”

Her foreleg pounded the asphalt. The way her face twisted afterwards spoke of regret. The pain, at least, seemed to distract her from her anger; the manager was right back to being chipper after a couple of breaths. “Going somewhere are we, Big Short?”

The insurance pony smiled at her despite the previous outburst. “Good evening, Foreclosure. Might I say you’re looking lovely tonight.”

“Yeah, yeah. Enough of the tertiary sector pleasantries. I want to know where you’re going and what you’re doing.”

“I was just about to see my clients out of this city after giving them a tour around.”

Foreclosure had a grin larger than Big Short’s. It fitted naturally with her unblinking eyes. She asked, “Would these two outsiders be part of the same group that came in from the eastern district, getting into a shootout with the Raunchy Cavalry over at Devil’s Den?”

Big Short chuckled, giving away barely a twitch at the suspicion. “I’ve been with these entrepreneurs since morning in the downtown area.”

Foreclosure’s eyebrows went up at the word ‘entrepreneurs.’ Her smile grew even larger with a set of crooked teeth now showing. “What’s your business pitch?”

“Ah, well they’re—”

Foreclosure shook her head and pulled up her gun. “I know you know, Big Short. I wanted to hear it from these aspiring entrepreneurs themselves.”

I caught Bittersweet’s look out of the corner of my eyes. It telegraphed clearly what was on her mind: “This is all up to you. Don’t screw it up.”

Big Short had told us we needed to prepare a pitch as part of our cover story, even though the idea seemed ridiculous at the moment. Really, he was only meaning me, since Bittersweet was sure not going to be selling this pitch.

I divided my attention between the expectant submachine gun barrel and the eager manager carrying it. There was nothing to fear. Come on… I was Comet Scotia! I did pitches like these all the time, selling junk like grandfather clocks and memory orbs as though they were as essential as power armor.

This is what I was born to do.

I cleared my throat. Thus, I began: “Well I’m Picture Perfect, and this is my partner, Dour Daisy, and we’re the CEO’s of Hawkthorn in Bloom. Our company specializes in urban beautification. According to our research, only 44 percent of Hawkthorn’s raiders find the city’s aesthetics acceptable. So let’s try to make it cozy and inviting for the other 56 percent. We base our beautification standards on surveyed preferences and trends shown among Megacorps’ many companies.”

Big Short produced a poster–sized pie chart he had crafted with markers, construction paper, and tape before we left. I walked over to the chart as he held it, pointing at fabricated statistics.

“We’ve found that downtown employees are more productive when they’re surrounded by the color green, so we propose to use seeds from our home town of Davos to create roads of trees. And if you’re wondering where we’ll get water to nurture those trees in a drought, I can assure you that we’ve already looked into a partnership with various public facilities companies to utilize existing infrastructure in Hawkthorn to bring water from Lake Paramount to the downtown area.

“We predict that as a result of our beautification project, productivity for Megacorps as a whole will increase by 23 percent. If you want to rejuvenate Hawkthorn in appearance and spirit, it’s only sensible to work with and grow with Hawkthorn in Bloom.”

After I finished, Foreclosure spent a spell simply looking at me. I did my best not to break eye contact, not to sweat, and not to notice the gun. Then she clopped on the ground in applause. On her cue, the rest of the real estate raiders joined in.

“Bravo!” she said to me. “That was an excellent pitch, Miss Picture Perfect. I’ve no doubt that the executive board themselves would’ve made you a certified CEO in Megacorps… if they were still alive.

“Urban beautification is a wonderful business venture. No competition. Easy to make a monopoly in.” Foreclosure swung the gun muzzle from me to Bittersweet and back. “You and Daisy here are entrepreneurs from Davos, hmm?”

When we nodded, she brought the gun on March Mint. “And him. What’s he got to do with this?” March stepped back a little, stopping once he heard the raiders behind us readying their weapons.

“We needed protection from the less… reputable… companies around here,” I said, showing off the bandaged wound on my hindleg. On that note, I was going to need to replace that bandage and wash the wound again after this escapade. “I speak from experience. March Mint represents a very reputable mercenary company—”

“And you were their guide.” Foreclosure settled the gun’s sights on Big Short. She looked as though she were on the verge of laughing. “Now, I’m just a little confused on one part of this legitimate business venture. It’s the fact that you say you were giving them a tour of downtown Hawkthorn, and this was right about when Oasis Tower came down, throwing dust on everywhere and everything.”

Sweat was accumulating on my forehead. Even after everything that happened today and all the exertion I had gone through, I was sweating.

“I was hoping you’d clarify this one little inconsistency,” Foreclosure crooned. “Why aren’t you covered in dust like your colleagues here?”

Big Short gulped and responded quickly, “Foreclosure, you’re sharp as alwa—”

Foreclosure slapped the top of her gun to cut him off. “Do try to answer my question and stop the flattery.”

He turned from a simply pale white horse to a sickly white horse. Big Short sputtered, “I… well, see, I was in the bathroom at the time Oasis Tower came down.”

“And did these three next to you carry your bathroom from downtown to here? Just so you wouldn’t get a speck of dust on your suit?”

Big Short had nothing left to say.

Foreclosure frowned. “No more excuses, Big Short. Your words aren’t going to change your performance report at this point. So you’ve better—”

“But Fore—”

“Interrupt me again, and I’ll kick your teeth down your throat!” she yelled out. Even her goons were shaking at the outburst. Foreclosure just adjusted her collar and stretched out her neck. That brought her back down to being chipper. “As you might guess… it’s been a stressful afternoon in the office.”

No matter what she said, we had to keep up the ruse. If we admitted to lying, there was no way we would get out of this encounter alive. Even a skeptic could be sold on an idea. I just had to be careful with my choice of words.

“Miss Foreclosure, if I may?” I stepped forward, putting myself under the manager’s sights.

She raised her eyebrows, but otherwise kept her expression unchanged. “Go right ahead, outsider. Do explain and enlighten me.”

The loyalties of a corporate raider were never to Megacorps itself. Money Shot did not care who was paying for their services. Their only loyalty was to profit. It was all a balance of benefits and risks to them. By that reasoning, I could probably sell this lie if the incentive was high enough.

“It was indeed true that Big Short was in the bathroom at the time of the industrial accident back downtown. He was in there for a very long time,” I said.

“Couldn’t have been that long,” Foreclosure countered. “Maximum time allotted per use of the facilities is ten minutes. And that’s only with a kind company.”

I raised a hoof and crossed my chest with it. “It wasn’t a bathroom claimed by any company.”

Foreclosure hesitated, eyes going wide momentarily.

“…You know where the Fairest Tree is?” I asked, and I received no answer. “Not far south of where Oasis Tower used to be. In there, my colleagues and I discovered a working toilet, one that the other companies in the industry don’t know about.”

“You’re a terrible liar.”

“Don’t believe me? You could keep us here if you wanted… send out a couple guys to find it at the end of the hallway on ground level. South building. But—think about it—if I was lying, why would I give you the location of my biggest bargaining chip? I haven’t even gotten a guarantee yet from you for our passage.”

