All for a Friend

by Stlat

Rating: mature
Tags: Applejack, Gore, Anon, Slice of Life, My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic, Dark, Alternate Universe, Romance, Apple Bloom, Second Person, Dinky Hooves, Derpy Hooves, Human
Length: 32962

You thought that working an eight to six shift in a familiar, quaint village would help ease your stress levels. Yeah, and you also thought, "What could go wrong?"

Sure, everyone gets their shot at life. Some grasp their potential with both hands, biting and tearing to make a name for themselves, while others squander it all in the blink of an eye.

You? You've played your hand quite well, all things considered, and now you're just trying to enjoy the rest of your days with two jobs which you love dearly.

You've righted wrongs, destroyed the lives of an uncountable number of others, and have managed to help bring about the death of one of the three false gods.

All in all, you should feel remarkably happy about all you've managed throughout your life.

So why do you feel like something is missing from your life? You love your two jobs, the locals leave you to your own machinations, and you've just received news that your novel from your trip back east has just been accepted.

That's all you should need...

No.

It IS all you need.

Special thanks to my good friend for the coverart.

Published 2016-09-18 21:20:01 UTC
Last updated 2017-01-18 17:35:11 UTC

Chapter 1: After a Long Day

Chapter one

Your nose wrinkles at the smell of a freshly skinned carcass, yet you continue unimpeded with knife and sleight of hand.

You’ve done this a thousand times before. Begin to skin the thing, separate the edible parts from the waste, throw said waste into a bucket to later be used as bait, and then cook yourself a fine stew with the meat.

Doesn’t make the blood on your hands or handing the guts any less appealing, though.

Despite everything, the low growl from your stomach overrides all other emotions just before you quickly toss the final bits of edible meat and fat into the slowly bubbling pot to your left. The smell of the cooking meal, one with several bits of freshly cut onions and other vegetables, quickly seizes your attention and refuses to let it go as your mouth begins to salivate uncontrollably.

After a long day of work filled with back-breaking work and less than stellar company, you’re more than glad to finally be home.

You close your eyes and slowly rub them while a familiar phrase comes to mind, of which has never once been proven itself wrong.

“It’s not work if you enjoy it,” they always said, and, boy, were they right.

Before long, your eyes feel just a bit sore and you force your hand away from the blurry peepers as they desperately attempt to readjust to the world’s sudden splotches of color assaulting it from all sides. It takes you a minute, but you eventually realize that the hue of orange plastered about your kitchen isn’t a fallacy told by your eyes.

The beams of orange light shine through a number of windows scattered about your house, illuminating the place in a warm glow that signaled you that it’s getting late in the evening, much to your dismay. You’d expect to have at least a few more hours to yourself out of today’s seemingly simple schedule, but it seems that you’re not so lucky.

With a glance over to the clock above the stove, you grimace before shaking your head. It’s nearly six thirty, and you feel like dropping dead on your bed with a well-written book between your hands after a freshly cooked meal.

You stifle a yawn before stretching and closing your eyes—of which have tired tears forming at the corners—while silently leaning against the countertop. Comforted by the warmth of the hot stove, you feel the day’s stress slowly beginning to fade away into obscurity as the heat begins to melt away your worries.

Though before you could have a chance at falling asleep, and potentially turning your delicious meal into a fire hazard, a soft hiss interrupts your thoughts of sweet relaxation and sleep. Your eyes open with a flicker as you instantly recognize the hiss of your faithful companion.

It wasn’t the normal type of hiss that he usually gives out, one which signaled that he’s in a rather bad mood, but rather it was that he naturally gave out when something either piqued his interest or that he’d caught another squirrel that wandered a bit too close to his area.

You wonder what could’ve caused Baron to react as he did while stretching out your worn limbs. Possibly a passerby on the road saw him and scampered off in the usual, scared fashion? Or perhaps he’d sat on his own dung again and gotten upset.

Yeah, he isn’t exactly the brightest hunting companion you’ve ever had.

Carrying yourself to the sink to wash the red stains off of your palms,—you shudder at the fact that you’d forgotten to wash immediately afterwards—you are quick to close your eyes in comfort as the warm water begins to pour over your worn hands. Soon enough, you begin to feel the day’s stress ebb away as a rather disarming song continues to echo throughout your house.

Straight from the classical station, you near instantly recognize the unmistakable slight of hand that only one cellist could posses as she began to move in for yet another solo. It’s another rerun—you’ve heard this song at least fifteen times before—but you can’t help but hum along to the placating strokes that makes you subconsciously tap your foot in tandem with the sweet melodies.

You mentally thank one Octavia for her nearly unparalleled skill, wherever she may be, as she’s one of the few musicians that you actually care about. You’d met her a while back, a time before when she was merely a pleasant enough kid straight out of highschool working at the local bar, and eventually found her as a sociable enough Equestrian. She was tolerate, but most of all she showed proper respect and quickly earned yours.

Truly, one of the more pleasant Equestrians that you’ve met. It’s a shame that you had to jump ship just before she made public with her love for the arts.

It’s sad that she’s fallen on hard times recently and you’ve no real idea of her whereabouts, as you’d certainly come to every performance that you could to support her.

You dry your hands off with a sigh before glancing down at the boiling-hot pot just to your left. Nodding at the progress, you wish that you could just deal with the diseases that came with the uncooked rabbit within.

Snapping yourself out from a microsleep, you spot the familiar and comforting sight that is your humble abode which surrounds you from all sides from within its cozy walls. It’s nothing special, as far as you’re concerned, but it has that lovable charm of a stereotypical cabin that you’ve fallen with over the past several months.

Even still, the place is far from perfect. Even with a rudimentary glance about the place—your walk-in kitchen connected directly to your sizable living room—you can see several flaws which aren’t exactly new.

You see the vast array of half-read books scattered about the room, the smell of crusty, unwashed dishes is almost tangible from the sink just beside you, and more than a few weeks of cleaning had been neglected as evident by the thick layers of dust creeping up on several bits of lesser used furniture about the place.

Yet again, the cabin’s cozy atmosphere is more than enough to subdue your thoughts of cleaning up the place. “Clean enough,” you think with a wry grin before turning your attention to the worn bookshelf that lay in the opposite corner of your living room.

Your voracious gaze is torn all too soon from the large assortment of cheesy romance novels and history books at the sound of something you’d nearly forgotten. A sound so infrequent that it was almost alien to you, so much so that you have to question if you had truly heard it.

A knock at your door, there was no two ways about it.

You groggily toss your apron aside before checking that all of the blood spots have been removed from your hands. Satisfied after a rudimentary glance—you know just how squeamish the locals are—you make to don a professional demeanor while hoping that the long day’s work doesn’t show under your eyes.

The sound of a door opening was all that was needed to get your legs moving towards the front of the house with a modified entrance that acted as a front of a business.

The place consisted of a small counter with a series of pictures about the place which decorated the hunts you were more proud of in the past year and a half, all with you standing with a triumphant boot upon the former beast’s head and a smug grin on your mug. More than enough sunlight passed in through the two windows adjacent to the door to illuminate the black and white depictions of victory.

You approach the wooden seat behind the small counter, made low enough so that you could mitigate the height difference between you and your Equestrian customers, with a raised eye scouting out for the potential client. As far as you can see, the place is—miraculously enough—more abandoned than your tenth birthday party.

A frown slowly makes its way onto your face. Hopefully they haven’t gotten scared off by Baron causing a ruckus out back, as you know just how noisy he can get in his pen when there’s a squirrel taunting him from above, or else you’ll have to go out back and help him extend his threshold of pain.

“Uh… mister?”

You blink at that odd, squeaky voice. What the he—

“Down here.”

You glance down to spot two sets of eyes looking up at you with a mix of indignation, fear and wonder about them. Your left brow slowly rises as you wonder where their caretakers were. The thought of anybody in their right mind letting two little ones venture out into the fringes of the White Tail Woods to see the ‘Boo Radley’ of the town was as stupid as it was implausible.

“Afternoon,” you say aloud in what you hope to be a gentle voice, “welcome to Exterminators Anonymous, how can I help you today?” You hope that your voice didn’t show any of the wear or tear of the day’s events, trying instead to put on a friendly facade that you’ve done so many times before.

Perhaps the two are just lost after a bit of tomfoolery in the woods and they need some directions back to town? Having been around Equestrians for some time, you wouldn’t be shocked if that came out to be the truth. Always prancing about and praising their false gods, these Equestrians.

“H-howdy there, mister!” said one of the two in front of your desk, her hiccup of trepidation not going unnoticed as you see her little foreleg spas all throughout the air in a poor attempt of forming a wave.

