Fallout: Equestria - Choice Millionaire

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.