Foreclosure looked to the side, swishing her tail back and forth. The occasional rattle of a gun was the only voice speaking during the pause.

I took small breaths, keeping as still as I could. Part of growing up in a caravan was learning how to make profitable bargains with those more heavily armed than myself. Selling something at gunpoint to unsavory killers was never ideal, but it was an inevitable scenario for any wasteland merchant. Those types understood lack of composure as a sign that the merchant was more fearful of dying than of getting ripped off.

Her eyes suddenly locked onto mine. Although her gun was pointing elsewhere, I knew her goons still had their crosshairs on me…

…That was wrong. There were no guns pointing at me. Survival was a given. I had nothing to worry about. Nothing to fear.

She whispered, “You two found this thing in the Fairest Tree? South building?”

I nodded.

“Flushes as well as the competition?”

I smiled. “It flushes like something taken right out of the Old World.”

Foreclosure kept a single eyebrow raised as she continued, “And you’re just… willing to depart with that? Is it that important that you get out of the city?”

I let my smile drop a little. “Miss Foreclosure, this industrial accident has put a lot of stress on all of Megacorps and the city. With all that stress comes paranoia.” I gestured to Bittersweet with a hoof. “As outsiders, my partner and I feel now—with this atmosphere—it’s too risky to do an investment. Also consider this find an incentive to join us on our business venture.”

Foreclosure’s teeth clenched together. Her eyes narrowed. Something had been said wrong. She was not buying it!

I added loudly, “Before you say anything else, if you’re still not convinced, I can give you… 400 reasons… to trust me on my word.”

That made Foreclosure smirk and laugh. “At last, some businesspony who can speak logically like me! And yet—just because of the uncertainty this industrial accident has created... I may need 50 more reasons to erase all doubts.”

Just like that, almost every cap I had gained up to now was lost.

“That’s a deal, Miss Foreclosure.”

She stuck out her right hoof. “Let’s shake on it, Miss Picture Perfect.” We completed the handshake, which proved enough of an assurance for the other real estate raiders to lower their firearms. Foreclosure remarked, “Lovely name, might I say.”

“Thank you.” I kept my mouth open to reciprocate, yet stopped myself at the last second. She did say that she hated flattery.

Foreclosure walked backward, wishing each of us a safe journey and a wonderful evening. Her pink–collared suit and the bag containing my 450 caps were the last things I could recognize her by before she became a silhouette among the other raiders. They disappeared before us in turn, receding into the woodworks of unsold houses.

She had handed me a business card. I stored it in my saddlebags.

We left Hawkthorn without any further stops.

Big Short told us of a repair shop long ago looted that would give us enough cover to change course without any real estate sentries tracking us. The parking lot and shop were packed with dismantled carriages. Bittersweet lit her horn to search the premises before we rested inside.

“I know of an abandoned shack on the way to Celestia’s Folly that we could stop in for the night,” Bittersweet said, leaning on a workbench. “You guys can come with us… I’m sure I can work out something with the major.”

March Mint shook his head. “Not a good venture while Megacorps is laying siege to the place. And I can’t go back to Hawkthorn to find a new company to work for. I’ll have to wait until the recession is over.”

Bittersweet readjusted her glasses and gave March a sympathetic look. “Where will you go?”

He shrugged and looked at the ground. “North.” His gaze lifted to Big Short. “What do you say? Strike for gold at Fort Mckay again?”

“No,” Big Short answered. “Never again.”

March grinned. “Alright then. We’ll start with Davos and improvise from there.” He went up to Bittersweet and me to shake our hooves before we set off. That and give us his business card. “I wish you two all the best luck in future ventures.”

“Take care, March,” Bittersweet smiled.

“If I ever need the help of a trapper, you’ll be the first I seek out,” I told him, tucking away the business card into my saddlebags.

Big Short just settled for waving goodbye to us. As Bittersweet and I headed for a service entrance at the back, I heard him asking March, “Alright, now be honest with me. Who were those ponies?”

From the moment Bittersweet ended the light spell, we were trotting without our sight. We had an outline of a destination—Celestia’s Folly atop its hill was easy to spot against the horizon—but the ground under our hooves was barely even visible. I just had to rely on Bittersweet’s memory of the landscape to reach this abandoned shack.

She must pity me. She must pity my inability to defend myself. That was the best reason I could imagine for why Bittersweet would let me tag along this far. Remembering what she had said about liars, I was still running through my mind all the ways she might dispose of me.

Maybe she might shoot me with my own shotgun once we were in the shack and leave me for dead. It would not be unreasonable either to assume that she might throw me into a prison after we got back to Celestia’s Folly. Or she could be waiting for a chance to torture me and see how long she could keep me suffering before I died.

No, wait, she was not Creed. Bittersweet was probably not that sadistic.

But what could I do to stop Bittersweet from taking out her anger on me? A revolver with two shots and a shovel were not exactly the kind of weapons I wanted to use in a fight against her.

Speaking of an inevitable death, I was just beginning to notice the rows of tombstones flanking us. Bittersweet had taken us into a cemetery. The grass and trees around here had died recently, turning an otherwise serene resting place into the complementary backyard of a haunted castle. All that were missing were a few spider cobwebs and a flock of bats.

It would be a bad idea to search for wares here while Bittersweet was around. That and I needed to sleep before I fainted and fell into an open grave.

The shack Bittersweet had mentioned was at the center of this cemetery. There were no tombstones in this slice of the boneyard. The path from this point on was strewn with life–size steel statues of equine soldiers on patrol. Only a handful of them were still intact after the centuries. They were walking toward a circular garden, which was just dry soil with a fallen flagpole splayed out on the flower beds. A long granite wall stretched next to the statues with the faces of the soldiers etched into it. This mural wall encircled the garden and stopped abruptly where the shack was. Our shelter was within a war memorial.

Judging by the small frame and unassuming plywood facade, the shack was likely a utility shed. Unfortunately someone had put a lock on it—

Bittersweet’s magic opened it without any resistance.

—Or it was just on the door for show. The mechanism must have been broken before we got here. She tossed the lock into the dirt and went inside the shed.

“Close the door behind you,” Bittersweet muttered. After some magical tinkering with a portable generator in the corner, the sole lightbulb in the shed powered up. I closed the door as ordered.

There was just enough floor space for at least one adult pony to lie down and sleep. The reasons why were stacked up to the ceiling—military crates and cardboard boxes full of clothes, bottled water, and other necessities. Instead of windows to the outside, the shed had windows into the past, consisting of newspaper pages and photos, taped on the walls. Bittersweet leaned against a collage of polaroids depicting a bunch of Equestrian army pegasi, drinking through a gallon of water.

“Who was the previous occupant?” I asked her, browsing through the articles.

“You care that much about the history?” she rasped after sipping the last drop. Now that I was reminded about it, this would be a good time to rehydrate myself and refill my canteen.