Despite initially wanting to snigger haughtily at that accent and the disproportionate size of the Equestrian’s head to her body, you soon give way to your kinder side. You manage to give out a small, sincere smile at the little ones while giving out a very lethargic wave of your own.

When you overcame the immediate confusion of the situation, you realized her use of the word ‘howdy’ and made it your mind drift off towards those outback ranchers and farmers that you sadly happened to neighbor. That shade of her coat, a light yellow, made a certain pony come to mind. You’ve heard about that one hick a great many times, the one that served the false gods and was, as you’ve heard, dear friends with the new talk of the town; one previous understudy to the prime leader of the land.

Finally having been freed of your initial shock of seeing the two little ones within your business, you wondered if you really did need glasses if you failed to notice the two runts, you attempt to get a better look at the two while offering them two of the three seats in front of your counter. They accept and hop up like cats onto the proffered chairs after a moment’s hesitation.

They’re both quite young, you guess no more than ten or so, and both rang only faint memories in your mind. You’ve seen them around Ponyville, the quaint village you lived on the fringes of, but you can’t remember anything significant about the two other than the fact that you’ve seen their faces about every here and there when you were forced to go to the village.

The one on your left has a rather placating shade of light purple fur followed by a light blonde mane that had a dull horn protruding from the center of it. Her eyes were of the same shade as her mane and had a critical look about them, one which bore the acute examination that only few at her age possessed. Though, unlike all of the other looks that other Equestrians initially gave you, this one was less fearful and more… interested?

Her partner bears a coat of light yellow, which still unnerved you at the thought of having a bearer of the elements coming into your business, and a mane that shines red like a polished apple. Her face spoke of a poorly held up facade of confidence and amicability that you saw through the instant you two made eye contact.

“What brings you two here?” you say with slight tilt of the head, “ya’ two got lost explorin’ the White Tail Woods and need directions?” Your tone was far less formal than it previously was as your slack way of speak, although similar to the hick’s shortening of words in a sense, was still as clear and fluent as your tongue when around others who expected better.

Your eyes lock onto the light orange ones of the young bumpkin, of which you absentmindedly noticed has a comically large red bow in her hair. It takes her a moment, though not a particularly long one, to realize that you were, infact, talking to her.

“Well, uh, mister…?” she begins after swallowing her uncertainty and meeting your gaze with an honest look that contained neither fear nor unease. This makes you wonder if this one child has more guts than the entirety of Ponyville…

“Anonymous Unknown.”

“Well, mister Anonemoose,” she begins, “my name’s Applebloom, and my family’s orchard’s been having some, uh, odd things happening as of late.” Her voice slowly gets more confident as she continues her little explanation of the pest problem as your eyes go wide for a margin of a second, as you were fully expecting the little one to ask for directions to Ponyville proper.

You think of what to do in the situation, whether or not this was actually legit and whether would lead to anything serious or not, before slowly pulling out your notebook and a spare pen.

Before you do anything else, you have to be sure that this little one knows of how you operate.

Specificity is key, you’ve always been told.

“Just so we’re clear here,” you say aloud before noticing her suddenly aware face, “do you know how we Hunters operate here in Equestria, Applebloom?”

The filly in question blinks once. Then twice. A slow, steady shake of the head confirms your suspicions after she opens her mouth and raises a hoof to say “Of course!” but then decides against it.

“Well,” you begin with a gesture towards the vast array of pictures around the place displaying your achievements, “being a Hunter employed by the Equestrian Government, after each successful hunt of a creature that’s been threatening the lives, property, or well being of anypony within her lands, I get compensated according to the ‘threat level’ of my prey.

“So that means that you or your family won’t have to pay for me if you sic me on anything more dangerous than a mouse,” you say with a spin of the pen in your hand. “Though I still work as an exterminator of smaller pests, those aren’t exactly covered by the fat-cats back in Canterlot…” you finish your brief explanation with a proud grin, an honest one at that, as you catch both of the little ones staring at the plethora of pictures scattered plastered on the walls.

They sure give you a reason to hold your head high and give you a reason to smile every time you see them, that’s for sure.

“Wow,” mutters the purple one with a still gaping mouth. Applebloom can’t help but shake her head to reciprocate the sentiment.

A brief burst of pride swells within your heart at the sight of the awestruck fillies gazing up at your many achievements. It’s been far too long since somebody complimented you or your handiwork.

“Please,” you say a bit of uncharacteristic bashfulness, “it’s just what I get paid for. Speaking of which, how ‘bout some details on these ‘odd things’ that’ve been happening ‘round your orchard?” You inwardly sigh one of relief as the two seem to snap out of their looks about the pictures, both looking back pointedly at you.

Applebloom looks a bit unsure at this point, but nods nonetheless as she puts a hoof to her chin and, funnily enough, sticks her tongue out in concentration. “Well, sis’ never did say much ‘bout what she saw, but ya’ could hear these real awful soundin’ noises come bedtime, real scary ones!”

You move to interject with a raised finger as you take a serious demeanor before beginning to scribble down notes of the situation, “Could you possibly describe these noises? Try to be as specific as possible, please.”

Applebloom nods, all of her previous apprehension about you forgotten as she strains her mind to recall the past. “Rustlin’ in the trees and bushes,” she says with certainty, “loud, noisy rustlin’, like it didn’t even care that we could hear it…”

“And, if you left a window open, just the tiniest crack,” she said in a voice that got progressively quieter, “you could hear it breathing all heavy and throaty like.”

“And you’re certain that it’s just a single beast?” you question without looking from your paper, “No two sets of tracks, no two sets of breathing, nor any two bushes rustling at once, or anything of the sort?”

“We’re sure,” her voice is confident as a somewhat prideful tone seeps in, “we Apples are a lotta’ things, but we ain’t idiots.”

You briefly look up in time to see the purple one give Applebloom a skeptical look. A smirk flashes on your face before you shake your head clear from the juvenile play.

Applebloom quickly followed your eyes and gives her friend a dirty look. A sheepish look appears on the other’s face as she raises two hooves in a placating manner, which gets a giggle out of Applebloom before the two eventually settle down.

You shake your head before scoffing at the situation before audibly closing your book. “Don’t mind if I head down to the orchard and speak to the head of the house about this?”

Applebloom eyes flick back to you before she comprehends the meaning of your words and eagerly nods her head before nudging her head towards the door. “C’mon, I’ll show you the path!”

You give off a quick nod before slowly reaching for the coatrack just behind the counter. Sure, you could’ve just told her that tomorrow will suit you better, but you could really use the money.

Well, that and if anyone died after they’d came to you for help, regardless of the situation, you were held accountable due to the Hunter’s code.

You only needed to learn that once.

Before you know it, the three of you are on the dirt road and heading towards one of the three large orchards on the outskirts of Ponyville proper.

The birds flutter throughout White Tail Woods—your home—with their happy songs echoing throughout the countryside, which are accompanied by the sound of gentle wind rustling the foliage all around you all thanks to the gentle breeze that feels just heavenly.

All too soon, though, are you brought out of your calm by the sight of two pairs of eyes staring up at you.

You wonder if they’re intimidated by the height difference as you’ve finally shown yourself off of your small chair,as it soon became evident that they barely come up to your waist. A fully grown equine usually reaches your breast, but, again, these are youngins whom you had to slow your pace for to let their little limbs follow.

“So you can get ridda’ it?” Applebloom blurts out as your eyes flick between her and her companion. The look in her eyes is enough to tell you that she didn’t mean to verbalize that, as evident by her mouth quickly thinning and a nervous chuckle coming out from her.

You raise an eyebrow at that, yet your look remains focused on the path down in front as you mull over what the beast can possibly be. There were only a handful of creatures in modern Equestria that you truly felt threatened by.

“Soon as I figure out what it is,” you say aloud before clicking your tongue, “but I think I’ve narrowed it down to about a dozen or so beasts.” While the little ones were previously bickering and giggling about whatever it is foals talk about on the road, you’ve racked your brain for any relevant information concerning the possibilities of what the beast is that you will face in the coming days.

You absentmindedly crack your neck before speaking, “All twelve of those things shouldn’t take more than a minute or two once I’ve got them in my sights. Only bad thing ‘bout this situation is that you’re the first clients that I’ve gotten in a month and a half,” you give out a small scoff of the memory, “and even then, the mare thought that getting me to hunt some rabbits eating her crops was covered by the state.”

There is a lull in the conversation as you sigh aloud at the memory. The mare, Golden Harvest if you recall correctly, reminded you so much of yourself—the meek and bashful loner who worked for the family business—that you’d ended up just doing it free of charge after having a rather pleasant conversation with her.

She’s one of the three Equestrians within Ponyville that you don’t loathe, that’s for sure.

