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

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.