“Just curious by nature.” The moment I set my eyes on the bottles, Bittersweet levitated one to me. I looked to her before accepting it. For how exhausted and pitiless she appeared, Bittersweet was much kinder to me tonight. “Thank you.”

I took a sip from my trusty bottle of water.

Some articles were from the Hawkthorn Inquirer, spouting the same sensationalist garbage as before. Except the headlines were celebrating war heroes, rather than calling for a witch hunt against non–equine citizens. The vast majority of articles, however, were published by the Baltimare Times… the editors of whom seemed to at least grasp the concept of discretion, even if they were still waxing xenophobic.

All these articles were mentioning the 8th Air Engineer Corps and their involvement with the Battle of Lecharo, which was described as a decisive victory for Equestria in zebra territory. The photographs showed soldiers of said army group: Some had a savanna in the background, while others featured Hawkthorn with its crowning landmark, Oasis Tower. A framed panorama depicted a group shot of the corps officers standing atop a cloud overlooking Baltimare. One of these pegasus soldiers must have survived the balefire bombings and lived out here for a while.

Hopefully the occupant left behind their dog tags or some sort of diary. That sort of documentation and personal trinkets were especially in demand with self–proclaimed historians in Tenpony Tower. Those customers were probably much more numerous in a developed city like Baltimare.

I glanced occasionally at Bittersweet as I searched the crates and boxes for any mementos. Sitting by the wall, she watched my efforts with half–closed eyes and with my shotgun right by her side.

“What does your cutie mark mean?” she asked.

I shook a box by the door, hearing the jingling of metal inside. Hoping it contained dog tags, I opened it up and uncovered a cache of bullets. But since they were all too big to fit into a shotgun or a pistol, I had no use for them.

I dropped the box and faced Bittersweet. “I’m a photographer,” I yawned.

“You’ve got a camera on you?”

“Was a photographer. Out here, I just grab photos for my future album on the history of Equestria.” I pulled out my Stable jumpsuit and Pipbuck. The jumpsuit was cozy, and the Pipbuck was reassuring. Sleeping with these things on was a lot better than going another night naked and defenseless.

I stepped slowly toward Bittersweet. There was not nearly enough floor space to let us lie down far from each other. She shifted a little for my sake, allowing me to sit by her without coming into physical contact. The shotgun levitated to her other side as I settled in, keeping it out of my reach.

If she really wanted me dead, I probably would not have made it this far. Anyway, there had been enough instances today when I was worrying about my life. I just wanted to rest.

But before I did so, I checked the radio. They were sure to be talking about what just happened in Hawkthorn.

“…likely Enclave,” Untold Song announced.

Or not. It was unlike the Grand Pegasus Enclave to steal headlines.

“When Samedan residents later investigated the site, they could find no signs of the Raptor landing or anything suggesting those soldiers had even been there.” Her words were spoken in a matter–of–fact tone as though she was reading out loud the script to the emergency alert system. She was on edge tonight.

“In the event that the Enclave are preparing to destroy another settlement, all republican army units and militias across Mason Road should arm themselves and stand ready. Small arms aren’t likely to even dent their armor, so make certain that—”

Bittersweet slid a pair of earbuds and a holotape to me. She yawned, “Use the earbuds if you’re going to listen to that mare.”

I plugged the earbuds into the Pipbuck, but stopped short of donning them. I picked up the holotape. “What’s this?”

“A holo—”

“I mean what’s on it.”

Bittersweet unrolled a blanket and wrapped it around herself. “Lieutenant Raindrops, 8th Air Engineer Corps…” She paused and added, “Previous occupant of this shed.”

That would have been a useful answer back when I asked the question. But there was no point in getting worked up about it now that I had the holotape. I hoped this one contained her last words or maybe an emotional rant on how world leaders were solely responsible for everything that went wrong. Stuff that stirred up the listeners sold well even at high prices.

I put my earbuds in. Sleep could come after one more tape.

“—made obsolete by the fact that they probably have night vision goggles. So try to be a little more inventive if you’re going to use camouflage…” Untold Song trailed off, leaving the listeners of Good Morning Baltimare with dead air as company in their hour of need.

“Sorry to leave you all in suspense, but something’s come up on the emergency channel. We’ll be back shortly. Here’s the Hands of Time in the meanwhile.”

I meant to turn off the radio by this time, but from the outset, I was really loving this tune. There was something wistful brought forth by this addictive beat, this upbeat humming, and these faint breaths played by the bass. They were keeping me hooked onto the song up until the part where they started playing explosions in the background…

Wait.

I pulled off the earbuds and looked at the door. The explosions were distant and muffled like raindrops on a metal roof, but they were hardly something you could fall asleep to. The noise was more akin to brahmin–sized hail falling to Earth. Even when I was a vast distance away within a shelter, I felt as though one of those high–velocity pieces of hail hung right over my head. My hairs were standing upright in anticipation for the drop.

Bittersweet stared straight ahead for a spell, seeming unfazed and unshaken outside of an occasional tremor in her left ear. She stated, “Definitely heavy artillery and the same kind of guns as the ones Celestia’s Folly has. Raiders have probably launched another night attack.”

I took a couple deep breaths before asking, “Shouldn’t Megacorps be leaderless after what we did in Hawkthorn?”

“It is, and this siege will end soon because of what we did. But that won’t stop these companies from making one more attempt after all they’ve invested.” Bittersweet shrugged. “It’d make tomorrow simpler if the raiders just lost courage and went home. But that’s not likely to happen.”

We continued to listen to the artillery barrage, knowing that sleep was not going to be forthcoming for a while. Bittersweet cleaned the lens of her glasses over and over; I turned and examined both sides of the holotape again and again.

On second thought, I could listen to the tape in the next morning. If I wound up hearing a war story now, I might dream that I was in said war, cowering in the trenches from falling zebra bombs.

“Back when we were ambushed by the real estate raiders,” Bittersweet began. “How did you do it, Nova?”

I gaped at her as my mind dug out the memory. A side effect of enduring the hell I went through. “Do what?” I answered.

Bittersweet squinted as she studied me, even though her glasses were on. “Negotiate with the raiders? Just this morning, you couldn’t even comprehend the fact that one would give you their business card… and now you’re able to close deals with real estate as an outsider?”

I ran a hoof up the side of my face, physically keeping my eyes from closing shut in the middle of conversation. “Well, it was easy to see Megacorps took its corporate image very seriously. They wear suits as their uniform. I mean, how can you believe that?

“So I just went along with it. I treated them as custo—business partners. All they need is a hint at a good deal, wrapped in a short–term incentive, and they’ll take the risk.”

“Where does a Stable pony learn to think like a corporate?” Bittersweet interrogated me.

The same place that taught me how to sell an outrageous lie. The wasteland market.

I smiled and gestured to my cutie mark. “It’s my special talent, obviously. To see things from their perspective.” I could not help but laugh at Bittersweet’s confused expression. “It makes sense, doesn’t it? After all…

“Aren’t photos just an imitation of a moment in someone’s life?”