“You’d think that there’d be more monsters here,” says a meek voice that snaps you from your reminiscing, “being this close to the Everfree and all…”

You glance down to spot the blonde eyes Dinky looking up at you in a thoughtful manner.

Awfully perceptive, this one, you think with a nod. Perhaps this one was actually literate, you wonder?

“Yeah,” you say while sweeping your arms all about you to gesture towards the great outdoors, “surprisingly, ever since the reintroduction of your newest ‘princess’ there’s been a steep drop in the number of monster sightings along the borders of the Everfree.”

Before you have time to draw in another breath and continue, the little one continues to amaze you with the intellect that trumped nearly every Equestrian you’ve met so far.

As if on cue, Dinky blinks in comprehension before her eyes gleam with the childlike joy of knowing the answer. The excitable filly hops in the air a few times as a larger than life smile forms on her muzzle, her obvious interest in the subject almost being tangible through the air.

“It’s because of the Elements of Harmony!” she chirps out with a particularly enthusiastic jump, “their radiance around Ponyville must be a natural barrier between the evils within the Everfree and all the good that Sparkle and her friends stand for! There’s no way that any baddies would wanna’ come into Ponyville with them around, heck, even I was kind of afraid of them until met them all; they’re really nice ponies!”

Silence fills the path as you and Applebloom shoot each other sceptical glances in sync. Although you knew jack about the young Appleboom, you could both confine your silent thoughts of “How in the hell?” about this one being the brains of the duo. Both your eyes and Applebloom’s flickered back towards the purple one, then back to each other, then back to the purple one.

“Sounds like somebody’s been doing their homework,” you say aloud with a bit of a knowing tone, as unicorns always were the smarter of the three equine races.

“Egghead,” says Applebloom, which in turn gets her companions undivided attention.

“Filthy peasant.”

And so it begins, neither of the two wanting to back down as the vicious cycle among youngins begins anew.

“Nerd.”

“Your stupidity is no accident, it is your birthright!”

You find yourself shaking your head at the whole scene, not unwilling to let yourself smile at some of the more creative insults the two toss about, though. This wasn’t going to stop any time soon, if the looks of vehement, childlike hate on their faces were any indication of when a ceasefire was about to occur.

You were impressed, actually impressed. In all your time bickering with friends back before you found yourself in Equestria, all your petty fights with friends would usually last a round or two of verbal attacks. You’d run out of ammunition quickly and then either laugh it off or skulk off with an aura of butthurt about you the rest of the day.

But these two kept on for god knows how long—the actual path that lead from your house to the orchard was no more than fifteen minutes but it felt like an eternity—as the two continued to have at each other without a care in the world. Both had already exhausted their stockpile of good insults and were merely running at fumes at this point.

“No you!”

“No you!”

“No you!”

And it kept going on, and on, and on!

Though, thank the heavens, a foreign voice hollered out to interrupt the dastardly duo’s endless confrontation. You all stop mid stride to look ahead for the source of the slightly high pitched voice that carried a bit of a slur.

“Diiiiiiiiiiinky!”

The voice was one of an odd pitch that you couldn’t tell immediately if the speaker was drunk, yet there was that distinct feminine quality to it as the voice rang out in front of you all.

Looking ahead, you spotted a slightly rustic looking two-story house that bore a classic white paint job with the size to hold a great many number of ponies, you guessed easily over a hundred. You’d probably be right, as you’d been able to hear some commotion a few months ago when there was some sort of family reunion as indicated by all the boisterous chatter and distant ‘Yeehaw!’s that rung out throughout the countryside.

Seeing nobody in sight, you glance upwards upon hearing the unmistakable sound of flapping wings. The sight that greeted you only resulted in

There, above you all by ten or so feet, lie a pegasus suspended midair with a warm smile placed upon her muzzle. Her coat was of a light grey color with an eye and mane color to match the tone of the unnamed foal.

“Hey’a Dinky!” said the pegasus while slowly descending towards the unicorn foal, “have fun with Applebloom?”

“Hey mom,” greeted back the little purple one with a smile, “it was really fun…” Oh boy, you can practically smell the embarrassment emanating out of the little Dinky from here. Though you can’t tell whether or not if it’s the usual shame that comes from having one’s parents around other people or if it’s the fact that her mom is expecting a hug as she slowly descends.

The two embrace each other tightly before the mother slowly beats her wings to send both of them momentarily airborne. The mare does a small twirl at the apex of the short lived flight before making for a slow landing in front of you two.

And when all looked well, ‘Dinky’s’ mom missed a step and fell backwards with a loud thud, a cloud of dust rising from the impact which momentarily blocked all vision. You and Applebloom both let out a small hiss of vicarious pain at the scene as a saddlebag on the mother, one which hadn’t been noticed until now, decided to pop open and litter its contents all about the place.

Fresh groceries and produce now lay scattered about all of your feet on the dirt path leading towards the hillbilly housing.

“Are you alright?” you ask subconsciously while approaching the two and debating whether or not to offer a hand, as it would most likely draw potential ire or fear. You end up deciding against your admittedly rational fear and reach down with a helping hand.

Dinky is the first to recover from this with a fit of giggling. Apparently this was normal to her…

“I’m fine,” she chirps, her mood the brightest you’ve seen it in the company of her mother, before taking your helping hand up. You pull her up in a flash and move to help her mother.

“Heheheh,” chuckles the mare weakly as she’s yet to open her eyes while straightening her back on the ground after the hard fall, “that wasn’t supposed to happen.”

“Miss,” you ask with hand outstretched, “are you quite alright? That was quite the fall.”

“Me?” questioned the mare in question as she opened her eyes to reveal two bright blonde eyes, only one of which returned your look, “I’m fine, don’t you worry about me.” Her voice was, much to your surprise, completely void of any fear or hesitation that was a staple among these Equestrians whenever you tried to hold a steady conversation with one of them. You shrugged it off to her having seen you around town and eventually hearing that you weren’t some murderous beast from the aether.

She took your hand and you helped her up without a second thought. The pegasus shakes herself violently in an attempt to get rid of the dirt, which works to some extent, before fixing her mane and giving you a sheepish look with a scrunched up face.

Nodding—you didn’t know what else to do in the situation—you step back and glance down at the groceries splayed out across the dirt. Applebloom was attempting to organize them into a neat pile, yet her lack of hands left her with some trouble at picking up several bits of fruit without wanting to, you know, put her mouth on another's produce.

Taking a knee, you quickly help Applebloom, Dinky and her mother pick up the mess before long. When it was all said and done, you had taken no more than two minutes to play pickup for the mare.

“Sorry about that,” says the mare with her head slightly hung in embarrassment. A small smile forms out of that scrunched up face when she finally meets your eyes. Or at least tries to, for that matter.

“It’s fine,” Applebloom responded with a dismissive wave of the hoof before she made to give the mare a bright smile, “thanks for lettin’ her come!”

The three shared smiles and said their goodbyes before turning to leave. Though, before it all was said and done, what happened next gives you cause to lean your head back and squint slightly in confusion.

“Bye, Anonymous!” said the young Dinky with a wave and a smile that her mother reciprocated, “And good luck!”

You were silent, somewhat scared and nervous at the situation for no apparent reason, and merely decided on a half-grin with a short wave of your own. You wonder what drove them to do it, perhaps this family was especially kind to everyone and they did it out of obligation?

Soon enough the two were heading down the path towards Ponyville proper, leaving both you and Applebloom watching them as they went. Only then did you notice that the sun was following them as they went, which effectively pulled you from your thoughts.

You glance down at Applebloom, who was still gazing at the two specks down the road with a small smile upon her face.

“So,” you say in an attempt to break the silence, “how about we go pay your sister a visit before people start wondering why I’m following you like a lost pup?”

“Hm?” Applebloom said before shaking her head and looking at me, “Oh yeah, right this way Anonemouse.”

And there it goes again. You scowl flashes onto your usually collected face before you correct the foal, “Anonymous.”

“Tomayto, tomahto,” is Applebloom’s eloquent response as she turns from you and begins to trot towards her presumed home.

If you wanted to kill yourself, you’d climb to Applebloom’s chromosome count and jump to her IQ.

Following behind nonetheless, you find yourself stopping at the front of the house as the little one continues onwards, the foal only looking back as she opens the front door to spot you hanging back.

“Just bring her out here,” you say while leaning against the guardrail of the stairs leading up to the porch, “don’t want nobody gettin’ spooked by turning a corner and bumping into me.”

Applebloom mulled over your words for a brief moment before nodding, seeing the reasoning behind your reluctance. With a shrug and a small smile, she soon disappeared behind the front door.

Your own thoughts soon take over as the clear lack of distractions becomes abundant while the birds begin to silence their songs. Said thoughts primarily consisted of how you were going to find time to cook the rest of that stew and how lonely your bed is without you.

Before you could begin to ponder about anything else, though, the distinct and telltale creak of an opening door sounded out from the porch to your side.

You slowly turn, somewhat intentionally so to dust off your coat and put on a fake smile, to see the elder sister of Applebloom.

The first thing you notice about her is the similar coat color being one of a light orange that instantly reminded you of her sister, and a mane slightly darker than that of Dinky’s. Two green apple eyes looked at you with determination and slight indignation that made you slightly raise a brow in question.

Nice hat, though.

“So,” you begin with a cocky tone that you can’t help, “I heard you got a problem?”

This one’s odd, alright. You’d wager that someone is holding her at gunpoint to do this, if her grimace and eyes darting in every direction except yours were any indication. Silence reigned king for a solid minute before you seized the initiative yet again.

“Well,” you continue, unfazed by her reluctance, “luckily for you, I’m the best problem solver this side of the Ghastly Gorge.”

You can almost taste the skepticism and doubt emanating from the mare in front of you, of whom you guessed wasn’t that old if your judgement on equine physiology was to be trusted, as she stared you down with a critical eye.

And, to your surprise, the mare merely sighed in defeat while slumping her head down towards the porch. A moment later she looked up, catching your curious and slightly worried eyes with a look that bore none of the previous resentment.

“Well then,” she said with a light voice that came with a forced smile, “let’s hope that you’re right for both our sakes, sugar cube.”

You’re unable to hide your immediate confusion at the last comment. Sure, you expected these ponies to be inbred spacks, but nothing to the extent of calling a complete stranger a ‘sugar cube.’ Never being around someone so… quaint, you hope to just change the subject as quickly as possible.

“The name’s Anonymous Unknown,” you say aloud after your visible confusion fades, “pleasure to finally meet the famous Applejack.” Your feet dragged you just a foot before the renown element bearer, your best facade of amicability shining as you reach out for a introductory shake.

Honestly, you can't care less about these freaks and their supernatural powers embedded into them because of some false god’s whims, but, hey, you’ve gotta’ be nice to your clients.

What happens next makes your smug demeanor falter, if only for a moment.

Her eyes light up with understanding as she hears your words, as if hit with a revelation. You felt a brief surge of magic within her, your senses’ hard years of training earning their grain, as those green apple eyes flashed comprehension you never thought them capable of.

The previous resignation in Applejack’s face had all but disappeared as it was replaced with a look of… relief? A worn smile is now her’s as she slowly lowers her head yet again, her eyes much less critical and judgemental now.

A frown slowly finds its way onto your face as you wonder what to do about your proffered hand. You eventually decide to slowly drop the limb while raising an unimpressed eyebrow at the mare.

“I suppose,” you say with just a bit of contempt in your voice, “I’ve nothing against you, it’s just that I couldn’t really care less about what you do to appease the two gods.” Your sarcasm and loathing was hardly hidden at that last bit as you slowly gesticulated with a swirling hand.

Applejack merely nodded at your words, her green eyes again looking into your own for something beneath that she would not find. “Heh, ‘spose you’ll think I’m crazy if I say that that’s one a the best things I’ve heard in awhile from a stranger?”

It took you a moment to process the implications of the hillbilly's words and an even shorter time to give a shallow nod.

“If I’ve learned one thing in all my time on Equus, miss Applejack,” you say while giving your forehead a few knowing taps, “it’s that everyone else is a babbling moron. No exceptions.”

“I hope ya’ didn’t just find that one out, feller.”

You snigger at that one, only to have your eyes catch the sight of one hoof being raised in introduction towards you with an earnest, if not tired, smile appearing on the mug of one Applejack.

“Please, call me Applejack, or AJ for short.”

You choke out one ‘Hah!’ before you meet the firm grip of Applejack with your own strength.

No words come to mind immediately, so you opt for a cocky, lopsided smile as you lock eyes with the apple farmer.

“So,” you say after the shake had ended before a silence had any time to form between you, “what exactly do you know about this beast we’re dealing with?”

“Hm,” she muttered for a moment while tapping her chin with a hoof, “well, it’s hard to give you a pinpoint description of ‘em, but I’ll try my best.” Having already retrieved a small notepad from one of your many pockets, you merely turn to her and nod before beginning to scribble down what relevant information she gives.

“Now this thing was ugly, let me tell you what,” she began with a fake gag, “had veins all about ‘em, he was about as tall as you, ‘cept he was all skin and bones. Like he had that one disease that makes ya’ all skinny like?”

“Anorexic?” you offer while looking up from your notepad for just a smidgen of a moment. You get to see a look of realization come over the farmer as she lightly pounds her hoof upon the porch.

“Anorexic, yeah!” Her eyes lit up with realization as her mouth opened a bit before she shook her head lightly, “The thing looked like it hadn’t eaten proper in months, ya’ could hardly make out his figure in the dead of night but, I swear on my life, it was only about as half as thick as you at best.”

You nod silently while scribbling down the lithe and malnourished details. “Now, you said it was as tall as me? Could you go more into that for me?”

“Sure can,” she responded with a nod, “he stood at about your height, give or take a few inches, but it didn’t look like no equine, no sir.” The mare takes a quick breath before moving next to you to lean on the railing and stare out at the orchard before her, “He looked like a lot like you, actually, er… No offense!”

You shake your head, your professional side overpowering your natural urge to jump on that tidbit, “You mean to say that the beast had a physiology similar to mine in terms of being bipedal with two arms and legs?”

The farmer was silent for a moment, in which you wondered if she even knew what you’d just said, before she nodded slowly. “Now, as for its face,” she began, “it was just… off, if you know what I mean?”

You glance at her with a slightly turned head and a raised eyebrow. You shake your head slowly, that answer being far too vague.

“Now I know you’re gonna think I’m a loon,” the farmer said with a sigh, “but you gotta’ believe me when I say that the thing was smiling at me.”

Your face scrunches up in confusion and shock, never before had you heard of any beasts worthy of hunting actively showing emotion besides the basic rage, fear and pain. You’re quick to destroy the look and bewilderment from your mind, though, before your client has time to turn to look at you for reassurance.

Though you’re unable to keep a completely cool look by the time her green eyes meet yours, you nod before speaking without a trace of uncertainty in your voice. “Could you describe his face in any greater detail? And do you have any other physical traits I could go off of? Size of its hands, arms, did it have any hair?”

The farmer’s ears laid back and her eyes went down to the ground, “All I can remember is that smile, everything else was just a blur the first time I saw it…”

You visibly slump at this, unsure of just what was going on, before you close your notebook with a thunk of finality. Taking a spot next to the farmer on the railing, you look out to the slowly letting sun off in the distance.

You take a special moment to let both of you stare at its beauty, as it may very well be the last sunset either of you see.

“When was this?” you ask simply without looking towards her, and, instead, continuing to mentally prepare as to what must be done.

“Last night.”

Author's Note

Hello, hello!

I cannot put into words how much your actions mean to me—taking time of of your day to read something of my creation—, even with all my articulation skills. This is my second published fiction, and I intend to make it one of my best, as I've put immense thought into the backstory of this story and the characters within, and I hope that you'll be able to experience it as I thought it in the coming days.

I will try to update this story as quickly as possible, but within reason, as I intend to supply you with works of beauty, not putrid slag that will make your eyes bleed. Expect an update once a month, or twice if things are going good.

Before the end, I'd like to give special thanks to Pillow-pony for his immense support in encouraging me to continue writing, and to all my friends who encouraged me forward in those trying times of insecurity.

Ask me anything, as I'd love to hear anything you have to say, and I'll see you on the next chapter!

Chapter 2: Out of the Frying Pan...

Chapter two

Now you can see the visible signs of stress on the farm pony’s features as she removes her hat after a long day. With dark bags under her eyes, Applejack manages to let a groan of exhaustion escape her mouth, if barely.

The sheer tedium and fatigue in this one is almost tangible.

Not too unlike yourself back when you began your initial work as a Hunter back in Aragon, always short on time and a ludicrous number of jobs to be done by week’s end. The memories make a pang of empathy shoot through you before your gaze stops on the beautiful sight that is Sweet Apple Acres.

The late day’s sun casts a shower of orange light over the myriad of healthy apple trees that lie before you, scattered about in clean cut rows that run as far as your eyes can see. A gentle breeze rocks the treetops back and forth in a carefree manner, dangling their fruits precariously with each individual swing. Each tree is healthy and lush with life as you blink once at the sight that you had previously never admired.