Bittersweet gradually leaned back, her mouth left slightly open. She was staring through me. Something about what I said seemed to click in her mind.

Aren’t photos just… Oh. Did I say that out loud?

Whatever happened became irrelevant as soon as we heard footsteps approaching. Bittersweet and I turned to the door immediately. Someone had stopped in front of the shed.

Bittersweet’s magic lit up. A turquoise aura wrapped around the single light. She began twisting it feverishly.

I grabbed hold of my shovel. That was the only thing I could properly defend myself with.

The stranger outside knocked on the door. Bittersweet killed the light.

Comet Scotia

Current reputation
Southern Wasteland: Liked
Red Eye’s Slavers: Hated
Gawd’s Talons: Hunted
Megacorps: Vilified

Perks
Putting on the Mask – You have taken up the identity of “The Stable Dweller.” The Southern Wasteland remains unfazed. Others are more likely to hand you errands… I mean quests.
The Old Soldier – Bittersweet is more familiar with the wasteland’s conflict and its factions than anyone else. With her as your companion, interactions with the various factions are facilitated, even if they hate you.

Chapter Eleven: Blueprint Your Life

“It’s actually morning, and you’re listening to Good Morning Baltimare.

“I’m Serial Sonata, and my special guest today is Deux Nightcall, former secretary for frontier policy in the now defunct Party-Time Confederation. For years now, Mr. Nightcall has been in exile after the Steel Rangers occupied the capital Kavinsky and dissolved the confederation. He’s here to talk about his career and accomplishments, but also to discuss the course of current events. Welcome and thank you for coming here, Deux.”

“Thank you for airing me, Seer.”

“We’re of course going to be talking about the big smoke plume on the horizon, and it ain’t the Avery Mountains this time. Oasis Tower has gone down in Hawkthorn, apparently taking with it two whole baker’s dozens of the top Megacorps CEOs. And by top, we mean TOP. The heads of the biggest companies that have burned, extorted, enslaved, raped, and murdered the Western Hills ever since the bombs fell.

“Initial reports say Megacorps companies have already started retaliating against one another, exchanging blame for the feat. But we know now that the one we really have to thank is that plucky mare we last heard saving caravan survivors east of Celestia’s Folly. Eeyup, that same mare Red Eye’s radio claimed they had been killed in Appleloosa. Yessir, the one good Northern wastelander, the Stable Dweller!

“But just because they’re liars and an unreliable source for news doesn’t mean we should discount Red Eye’s—or rather—Gladstone’s slavers for what they did to kick Megacorps while they were down. But before we jump into their recent offensive and lifting of the siege on Celestia’s Folly, we’ll talk about you, Deux.”

“Really holding your audience in suspense and then handing the reins to me, Seer? You’re heartless.”

“Kindness is the last trait I would need for this job, Deux. But your traits are perfect for the task at hand: charisma, to woo foreign envoys; bravery, to walk into the heart of Halunken to bargain; tenacity, to survive Tascleon, the 148 Free State, and the Steel Rangers. Don’t kid me, Deux. You’ve had worse audiences.”

“Sure, but I won’t bore you all with the details. I do come from the Western Hills myself, from a small town stuck between the raiders in suits and the raiders in power armor.”

“Has this town a name? Maybe a shout-out to potential listeners from there?”

“Doesn’t matter. Raunchy Cavalry took over the town after the confederation fell. They and the Steel Rangers must’ve brokered a deal to split up the west. Anyway, I highly doubt there’s anyone left living there.”

“Oh, uh, I didn’t know. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. I’ve already made my peace with it. Back to the story: Right after I started growing spots, I got one on my hind. It was a waveform. I then passed the exams and accepted a bureaucratic position in Kavinsky. Made my way up the ranks, traveled all over the confederation—what was left of it by that point. I became secretary of frontier policy in the middle of the Mazanbic Empire’s conquest of the Salad Bowl.”

“Our listeners may better know the Mazanbic empire as the Horde.”

“Yeah, the most rabid of your listeners.”

“Alright, Deux. First, there are wonderful people out there, who only know of the atrocities the hellhounds and their proxies have committed south of the Valley. Second, you may be my friend, but you’re on live air right now. I won’t have you any longer if you insult my listeners.”

“Right… I’m sorry, Seer.”

“Just don’t do that, again. So, you were there at the helm right as the hellhounds were marching on the confederation’s doorstep.”

“We focused on a defensive strategy. For almost a century we had held back marauding tribes of the Salad Bowl with a series of prewar forts south of Tascleon. We had the Wanado Mountain Range on our left and the Occupied Lakeland on our right, stretching into the southwest. The position couldn’t be flanked, and it couldn’t be tackled head-on. We thought with some artillery borrowed—at a frankly ridiculous cost—from the Steel Rangers, we could hold off any offensive from the south. But the hellhounds just dug under the forts and emerged right behind them. We lost an army within a week. Then the Steel Rangers, nominally our partners in defense at that point, swept in and took Kavinsky without a fight.”

“Nobody could’ve prepared for the sheer onslaught of the Mazanbic Empire. Even the 148 Free State only barely held after throwing their whole population into the fight.”

“I made a bad call depending on the forts. I didn’t think of contingencies.”

“Deux—”

“For nearly 20 years I’ve thought about what I could’ve done differently. And after all that time, all I can say is that I’ve wasted 20 years.

“Anyway, after the Rangers occupied Kavinsky, they got the states to switch their allegiance by holding over them the threat of the advancing hordes, burning and pillaging villages and towns, massacring our captive soldiers. Those were lies, of course.”

“Lies?”

“The hounds use stories like those to break resistance. I hear the current Alpha especially loves hearing rumors about how he tore a Free State general in half with his own claws. These things served the Mazanbic Empire well in its invasion.”

“But the Steel Rangers stopped them, didn’t they?”

“They fought a few skirmishes but made no effort to recapture the borders. And that suited the Mazanbic leadership just fine. The whole point was to cover the flank of the invasion of the Valley and access the trade moving through Agnes Route and Tascleon. But I’m sure you already know the ‘official’ story the Rangers made up.”

“You didn’t try to warn your people? To tell them the Rangers were lying?”

“Why would they listen to us? It was because of us at the top that the Western Hills was left defenseless. The general government was dead by that point. Each state in the confederation was making a separate deal with the Steel Rangers for protection. Whatever was left of the confederation was around a thousand of us fleeing east over the Wanadoes. I think we were down to just a hundred by the time we reached the Valley.”

“Who was the leader at that point?”

“I don’t know. The line of succession was unclear after the president and vice president were caught and executed east of Tascleon. We rallied in the 148 Free State. There was a short-lived attempt to form a government-in-exile. But… there was some bickering over procedure and organization, tiring stuff. Most of us, myself included, didn’t really see a point in pretending the confederation was still a thing. The Western Hills certainly moved on and accepted an administration directly run by the Rangers. We went our separate ways from there, and I ended up in Baltimare.”