“Don’t you worry, miss Applejack,” you say while giving her shoulder an encouraging smack with the back of your hand, “I’ll have this bastard bagged by nightfall, or your money back.”

The mare in question turned to you with wide eyes that soon turned skeptical as she processed at that last bit. A knowing smile soon formed its way onto your mug as you shoot her a knowing glance from your peripherals.

“Heh,” Applejack chuckled for a moment, an honest smile finally forming on her face before she shoves you playfully. The mare looks as if she wants to say something else, with a hoof raised and mouth half open, before she shakes it off and turns back towards the fields of carefully tended trees.

Following her gaze, you spot one red stallion filled to the brim with muscle as he lead a number of plump pigs down the yard towards a sizable pen next to the barn that shared a color with his coat of fur. You can see the look of unease plastered on the young stallion’s familiar face as he glances about, his lime green eyes always lingering on the distant treeline that surrounded him.

Perhaps the beast that was stalking the family is after an easy meal, you think. Regardless of its intent, you eyes are just able to make out the dim, orange glow of the sun slowly beginning to set behind the blurry end of the distant treetops.

“I’ll be back,” you announce while moving off of the porch railing, “gotta’ go grab my gear and get Baron before nightfall.” You pass her and make your way down the stairs without much trouble, only turning back to Applejack when you remember that she might not know of the horrible miscreation that is Baron.

“Don’t worry,” you say aloud with a mischievous smile without meeting the eyes of Applejack, “you’ll know Baron when you see him.”

And with that, you leave towards the familiar forest which holds no stone or crevice unfamiliar to you. As your long strides give you a hasty retreat from the premises, you can just make out the sound of Applejack’s voice behind you.

You can only guess what she says in those mumbled words, their hopeful tone gone with the wind.

The scent of the apple farm, usually one so fresh and quaint that you can’t help but smirk as you walk by it, is now tainted with a stomach-churning stench. A smell so foul that you’re reminded of worse times and sights, long before you even thought about coming back to Equestria.

That one telltale smell of raptor dung and dried blood was no other than your loyal hunting companion, Baron. The beast has never done you wrong once you’d taught him to fear you, but also follow, as he was a natural student of the hunt. The crafty bastard has served you well on the game trail ever since you first sortie way back when.

He stands about four feet tall and usually scares the living daylights out of any locals that haven’t already seen him. His sickly green scales and sharpened claws shine a glistening white in the rays of moonlight that drip down through the treetops.

You are soon to return your attention back to the hunt, but Baron suddenly snaps his head upwards to the night sky and begins to greedily sniff in the air. Not a moment later, Baron’s beady black eyes snap back onto you with an unspoken message clear on his dirty face.

Baron has found his prey.

Nodding, you slowly stand from your kneeling position and give a quick hand signal to the eager pet. And, with that, you two skulk into the dark confines of the apple orchard without so much as a rustle or audible footstep to see you off.

The two of you move as one through the night. The moon’s cover and that of the treetops mask your two conspicuous forms perfectly as your eyes constantly scan about, finger just above the trigger.

No chirping of happy birds or distant echoes of apple bucking were present to help ease your fears, but, rather, the only sounds to meet your ears were the two sets of footsteps that you’ve grown so accustomed to.

This time is different, though.

For all their cowardice and pacifistic tendencies, the Equestrians keep very good track of the beasts that seldom plague their lands. You’d read nearly every book concerning the monsters that inhabited these lands, for both fun and necessity's sake, and you’ve never come across anything that fit the description of this night’s game.

Rolling your shoulders, you shoulder the rifle instinctively as your eyes flicker to something just in your peripherals.

You stare hard at it for a moment before shaking your head and continuing on the trail of Baron.

You really need more sleep.

Before ten minutes have passed, you and Baron stop before something that you didn’t expect in the least.

Glancing about with your rifle at the ready, you keep your eyes trained for any blurs of movement in your peripherals. A familiar calm begins to seep its way into your system after a minute of deathly silence from the ominous rows of apple trees.

Baron too finds this scene suspicious—either that or he’s caught onto your apprehension—as he adopts a low posture and silently chugs in as much of the local scent as he can through his nose, desperate for a trail on the prey.

After a few more minutes of tense searching, the search in the night soon passes as you are unable to spot any potential threats.

Ever so slowly, you lower your rigid shoulders into a more relaxed state as you feel the previous hot flash from your body begin to subside into nothingness. You blink once, twice, before shaking your head slowly and muttering a small curse at the situation that has been put onto your lap.

Waiting another minute for any sort of movement, you finally let your guard down as Baron seems to calm down before standing in a more comfortable stance. Acknowledging that any possible threat has passed, you give out a flat, unimpressed look down towards the Equestrian that lie dead at your feet.

There is a soft crunch of the dirt as you take a knee on it just before the corpse, which, much to your dismay, is the loudest noise within the orchard. Though after waiting a moment to await any newcomer, you eventually return your attention back to the heap of flesh and bone in front of you.

You give a tired and aggravated sigh at the whole situation before you remove your rightmost glove with the assistance of your teeth.

Time to tell if its fresh or not.

Reaching over with two callused fingers, you gently dab your fingers around on of the puncture wounds adorning the Equestrian’s midsection.

Your fingertips feel a familiar warmth of freshly spilt blood upon them, which forces you to scrunch up your face in response. You begin to idly wonder more about this beast while rubbing the blood between your thumb and index finger.

Is it nocturnal? What exactly inflicted these wounds? Does it focus on smell or visual cues while hunting? Your mind is churning like mad with possibilities and conjecture about the beast.

Eyes refocusing a moment later as the blood began to dry and thin between your fingers, you inspect the bloody mess that lies before you.

Surely it has some unspoken tale to tell.

The eyes of the Equestrian are plastered with clear cut horror, the pinprick pupils telling you all you needed to know on how he died. Sure, you could look behind the body for a set of tracks, but, chase or not, it’s a fact that this was not an ambush.

The Equestrian’s dark brown coat is stained with a crimson red, one which shifts and drips occasionally, and is littered with several puncture wounds across the rib cage. The wounds still bleeds what little life fluid the body holds, the red serving as a nice contrast to the light brown coat of that cheery colt you once knew as Caramel.

“Useless,” you spit at the corpse before reaching down into one of your many pockets, all thoughts except one including a very particular object being silenced. Your free hand pokes and prod around in the slightly cluttered compartment for a moment before a very familiar object is cupped in the palm of your hand.

It’s been nearly five months since you’ve needed to last use this, but it still feels too soon.

Your reddening eyes flicker towards the purple, crystalline gem in the palm of your hand as it reflects a few idle bits of moonlight back in a bright manner. The object itself has never done you wrong, it’s just the circumstances warranting the thing’s use often brings you less than pleasant memories.

You give the thing a hard squeeze, one so tight that you begin to lose feeling in your fingers, before you momentarily lift the shaking thing to your lips and utter a few key words.

If the enchanted gem was mad and shaking with rage before, then it’s absolutely livid now.

Taking a step back and angling your body backwards, you suck in a breath before hurling the quaking gem high above the treeline and into the air where it bursts through the foliage and red fruit above. There is a moment of uncertainty as the bright stone reaches the apex of its flight, which sends an apprehensive pang through you at the thought of the thing malfunctioning, before your eyes shut close in pain as a blinding flash—bright enough to be seen from miles away—sends you reeling.

The thing had went off, alright.

Your ears are filled with the sound the thing cutting through the air at a breakneck speed towards Ponyville proper. You aren’t able to see its blinding red trail of light as it moves to retell your discoveries, but the moment of the thing powering up fully has left a clear image burnt into your retina.

Rubbing your eyelids furiously, you let out an annoyed growl. The blasted thing’s roar is still ringing in your ears as your bleary sight is just barely able to discern the surroundings yet again.

“Useless morons,” you growl at the corpse before striking it hard with the toe of your boot, "can't do a single goddamned thing on your own without fucking it up, can you?"

Your anger grows with every word as you soon find yourself panting above after several more powerful blows to the corpse. Thoughts flicker back and forth of insolent Equestrians and their pathetic excuse for a modern society as they try to look down on you with condescending eyes.

Though before you can do anything you regret, a familiar motto comes to your mind.

You can kill them.

The thought brings your eyes forward as your muscles relax, as if you’ve pressed an imaginary fail-safe.

You are still in control.

And you always will be in control.

These subhumans would sooner run than face you, eye to eye and man to beast. You are merely just giving them a false sense of security, letting them think that you’re under their thumb.

There will come a day when you would have no more, but today is not that day.

You’re no monster, you never were, and you don’t intend to give them the opportunity to label you as one.

No, they will start the war and you’ll be the one to finish it. You will wait, ever dormant, until you are struck a blow that you cannot help but to return.

And return it you shall, with every fiber of your body acting as a host for the wrath of God and all his righteous fury.

A small breath escapes your lips as you shake your head lightly to try and cleanse it of all of the different emotions that are fighting within for dominance: Rage, indignance, desperation, all claimed right to the hot seat that is your brain.

You stand for a moment longer, palm to your forehead, before you cough out a few curses in your native tongue before reaching for something much more bulky than a simple gem. With trained movements, you quickly bring up the bulky box to your face and begin to chew fat as your mind races with other ideas.

“October fifth, eleven thirty-seven p.m., Sweet Apple Acres, Equestria,” you begin aloud while trying to forget your little outburst and eyeing the surroundings.

You’re not entirely sure where to begin, so you merely begin to ramble off whatever comes to mind as your eyes begin to idly scan for movement.

"Got hired by miss Applejack earlier this day—I think she hates me—to come check out some sort of beast that's been stalking her and her family come night time." You take a moment to shake your head and sigh at the memory before continuing on, "Now, believe you me, I've hunted an innumerable amount of scum and animals during my time in Equestria, I've read every book on the subject of the monsters within the realm, and, yet, I somehow now nothing of this beast I'm after besides what little Applejack as told me.

“But, anyway, I found a corpse here, a colt that I’ve seen around the town from time to time. The body has several puncture wounds in the ribs that resemble some sort of gunshot or entry wound from large canines, claws, or something of the sort…” Your voice is laced with mild disinterest before it turns into one of curiosity as you turn to the body, a slight raise to one of your eyebrows as you squat low and squint hard.

“Not sure, but whatever did the damage had some sort of effect on the body to make the wounds continue to bleed,” you mutter out while absentmindedly tilting your head in confusion. “Strange. You’d think that I would've heard this one if he was screaming for his life, as you’d expect, but it’s been deathly quiet for the past couple of hours…

“I’m curious about this one in particular, what was this one doing out here in the outskirts of Sweet Apple Acres come midnight? A chase from the neighboring farm dragged out here, perhaps? Maybe I’m mistaken and this one is a vagabond who sought an easy meal from the orchard and ended up for more than he bargained for? Now wouldn’t that be a funny story, I'll sa-”

You stop dead in your tracks, your hazy eyes rapidly dilating as your breath catches in your throat. All thoughts are given a summary execution except for the one which forces all sirens within your head to blast at full force.

Why is the body untouched?

There is a long moment of silence that lasts a good minute or so as your eyes dart back and forth while your brain scrambles for something close to resembling a logical reason. There are only a select few ethereal spirits that kill and don’t dare touch the body, and all of them use a form of attack other than… whatever caused those puncture in the body.

“...The fuck?” you mutter clearly enough into the recorder before turning around with eyes scouting for Baron. “Maybe… No, no, no, impossible, they’re only active during winte-”

Your words die in your throat as your eyes focus on a certain something twitching furiously on the ground just before your feet.

It has a rather slimy body, its scales run a deep green, and something about it is extremely familiar.

Snapping to attention as soon as the severity of the situation dawns on you, you drop the recorder and level out your rifle while you begin to feel your skin crawl. Looking all around at the suddenly menacing trees that surround you on all sides, you cannot help but give a slight tremble as your body goes hypersensitive.

The taste of the air, the smell of that sweet carcass within, the chilling feel of that familiar rifle in your hands, it’s almost all too familiar as you begin to flicker your rifle at every bit of peripheral movement that you’re able to catch.

Your fight or flight instincts taking over, you push back the base instinct to flee away from the unknown as fast as your legs can carry you.

No, you’ve been in this situation many a times before.

If you are to die, you’re going to make damn sure that it’s going to be to someone worthy and not some braindead beast.

“Yea, even though I walk through the valley of death, I shall fear no evil,” you mumble to yourself as a familiar calm overtakes you. No more goosebumps, no fear, just a comforting certainty that you’ll come out alive if you keep your head on a swivel and think on your feet.

As you open your mouth to whisper a few more familiar words to yourself, you hear something… off.

That something is a low growl emanating somewhere behind you.

Turning on a dime, you’re only able to see a short burst of movement that’s too fast to react to. As quickly as it appeared, it was gone within a split second; it has retreated deeper into the darkness.

Your finger quivering upon the trigger as you find your breath, albeit far too shallow for your liking.

It’s fast, faster than you can ever hope to outrun. You stand with eyes widened for a moment too long, though you shake yourself clear of any thoughts of doubt that dared to remain.

Taking a few steps backwards, you grimace at the sound of fallen leaves crunching beneath your boots. It was that sound that decided to echo throughout your mind as goosebumps racked your body, the several protective layers of clothing doing nothing to dissipate the chill moving down your spine.

Keeping your eyes on the last direction the blur was seen, you let your eyes stare over the area at large for them to detect any bit of movement.

Just as you think you see something move, however, another noise forces you to jerk to your left. It’s a growl, higher pitched than the first, and you catch a glimpse of the beast just before it makes for a thicket of trees that is too close for comfort; you guess no less than ten feet away.

Having not been especially experienced at night combat, you’re naturally panicked at the close proximity to the thing. Moving on reflex, you pull the trigger while desperately trying to level the sights onto the disgusting body that make your heart go wild in unmolested fear.

The shot rings throughout the countryside, echoing several times throughout the rolling hills surrounding Ponyville and beyond, striking like a hot knife through butter in the previously dead silent night. Every echo of the shot reverberates through your head over a dozen times as you hurry to load the next round into the chamber.

You’re not sure if you hit it or not, but you’re not going to stop to-

Rapid movement to your right. You turn on a dime and fire off another round at whatever’s moving towards you, your mind not even processing the movements as you move purely on muscle memory and gut instinct.

Just as before, you think you missed the shot as the thing dove behind cover at just the right moment.

You can’t afford to think at a moment like this about what’s going on, all you’ve got to worry about is staying alive.

Your breathing turns heavy as you slam the bolt back home and begin to switch back to the second target, all the while you’re trying hard to resist the urge to let your hands shake with the shock of the situation.

As you level the sights onto the last known position of the second beast, you’re met with the blinding sight of pure, terrifying stillness within the trees.

Seeing nothing, which is leagues more horrifying than something in this situation, you flicker back towards the other beast and half-expect to find it half a second from digging into your ribcage. Though, thankfully enough, you’re met with no such sight, as it too is silent. In fact, you can’t see even a bit of movement nor hear a smidgen of sound.

Before? You were shocked and slightly panicked.

Now? Now you’re absolutely terrified as the only sound within the orchard is one of your panicked breathing, bordering on hyperventilating.

“No,” you mumble to yourself while beginning to look all about the claustrophobia inducing trees, “c’mon, show yourselves, you sons a bitches, I dare you…”

That’s when you smelt it.

The unmistakable smell of decay and rotting flesh. And it was close.

Very, very close.

You practically taste it as you turn once again in a state of panic. You dare only to fire off a single round at the thing closest resembling its horrid shape before giving into your base instincts and bolting in the opposite direction.

Your boots slam loudly against the cold earth with each rushed step that propels you further into dark confines the orchard. A plethora of low hanging branches and leaves serve as a constant threat, whipping about and slicing into your forehead when they go unnoticed until the last moment.

Trees whip by your vision at a blinding speed, the whole world before you seems to transform into one giant blur of darkened color and primal fear as you can hear your blood rushing to your head. Hot faced and breathing in trained bursts, you’re just able to make out the trees from the darkness from above you as the sweet night begins to recede its benevolent light.

During this mad dash, you’re barely able to keep proper hold of your rifle within your main hand. The other hand merely fumbles with keeping you balanced when you would trip on a piece of root protruding from the ground or when you, in your panic, happen to slam into a tree.

You’d graciously stop at any moment for a good breather, but the constant sound of footfalls behind you doesn’t provide much incentive to stop for a moment’s respite. Their pants of effort meet your ears as they come ever closer, though always just outside of arm’s reach.

Sweat gushes from every pour in your body as the chase continues on, your neck beginning to hurt from constantly flicking back to catch glimpses of two familiar entities from the darkness giving chase.

Turning back from one of said glances, you notice all too late the large oak tree that lay dead in front of your path. You’re going too fast, unable to change direction, so you opt to break with heels digging into the earth.

You crash into the hard bark of the tree trunk with an audible smack, your vision going black for just a fraction of a moment before you regain control of your now battered body and make to stand straight. You blink once, twice, before your vision clears somewhat.

Though you have no time to think clearly as you spot one body rushing in towards you at an alarming speed.