“…and then?”

“I lay low, mooched off my connections for 20 years, and then… today.”

“And that’s that.”

“That’s that.”

“Really nothing more of note in your life through all those years?”

“I wouldn’t call it living.”

“…well, today you’ll live again, Deux. A lot has happened over the past three days: Megacorps in disarray, a Stable Dweller making waves, and a slaver offensive to relieve Celestia’s Folly. Events have been moving faster than Good Morning Baltimare can report them. I think many of us are asking the same question: What will happen now to our outpost in the west and the citizens within its walls? I understand you’ve been approached by Gladstone, personally, in the past, to inquire about the west. The mind of the slavers’ general is something of an academic field of study in the halls of the Senate and Tower Reed. Based on your meeting with Gladstone, what do you foresee is the future of the Folly and the Western Hills after the latest offensive?”

“I was one of several exiles Gladstone was trying to bring into her camp four years ago. It was clear right away that she had no intention of putting us in charge of a new government. With her claws full leading the war in the Valley, she wasn’t going to extend her frontlines further west. So it was more an interrogation than an invitation. What she wanted from me was my knowledge of the Steel Rangers.”

“And how did you respond?”

“I answered all her questions.”

“Just like that?”

“She was prying and impolite, to say the least. But she was also shrewd and frank about her intentions. Gladstone wanted weaknesses she could exploit, and I wanted the Rangers to hurt. I didn’t care at the time about her use of slavery or her goals. Just so long as she was fighting the Rangers. In the end, she was fine with having her questions answered. She accepted my refusal to join her and left.

“And based on that, I don’t think you’ll have to worry about the Folly. The slavers and the republic gain too many advantages from their alliance for Gladstone to betray it now. But understand this—there’s something she’s discreetly trying to find in the west. She’s sent mercenaries and spies deep into the Western Hills for a couple of years now. But only now, while Megacorps is weakened and the Rangers are occupied with Mazanbic guerillas, has she thought of sending armies westward. The Folly is the gateway to the Western Hills, and from there, Gladstone seems to be preparing a new expedition.”

“What is she trying to find?”

“I don’t know. The Valley has much more material value than the west. If she’s willing to give ground in the Valley to take a chance in the west… well, that’s just speculation.”

“Just what you’ve already said has proven invaluable, Deux. We’ll be back with more questions for Deux Nightcall. A short break, but to some of you, just like the song we’ll leave you with, it may feel like A Long Long Way to Go.”

The mournful notes of an instrument like an organ began to play. I took out my earbuds before I could hear the rest. I looked from my Pipbuck to Blue Chip, whose eyes were on the ceiling. I listened for the sound of footsteps or wings. After a minute of silence, we released our breaths.

“Isn’t it a lovely war?” Blue Chip said, looking down at the shrapnel stuck in his body.

It had been three days since Oasis Tower fell, but they felt more like three years.

Bittersweet and I had met up with Creed in Raindrops’ shed three nights ago. That was the moment Red Eye’s slavers had chosen to launch their attack to relieve Celestia’s Folly. Those sounds of artillery we had heard were the guns of the slavers, destroying an entire raider army.

Creed might’ve been able to fly ahead, but Bittersweet and I had to walk or rather crawl on our bellies back to Celestia’s Folly. The days following the slaver attack, griffons started patrolling the skies, calling down artillery strikes on whatever moved on the ground. Bittersweet was intimately familiar with these tactics. In her own words, she “had called down a few such strikes in the Valley.” We took naps during the day in fresh craters next to blasted corpses in fine suits. We would then crawl at night.

This routine went on for two days, and then we saw the city on the hill. There atop its walls the golden flag with the cyan cod still fluttered. And beneath that, all over the hill there were hundreds of crimson banners flying. The slaver army had encamped east of Agnes Route. We snuck into the abandoned siege lines west of the road, which were filled with enough bloodied suits and smoking craters to fill the air with a smell akin to that of a black powder barbeque.

We found a dugout with one occupant, who was somehow still hanging onto life. Blue Chip was a raider from a company called Ancillary Auxiliaries Limited. It was a subsidiary of a support organization for settlement expropriation, but once you strip away the Megacorps lingo, that just meant it was contracted to provide manpower to the siege of Celestia’s Folly. Blue Chip had been wounded in the slavers’ attack, and he had been hiding in this dugout since. He was left lying against the wall, a few empty tins of processed foods surrounding him.

“You know,” he began, “when my company first got the contract to attack this damned castle, I immediately invested in a hard helmet. But it was this bright shade of yellow you could see in the dark! My colleagues thought it a silly idea back then. Me? I had a feeling that I would need it if we were going to attack a place with artillery in its walls.”

He brought up a dark blue leg to wipe at some dried blood below his lips. “I was half-right on my intuition, it turns out. You saw my colleagues on your way in. And yet I still live, for a little longer.”

I turned my head to look outside the dugout. Bittersweet was peering over the roof, standing on her hindlegs. We didn’t have a lot of space here, but it was well concealed by a yellow knoll facing Agnes Route and a sagging willow tree behind us.

“You know”—I turned back to Blue Chip, looking at the bits of metal sticking out of his torso—“you don’t seem very concerned. Considering your state.”

He half-smiled, half-grimaced. “Of course I don’t. I’ve got a pension.” He glanced at my expression and sighed. “You really are a new arrival here. It means that my company will take care of my family.”

“Oh. How… natural.”

“Hey, we’re not like those unemployed freaks north of the Sharp. We’ve got a code in my company. We look out for one another. We drink together, do overtime together. Maybe as an outsider you don’t like our practices, but that’s business. First and foremost we’re a community.”

Like the suits, his words were just window dressing on the fact that he and his company were raiders. A code? Best practices? I guess with a big enough organization, you would need to standardize the pillaging of a town.

But at the same time, I knew he wasn’t lying about community. March Mint had helped Bittersweet and me, just because he wanted vengeance for his comrades. Those raiders had cared for one another and even agreed to adhere to this idea of a “company.” Sure, they were still murderers for hire, but I’d met much crueler and more insane raider groups in the past. They had never cared for one another, nevermind agreed on standard practices for killing ponies. It boggled my mind to think that there were several of these communities in Megacorps.

“Blue Chip,” I began, “how did you become part of Ancillary Auxiliaries?”

“Well, I didn’t actually go the traditional route of the internship program. Like most limited liability companies, my company was flexible with structuring, so… Ah, I know you meant induction generally throughout Megacorps. I’ll try my best to make it simple for you, Northerner.”

“I’d appreciate it.”

Blue Chip’s eyes went to the ceiling and looked farther beyond, in memory. “Where to start… maybe my earliest days as part of a subsidiary of teamsters moving product from Tascleon. If you can imagine a bunch of blank flanks scuffling while the adults shoot each other over wagons of drugs, you get the idea.”

“Did the blank flanks wear suits too?”