Ignoring the black spots in your peripherals, you nearly drop your rifle before hastily slamming it against your shoulder and lining up the iron sights.

Finding center mass, you fire.

There is an audible hit of the large caliber rifle round hitting home, but the creature’s momentum falters for only a moment. Before you can even process the moment, you are caught within the full brunt of the thing’s blind rush before you can even finish pulling back the bolt.

Your last minute dodge proves only somewhat effective as you see a large chunk of bark, which just so happened to be where your head was before you swerved to the side, fly off several feet to the side. You’ve dodged a swipe, if by an inch.

Though, for all your good luck, you are unable to evade flinch away from the entirety of its body. You two clash bodies in a violent crash, of which you receive the worst of. You feel a sharp pain in the back of your skull as you hit the hard trunk of the tree, but the daze doesn’t last more than a moment.

Giving out a guttural growl, you heave with all your might, which sends the beast stumbling backwards. It nearly loses its footing while being sent backwards, but quickly regains its balance before locking its milky white eyes with yours.

Standing a full head taller than you, it stands slightly slouched with mouth slightly agape. It’s form is one slightly concealed by the night’s darkness, but you’re able to make out the bloodied claws and jaw easily enough, the elongated and emaciated limbs of it emanating a sense of dread as it eyes you down. The thing is caked in several layers of dirt and blood, giving its pale skin a darker shade that matches its greasy and knotted head of hair that dangles just above its eyes.

Though that isn’t the scariest part, oh no.

That title is saved for how similar it looks to a human.

You both seem to snap out of the odd standoff at the same time. You opt to reach down for your rifle, of which you dropped in the violent collision just moments before, while the beast rushes forward with gleaming claws at the ready.

Your muscle memory working hard, you notice the charge and grip the rifle like a spear, with one hand at the base and one in the middle.

Moving as you had been taught, you parry the large and predictable blow coming from your left—your arms now feel like they’ve been beaten with iron rods—and move to riposte. Though, without a bayonet, you have to substitute with the butt of the rifle.

It dodges the strike directed at its head, but not entirely. There’s an audible crack as you feel just a bit of resistance while in the apex of the swing before regaining your footing and balance.

The thing lets off an angry growl at you as you two lock eyes again, just before you notice its slightly off center jaw.

Moving fast, you shuffle the rifle in your hands and move to chamber the next round into place. Though, just as you pull your arm back to slam the bolt back into place, it moves.

Though, this time you’re not quick enough to dodge or grip your rifle in a defensive hold. You fumble with the weapon and only manage to hold it up in front of the next predictable swing.

You never guessed that the thing would feint.

You flinch backwards and give out a loud, pained growl at the sharp and warm feel that occupied your right side for a split second. Though, upon the fourth step backwards, you feel a burning sensation run through your spine that forces you to stop and hiss in pain.

You’re not sure what just happened, but you can only focus on killing this beast.

Ignoring the odd pain in your side, you grip the rifle properly as you feel something hard and round hit your back. Comforted by at least one flank being secure, you slam the bolt back home as the beast moves in for another attack.

You line up the shot.

All is peaceful as you reach his collarbone with your own heart racing faster than anytime in the past several years.

You can’t be bothered to worry about that, though.

You pull the trigger…

Click.

You don’t even have time to show visible surprise as the force of the beast’s strike sends you reeling in pain and shock. The agony hits home immediately as you’re unable to breathe from the weight behind the blow as it completely knocks the wind out of you.

The force against your chest is immense, so much so that you’re unable to even breathe as your body slams against the massive trunk for a second time.

You struggle, somewhat surprised that you weren’t immediately knocked out of action by that direct blow, with a retaliatory swing. Your rifle was launched somewhere in the fury of the impact, and you’re left with only what’s on your body.

Your head hurts immensely as you miss the retaliatory strike, but you can’t make to stand to take a defensive stance as the beast dodges backwards with a small hop. There’s something about your side—you don’t know what—that burns immensely and trickles some sticky, wet substance.

And that burning sensation is getting worse by the second.

Leaning back against the tree, you feel your legs quiver and buckle beneath you. Your breathing, although already hampered by exhaustion and panic, is now shallow and pained.

You try to shake away the nauseating feeling coming from deep within your stomach and suddenly remember that the rifle isn’t your only means of defense.

Scrambling for a familiar hilt, you can only watch as the beast slowly grows in stature above you… no, wait, you’re falling.

You crash down onto the cold ground below with a dry smack, your aching body finally receiving the release it called for so vehemently before.

Why can’t you feel your legs?

Never mind that, you can’t be bothered with the thought.

A familiar piece of hardened mahogany grazes your fingertips, and so you desperately clutch it and pull, eager to have at least some form of defense at the ready against the beast which is currently towering over you.

You hold the small, sharpened and broad blade in front of you so tight that you’re pretty sure that your knuckles have turned white. You can’t be bothered to actually check, though, as you’ve locked eye contact with the beast. Its eyes hold your own in an iron vice that you have no possible chance of breaking in fear that it will pounce.

Your skin crawls as it merely stares at you with those milky eyes—nauseating pinpricks devoid of any emotion or thought—dig into your own eyes and seem to feast off of your fears.

You’ve seen this situation a great many times before, with someone on the verge of death and another standing tall as the decider of their fate.

Though, this was only the second—and most terrifying—time that you were on the receiving end of the spear.

Silence reigns king above all as both of your pained breaths are the only sound about the orchard, your eyes never leaving the beast’s as you begin to feel your stomach churn with the need to hurl as your body hasn’t nearly been through worse in the last few years, and never so violently in the span of half an hour.

It’s only when it stops its breathing to let out a smile that shows his yellowed teeth do you feel your blood run cold.

It lunges forward, and you instinctively move—

You can’t move…

You can’t fucking move!

All you can do is watch as it comes forward, down towards the earth at an odd angle. It’s as if it’s falling…

The beast hits the ground with a thud and remains there, ominously still. You think that you saw some hole in its chest as it fell, but you’re not sure.

Why is it still...?

Is it dead?

...

……

Are you dead?

Author's Note

I'm tired out of my mind—I get exhausted at random points while writing for no apparent reason—and I hope that I didn't mess up too badly with this chapter.

The next chapter might be a little bit delayed—my sincerest apologies—as I've much to do in the coming days thanks to my senior year in high school. And don't worry, this sort of thing won't be the norm for the rest of the story, as things will mellow down somewhat after this and live up to that Slice of Life tag I have on this bad boy.

Until next time, friends, don't do school and stay in drugs.

Chapter 3: And into the Fire

Chapter three

*Tha-thump*

The smell of rotting flesh and dried vomit fills your nostrils as a distant rumble of the earth below you sends goosebumps down your spine.

*Tha-thump*

A bead of sweat, complimentary of the humid area, trickles down your cheek at an agonizingly slow pace. Your current situation made it so that if you moved even an inch, that you were dead.

*Tha-thump*

Your heart threatens to hop out of your chest another time as a blast hits dangerously close to your foxhole, the earth shaking violently in protest as bits of dried dirt and plant roots patter down onto your helmet. You have only a moment to blink away the dust and fight back a cough as time runs out.

*Tha-thump*

Another set of violent explosions followed by a flare give just enough light to illuminate the sad little thing that has been your home for the past four days. Several dozen empty casings litter the floor, a familiar green stain to the furthermost corner greets you back with its putrid smell, and several bits of poorly buried excrement adorn the floor.

*Tha-thump*

Four days, you’ve been stuck in this hastily constructed foxhole.

*Tha-thump*

Four days, you’ve been flinching at every shell that lands too close to your home.

*Tha-thump*

Four days, you’ve had to go without proper contact about what’s happening.

*Tha-thump*

Four days, your only lullaby has been the distant rattle of gunfire throughout the nearby jungle and suburbs of the city.

*Tha-thump*

You snap out of another microsleep, your eyes darting about the dark hole with rifle at the ready. Though, after a rudimentary moment of silence and looking about, you shake yourself clear of thoughts of incoming hostiles.

You check the safety of the rifle once again, and then checking sure it was fully loaded, before giving a weak nod in satisfaction. You only had twenty one shots left, as you’ve counted many times in your free time in the night, but it’ll hopefully be enough.

Daring to take another peek out of the foxhole to scout for any signs of movement, you stop halfway through the action as you recognize that something is off. It takes you a moment to pinpoint exactly what, but your eyes widen when you do.

No more shelling.

Holding your rifle tight, you spare an precarious glance over the lip of your foxhole to look out in the fields of dead ground and torn bodies.

That’s when you see it.

This is the true beginning of the battle for Grupstag began.

Your eyes snap open as your body flinches involuntarily.