Blue Chip laughed. He pressed back his black bangs with his foreleg. “We just had the tie and collared shirts. No jackets yet.” He looked a little embarrassed while saying that. “Wild bunch I ran with for a while. They taught me a thing or two about company loyalty. But then I got my occupational license on my butt, and… well, the moment had passed for my crew. I moved on.”

“Your cutie mark?”

“That so? You tell me what’s cute about this.” He gestured toward his cutie mark. It was a cartoonish rendition of a pony’s head getting bonked with a mace.

I shrugged. “I think the X’s for eyes are pretty cute.”

“Me too. It really adds personality.” Blue Chip went back to staring at the ceiling. “Now, from there, I went to the city to make it big. But I lost my investment savings on gambling and an unfaithful lawyer who always wore her tie too loosely. Mares and lawyers. Both of them operate on bad faith, and I was young and foolish enough to go for both! Only worse than her I think was Quick Win. Was like a brother to me. That two-faced, three-faced son of a—ah, I’m going on a tangent, ain’t I?”

“You went to the city to make it big.”

“Right. I went to the city, and that’s when I was in Megacorps proper. There was a big market for people like me, luckily. War across the land, generating lots of opportunities for the support companies. There were job postings everywhere! They wanted as many bodies as they could write names on a piece of paper, some just to stand around looking like thugs. One coworker I knew showed up to work in casual clothing! Can you even imagine the scandal if—”

He broke into a violent cough. A trail of blood leaked out of the corner of his mouth. He stared at his chest. “Ma-maybe we’ll go for the ultra short version. I think covering my whole CV might kill me.”

The fact he was conscious after all this time was more surprising than his coughing fit. How was his body even processing food with all that metal stuck in him?

“I went in for an interview with Ancillary Auxiliaries. New company on the block. I’ll never forget it. They said to me, ‘You may be here thinking we just need the manpower. But whatever your intention, we believe the company should be your new family. We will care for you, and in return we expect that you’ll accept our terms and conditions.’ I asked them, ‘What are those terms and conditions?’ And they said, ‘To work a contract ‘til completion or death. To protect your colleagues. To make no differentiation between this company and yourself. Every one of us is Ancillary Auxiliaries, and we are all invested in its success.’ I was sold then and there.”

“Every one of you is Ancillary Auxiliaries? What does that mean?” I asked.

“It means that every employee embodies the company and assumes its reputation as their own, considers its successes and setbacks as their own, and ties its survival to theirs,” Bittersweet said, entering the dugout. “Though I would wonder why it was called a limited liability company then.”

Blue Chip nodded to her. “You would’ve made a wonderful coworker.”

If Bittersweet was back down here, that must’ve meant the representatives she radioed about had arrived at Celestia’s Folly. One of them was supposed to escort us inside the walls.

“Time to go, Nova.” She picked up her gear and turned to Blue Chip. “I would offer to give you a quick tap to the head, but I can’t silence a shot from my pistol.”

Blue Chip nodded. “Thank you for the thought, but I think I would prefer to pull the trigger myself.”

“We could leave you a gun.” Bittersweet’s eyes fell on me for a split second. “We’ve got a revolver with only two bullets.”

“No. You can’t have that.” I pressed shut the latches on my saddlebags. “I have to keep it.”

Blue Chip shook his head. “I don’t mean to sack myself. Ancillary Auxiliaries Limited may be bankrupt, but I still consider myself a faithful employee. The contract’s still open.”

“You mean the one to besiege Celestia’s Folly?” I asked.

“I mean the one to kill anyone who tries to interfere with the siege. You know I can’t renege because of the company’s terms and conditions—not ‘til completion or death.”

Blue Chip’s gaze turned to the dugout entrance. “But more than that, I can’t die knowing we the company didn’t have any successes. I owe it to my coworkers who didn’t ever get the chance.”

Upon hearing this, Bittersweet’s expression, which had been locked into a scowl since we set out from Raindrops’ shed, softened. The tension left her face. Her eyes lost their edge. It was startling, to reconcile that empathetic look and the pony who wore it. Had I seen Bittersweet only at her most guarded? Then she squeezed her eyes shut. And a deep breath.

She opened her eyes, and the soldier was back. Her horn lit up, and a grenade levitated out of her bags. “The slavers will come to sweep the area. They’ll check your body for booby traps, but if you pull the pin out and hold the grenade against your side, you can collapse the ceiling and take a few of them with you.”

Blue Chip took the grenade without hesitation. He gave her a weak smile. Bittersweet stared at him a little longer and left the dugout. His eyes and mine met one last time, and I could see for the first time that a raider’s anguish from loss was no different than that of a regular pony.

“Goodbye, Stable Dweller. I appreciate your business with us.”

“Likewise, Blue Chip.”

I walked out of the dugout and joined Bittersweet atop the knoll. There were hundreds of red-clad slavers on the hill, staring right at me—or rather my stable jumpsuit. A narrow corridor was open in the red sea, through which a small group of republican soldiers was approaching us. These soldiers were better equipped than the ones in the Folly’s garrison. They had helmets that covered the sides and back of their heads. Their barding was actual armor and of such quality too that it had to have been manufactured recently. A couple of them even had battle saddles. These soldiers were alert, scanning the ranks of the slavers around them.

At the head of the group was a bright teal earth pony stallion in a green coat and matching garrison cap. The mane was an azure crop top. The glittering chest decorations had to mean that this was the representative who would safely escort us into the walls of Celestia’s Folly.

He and the soldiers moved at a slow pace. Slow enough, in fact, that I had nothing better to do but look around the hill, trying to distinguish at a distance which slavers were looking down at me with amusement and which ones were painting crosshairs on me with their eyeballs. I must’ve looked composed from over there, but atop this knoll, I was sweating all my confidence into my jumpsuit. I counted maybe 62 death glares in the time it took for the republican group to step onto Agnes Route.

Bittersweet suddenly locked up and lifted her left foreleg in a salute. I stood there looking at nothing in particular.

“At ease,” the officer said. His eyes turned to me. They were the color of his uniform.

He began to speak in a monotone that had to have been practiced: “Greetings, Stable Dweller. My name is Colonel Quizzical Calling. I extend an official welcome to you from the Baltimare Republic.”

I smiled. “Thank you, colonel. I appreciate it.”

The colonel loosened up his stance immediately after I finished speaking. So went his rigid tone in favor of one that changed pace on a fly. “Alright… alright, alright. Now that the formality’s out of the way. I say, let’s get the hell out of here.”

“Right,” I said. “I was feeling a little self-conscious with all these guns staring at me.”

“Hmm?” The colonel cocked his head. “No, no. Not the slavers you have to worry about. You see, I’m more fearful that these—rookies—with me will start a diplomatic incident.”

At hearing this, the soldiers by his side suddenly eased up in stance. All of them elected to watch in directions that didn’t require making eye contact with Bittersweet or me. I couldn’t say the sight was inspiring courage in me.

The colonel turned the other direction. “Follow close behind, you hear? Avoid eye contact, and maybe these slavers won’t have a justification to incite something.”

“Yes, sir,” Bittersweet said.

I nodded. I was going to keep my eyes on the Folly and just pretend that there weren’t slavers within a stone’s throw of me who wouldn’t have minded a diplomatic incident.

We set off, limited by the colonel’s pace. So began our long uphill climb.

The republican soldiers formed two columns around Bittersweet and me. We started up the incline, straight through the corridor between the slavers. I was still unused to the looks of murder being directed toward me. But far more disquieting was… the quiet. They were in my peripheral vision, just standing and staring at me.

Not a whisper.

It was always a sign of danger when the loudest thing in the wasteland was my rapid heartbeat. But I continued onward, one step at a time. Safety was just up this hill. Then it would be over.

The castle walls started to grow in height. Its walls had repelled invaders for centuries. The Folly would be a haven away from the rest of the wasteland, so I thought.

With the worst of timing, up on the ramparts, ponies in red uniforms poked out and peered down. The slavers were in the Folly. And now my hopes, like my courage, were just patches of sweat in my jumpsuit.

We were a few meters closer. The path was still so long. My eyes were already feeling the strain. It was taking all my willpower just to keep from staring back at any of the eyes trained on me.

Then I heard a filtered voice. And static. Somewhere out in the slaver camp, there was a radio tuned to Good Morning Baltimare. I tried focusing on listening. It seemed the interview with Deux Nightcall was still ongoing.

“…and she’d just be able to move on Kavinsky through those woods?”

“That’s just the thing, Seer. The Rangers are used to fighting small bands of Mazanbic infiltrators. They’ve never had to face an army like Gladstone’s, with actual equipment and supply lines. A lot of these options I’ve just mentioned wouldn’t even occur to their top strategists.”

“Those same strategists could be listening right now. Maybe jotting down our conversation on sticky notes.”

“Considering the current elder, I doubt it would matter.”

“Going by your own predictions, it seems the Western Hills could become a new battlefield. Do you have any anxieties about what could happen to the people there?”

“None. I won’t live long enough to see what happens next, anyway.”

“What—?”

“I’m sorry, Seer. There’s another reason why I pressed you to interview me. Three days ago, I found a note on my personal terminal. Somebody had hacked into it just to send me a message. Just the fact of the note existing only meant one thing: The Invisible Sword had tracked me down to kill me.”

“The assassin let you know in advance they were going to kill you?”

“They had killed a number of my former colleagues in the past few years. Didn’t matter where they were or where they ran. The Invisible Sword carries out the will of the Steel Rangers across the entire wasteland. They just wanted to give me time to put my affairs into order. Once I leave this building, it’ll be done.”

“Once you leave? Then just stay here, Deux.”

“Not an option, Seer. They’d just kill my friends to bring me out. Like you.”

“Deux…”

“All those years ago, when I crossed the Wanadoes to save my life, I had with me an entourage. Just because I was of a higher position, they prioritized my survival. They succeeded in their mission, and I left them behind in the snow. I had a debt to pay for allowing the confederation to fall, and they were the ones who paid for it. That doesn’t make much sense, does it?”

“What is this then? Suicide as a matter of honor?”

“A matter of responsibility to the people I failed. I hope you, Seer, and you, the listeners, won’t make the same mistakes I have… I’m going now, Seer. Thank you for airing me.”

“No, we’re not done here! Deux, wait! Hey, stop him—”

There was the sound of a detonation behind us. We stopped in our tracks. I turned my head back to the dugout. A dark cloud floated from behind the knoll. Down the hill, slavers were shouting for medics.

I glanced at Bittersweet. She was still looking up the hill, stone-faced.

I followed her gaze. Up the hill. To the Folly. A few more steps now.

The colonel gave the signal to resume walking. We continued onward.

Comet Scotia

Current reputation
Southern Wasteland: Liked
Red Eye’s Slavers: Hated
Gawd’s Talons: Hunted
Megacorps: Vilified

Perks
Putting on the Mask – You have taken up the identity of “The Stable Dweller.” The Southern Wasteland remains unfazed. Others are more likely to hand you errands… I mean quests.
The Old Soldier – Bittersweet is more familiar with the wasteland’s conflict and its factions than anyone else. With her as your companion, interactions with the various factions are facilitated, even if they hate you.

Chapter Ten: By Tomorrow Dubbed a Mystery and the Past Just Blurry Lines

The light bulb above flickered dimly. But in a beat, it found its courage and shined bright enough for me to at least see myself and the outline of the room. What a brilliant idea on the part of the architects to include a rib vault ceiling and install a tiny light bulb in the trough.

This place must have been a tavern. A wall to my left served as a filing cabinet for at least a hundred different variants of scotch and whiskey. The counter in front carried all the glasses… well what was left of them. They were all glass shards now, lining the top of the bar like barbed wire above a trench. Whatever shock wave came through here also turned most of the tabletops and chairs into splinter darts on the walls and floor.

Every top, that is, except the tabletop I was sitting at. Two glasses had been poured out, one for each half of the circular surface. The drink may have been scotch or whiskey—already hard enough to tell from a distance, but the horrid lighting made distinctions rather pointless. I could see it all inside this gear–shaped window adorning the wall to my right.

I was the one with my forelegs above the tabletop, making demonstrative gestures across the table for a deaf audience. Honestly, a few of my patrons needed a little theatrics to get the point in their thick heads. But these gestures were too abrupt and aggressive for clarification. Strange. I was not usually this animated. What was on my lips? ‘Earth… to Comet?’

I looked away from the mirror. To the left. Back to the tabletop, a glass of scotch in front of me. And to myself, a complete look–alike, across from me. I was looking into my own brown eyes. I think I flinched quite violently just then. Fortunately for myself, I did not have a gun in my mouth this time.

The doppelgänger clapped her hooves together. “Come on, Comet. I’ve been talking to you this whole time.”

I turned back to my double and cleared my throat. It was going through a drought at the moment. “Sorry, got distracted.”

She tried at a smile and pointed at her left ear. “Do you even use that ear?”

“What were we talking about again?” I asked with genuine confusion. My hoof circled the rim of my drink. There was no reason why, but I felt I needed this drink.

My other self brushed up the collar of the Stable jumpsuit she wore. “Setting up shop in a trade route town. A closed ecological system. A byzantine power game, in which each merchant extorts the other over the smallest facets of trade. How did you describe it again? ‘A place where new fry are torn up before—’” She grabbed my foreleg as I pulled up the glass of scotch. “—You don’t drink. Remember.”

I placed it down. The doppelgänger knew my character better than I did. If I had done that in front of Creed… Would he consider dishonesty a heinous enough crime to warrant death?

“Getting in? It can be done,” I muttered, falling back in my chair.

“You’re right.”

“…And it’s because the competitors are still people. Made to be manipulated.”

The banners of some local sports teams I could not recognize were hanging off the balcony above the entrance. A few holes had been cut through the tapestry, but otherwise it survived the collapse of civilization well. This tavern must have housed an entire town during those sporting events. Imagine that—a whole community shutting down to watch a few ponies kick around a ball or fly through some rings. A form of entertainment more passionate than sex, more addicting than gambling… I never saw what they loved about it.

I wanted to think back to the past. She would not let me end the conversation there, though. “You mean to imply that everyone is equally gullible. You’re kidding yourself. Surely, you wouldn’t say it’s just luck that gives an idiot all the keys in town.”

“An idiot can figure out how people think too… and feel. Having the local warlord in your pocket is no safeguard if you’re an open book.”

“Would that make you different then? An exception among all the town’s greedy speculators?”

“We must be simple enough for there to have been only one psychology. There’s not a science dedicated to your—my mind only.”

My other self sat there for a spell, thinking without showing she was doing so. Now that I thought about it, her expression had not changed since we started talking. Nor had her eyes looked away from mine. But it was surely no mirror act.

“So we’re all simple creatures,” she said, “yet you couldn’t recognize that someone by your side saw through your lie.”

“No—”

“Someone who couldn’t tell a convincing lie of her own to save her life.” She hit me with my own arrogant smile. “Maybe your theory is flawed to begin with.”

I wanted to be anywhere but here.

“Maybe it has less to do with people and more to do with the town itself,” she said, resting her forelegs on the tabletop and clasping her hooves together.

Out of the corner of my eye, I could see a tint of neon green. Something over there, to the right, was glowing. It was overpowering the output of that small light bulb, lighting up the bar like a megaspell crater, but she did not notice it. I wanted to check, but looking away from a conversation for the second time would be rude. Instead, I looked down at the table, concentrating on the wood pattern. It might take my mind off that green glow and a growing pinprick in my spine.

She continued, “A trade route town couldn’t possibly hold itself together under the weight of all that greed and ambition. There’d need to be something that keeps everyone in line.”

“So, what? You mean the laws and balance of power… that sort of thing?”

“Well, there’s a bit more to it than who’s in charge. What I’m talking about… it touches every interaction. Consider this: They think oligarchy is the natural state of civilization; and reciprocity is the natural state of relationships; and a monopoly is the natural state of business. It’s all malarkey, but in that kind of town, everyone and everything exist to make it seem otherwise.”

I glanced up, seeing a plate of cooked cod in front of my doppelgänger. One look was enough to bring to mind the taste of yesterday’s only meal. I—well the other pony who was me—dug in with fork and knife as though it were her first meal in years.

Between bites, she spieled, “It never occurs to them—that their base assumptions—are wrong—and if they did realize it—it’d be impossible for the town to continue existing.” The plate was cleared within seconds. “You hardly need to know how everyone thinks, when you know how to use the lies that keep the whole town together.”

She raised an eyebrow when she noticed the thought on my face. “Creed Brook,” she started, wings twitching erratically, “somehow found you in that utility shed in the middle of the night, isn’t that right?”

The utility shed. The sound of distant artillery and the climactic battle to decide the fate of the town upon a hill. That night, Creed found Bittersweet and me, as we were starving after the day’s events. Living up to his benevolent repute, he saved our lives with canned cod. But how did he find us?

“Shouldn’t have been difficult for him. Being ex-Enclave helps,” my other self whispered. She craned her head down to the table, hiding her mouth with her folded forelegs. “The Grand Pegasus Enclave perfected the art of tracking and eliminating wastelanders who… threatened… their gilded cage in the sky.”

Where was this bitterness coming from?

“Is that all you remember from last night?” she asked in a scratched and muffled voice. It was a higher pitch than what I sounded like too.

“I just—” I began, sitting up. The green glow had disappeared, but I could see things a little better. “The matter isn’t even relevant anymore. It won’t be necessary for me to start from nothing in a town that doesn’t want me there. I can ride off my good reputation. I’m a hero after all, and nobody could live with cold–shouldering a hero.”

She shrugged and closed her eyes. “Well, you’re not wrong. At least, in a town where they see a hero. But you won’t live off of good will alone.”

“Are you giving me a proposition?”

“How about a lead?” she drew from my lips. Her blue eyes opened. “An Old World treasure I kept out of the hands of the Enclave.”

My ears perked up. I leaned forward to take the hint. Now I was nearly out of my chair.

“Now you’re listening,” she laughed. Using her foreleg as a support, she met me halfway across the table. We were leaning close enough for me to see the individual strands of light cyan in her mane. “It’s a component of a massive Ministry of Morale project. Well, really, it was the loving effort of the air force. The whole operation was too hard to even conceptualize for most of the bureaucracy, so they just provided the funding.

“But for reasons I neglected to explain, the project was never fully implemented when the stripes sent us all to hell.” She clicked her tongue. “The last piece was never brought out of Stable 42, and there wasn’t anyone left with the authority to make use of it. A shame really, because this piece… would’ve immediately restored our slice of Equestria even after the end… give or take a century.”

I gaped at her. “So this treasure can purify the wasteland of radiation and taint!”

She had a flat look in response. Then she said, “Don’t be stupid. Nothing like that exists.”

I needed to know the value. “Well, what does it do then?”

“I don’t know,” she shrugged.

She needed to stop dancing around my questions. “Can you tell me where you hid it?”

“How am I supposed to know?”

I pulled back and fell into my chair.

She did likewise and cocked her head slightly. “Who do you think you’re talking to?”

I looked at her full profile. Her coat was light gold. She was wearing a military aviation jacket with a fur–lined collar. Her cutie mark was a trio of raindrops mid–fall. She gave me a toothy smile, as though she were posing for a photograph.

“I fell asleep listening to the holotape, didn’t I?” I held my head up with a foreleg.

“You were so tired. You and Bittersweet practically passed out after the meal.”

“Lieutenant Raindrops, 8th Air Engineer Corps.”

“Comet Scotia,” Raindrops began, “antiquities merchant and con mare… or have you been going by someone else’s name nowadays?”

“It’s been working,” I shot back.

“Well, that’s evident. I mean, you’ve managed to get even further from Baltimare than when you first donned the jumpsuit.” Raindrops awarded me with a couple of hollow claps.

I glared at her. “Is this all you’re going to be doing in my dreams from this point on? Mocking me?”

Raindrops quickly checked an invisible watch on her wrist. She was even voicing the ticks out loud under her breath.

“No, I’ve said everything.” She hopped off her seat and trotted for the tavern’s entrance. The bar dimmed as she stepped away. At the door, Raindrops said, “Use a day to rest, Comet. Your hair’s looking a little more grey than usual.”

With her purpose fulfilled, Raindrops left. She was only needed for the information on that Old World treasure. And to think, there was still a Ministry project waiting to be discovered! I just had to hope that the Enclave had not already snatched it.

Nova

Current reputation
Southern Wasteland: Liked
Red Eye’s Slavers: Hated
Gawd’s Talons: Hunted
Megacorps: Vilified

Perks
Putting on the Mask – You have taken up the identity of “The Stable Dweller.” The Southern Wasteland remains unfazed. Others are more likely to hand you errands… I mean quests.