With hands trembling, you panic to get a good sense of your surroundings and away from the danger that the darkness holds. Darkness shrouds your vision to such a degree that you cannot even see any indication of your surroundings.

As you move to raise yourself from the lying position that you instantly recognize, you are met with a sharp pang in your right side. It doesn’t deter you all that much—you’ve had worse—but is still enough to to give you pause to breathe a bit heavy through clenched teeth.

Your senses are in a mess, and you feel sweat covering the entirety of your body, rendering you a sticky mess with soft sheets clinging to your skin as you try desperately to figure out what’s going on.

Though, before you can react further, your brain slowly processes the situation in a bit more of a critical manner as your heart beats through your ears.

Sheets? Laying down? A cold sweat covering your form?

“Oh god,” you breathe, “oh god, just a dream…” You let out a relieved breath when the realization dawns upon you just before slumping back into your sweat ridden bed.

Before long, you comfort yourself in the knowledge is all well as you wipe a load of sweat off of your forehead. The sensation of your facemask hugging your skin close lets your heart rest a little easier.

“God dammit,” the silent curse leaves your mouth without you even realizing it, “that’s the second time this week…” You let loose a growl of irritation at your mind’s irrational fears about the past and how you could’ve done things differently.

Finding yourself exhausted from the small bit of movement and thought, which is to be expected early in the morning after a nightmare, you lay down again with a light ‘pomf’ against the bed, which is somewhat damp from your sweat. Resting your off arm over your eyes, you let out a content sigh while trying to think of happier times and friendly faces.

And, with that, you drift into a dreamless sleep.

All is warm.

All is comfortable.

You gently nuzzle the warm pillow to try and get a better position upon it, your mind focused solely upon dominating the poofy thing for all its worth. Voraciously do you rub against it, searching for that perfect spot where it’s neither too hot nor too cold, for a seemingly unfathomable amount of time—which, in all reality, takes no more than a few seconds—before you find that spot that grants you ascension to a higher plane of thought.

A satisfied groan, though barely audible, leaves your dry mouth as you feel your muscles relax all at once. You don’t even bother to try and remove the sleep from your eyes, as your sore body eagerly calls you to slumber yet again.

Curling up slightly, you’re making to satisfy the request when something odd stops you.

That something being a sharp pang coming from your right side.

You kick involuntarily at the sudden pain, a small spasm going throughout your body all the while. Moving in a panic, you throw the covers off of yourself while desperately trying to rip your sleep mask off of your freshly peeled open eyes.

You are temporarily blinded upon removing the mask off, but you quickly adjust to the dimly lit room and it’s surroundings, all the while scanning for the aggressor who hit you in the side.

Though, much to your surprise, there’s not a soul in sight…

Matter of fact, that’s not the only thing that makes your head hurt.

Dark blue walls followed by a dark green ceiling serve as a stark contrast to your home’s wooden infrastructure, which is only accentuated by the chemical-esque smell that emanates from all around the place. No longer did the smell of dusty books or gun oil fill your nostrils to lull you into a sense of familiarity, but, rather, you’re stuck with a smell that you haven’t had a taste of since your time back in Aragon.

Your head swells with the whole situation, and you find yourself in a state of total confusion. Just what in the hell happened?

Leaning your head back while propping yourself upright, you manage to curse silently to yourself while scanning the room even more.

Indeed, you are the only one within this small cubicle. The only light for the place comes from a medium sized ceiling lamp that lets gentle splotches of yellow light trickle down from its bulb at a steady rate. The window to your immediate right, no more than seven feet away, sheds no light into your situation and only bears a dark image into the countryside.

The last thing you remember is heading off to bed after a night of drinking out with Greymane and Keen Spark at the local bar, of which went well except for the eventual fight near the end. Sure, you were tipsy after a number of shots, but you still had your mind about you the entirety of the night up until you plopped down into your bed.

Shaking your head at it all, you slowly reach down towards the tender spot that is your right side. Immediately upon making contact with a sore spot, your hand flinches back as a dull shot of pain runs through you.

Looking down, you spot the offending spot and immediately pale at the sets of bandages adorning the right side of your ribcage. They were stainless, but a hot flash like no other wracks you completely at the sight as you can feel a few things off about your side.

Four things off, to be exact.

And not four things, to be exact, but, rather, four holes.

Feeling your bits of flesh and skin being distorted never was the best feeling, and, naturally, you find yourself breathing heavy as you make to get off of the bed. Sure, the wound hurts, but you can still move around fine of you don’t aggravate the wounds too much.

Or, at least you thought.

With a growl of surprise and pain, you flinch backwards and lean back onto the bed after feeling something extremely painful around your sensitive areas.

Namely, the catheter that you’ve involuntarily ripped out.

Giving another angry growl of embarrassment and pure agony, you kick the thing to the side while trying to regain your composure. You try to ignore the putrid smell of the thing as you kick it away, and, in doing so, you give pressure to your right side and are forced to lean on the bed once again.

Wait…

Catheter?

You take a look around, and, sure enough, you confirm your suspicions that this place is a hospital. The stereotypical IV rack lies just to your right, followed by several expensive looking doohickeys that adorn a small table to your left, along with something that made you scrunch up your face in confusion.

Several bouquets of flowers lie on the desk exactly behind you and next to the head of your bed. You count ten total heads of mourning white roses, among other types you don’t recognize, which are flanked by one head of bright yellow flowers.

You blink at that. Aren’t yellow flowers supposed to symbolize joy, or something of the sort?

Shrugging off the thought, you follow the flowers down to their vases where you can see several cards of heartfelt messages and encouraging words, more than a few running the stereotypical “Get well soon” message in bright, bold letters. Each is handwritten, though, and each card is of a different style and color, each one more unique than the last.

You manage to turn yourself around easily enough to pay more attention to these little cards. Your attention was shifted utterly from the task at hand—finding out what exactly happened—to seeing who would actually care enough about your well being, besides Greymane of course, to send you flowers and a card.

Reaching down with your right arm,—your left one is currently helping your balance by leaning on the bed—you slowly reach down towards one gray colored card that sports some odd stamp of bubbles at the cover…

A sudden pang runs through your head at the image. You rub your temples for a moment, giving out a dry curse at the random and all too acute pain, before resuming your task.

You tentatively grab the light grey card in your hand and hold it up to your face, silently reading the bold, yet elegant, letters.

Get well soon

Short and straight to the point. You snort at that while absentmindedly wondering who exactly wrote this one. You can’t remember any of your close friends having anywhere near this level of flair and precision within their handwriting.

Flipping it open with a flick, you begin to read silently to yourself as your shallow breathing makes itself known as the only noise within the room.

Dear Anonymous,

despite us never being formally introduced, know that you are not forgotten, nor unwept for, within that hospital. Indeed, if it weren’t for your brave actions on that night, then many more might have landed themselves in the hospital, if not the morgue.

From the bottom of my heart, I thank you for your service and all you sacrificed for us.

You know, I hear the rumor about the town being more than a little negative about you. But, upon meeting you that one evening, I knew that all the rumors were just that.

Dinky speaks very well of you, in fact. All throughout the night, up until her bedtime, she would speak with wild gestures and wide eyes about your deeds, the myriad of impressive pictures adorning your walls, and how you just had ‘that’ look in your eyes that let her know you aren’t afraid of anything.

Needless to say, I’m probably going to have to dissuade her from trying to be a Hunter…

She just wouldn’t stop asking me about you and why I never ventured out to meet the towering Hunter that lives on the edge of Ponyville. And, truth be told, I couldn’t find a way to tell her that I was just somewhat scared.

When you come back around, know that you’re always welcome at the Hooves household. Come by anytime for a cup of coffee when the weather has you down, or when you merely want to pop in to say hi to Dinky. I know she wouldn’t mind.

With that in mind, remember that, no matter how estranged you feel, you’ve always got friends within Ponyville.

Until next time,
Derpy Hooves.

As you finish reading the name at the very end, you are hit with the realization that sends you wide eyed.

Greymane died nine years ago, just before you left for the eastern nation of Aragon, and you’ve just been hired to deal with that horrid monster on miss Applejack’s estate the other night!

You see splotches of white in your vision at the abruptness of it all, and you steady yourself on the small desk as a nauseating feeling shoots through you.

There’s a gut wrenching amount of emotions flowing through you as the past several years rush past your mind, each one more numbing and disorientating than the last.

Finding the world too exhausting all at once, you decide to take a gentle seat upon the bed before shakily setting down the letter back where you found it. Your eyes linger on the several letters and bundles of flowers under a new light as you’re now able to guess at least one more person who wrote a letter.

Finally getting your breath under control, you gingerly rub your temples with a spare hand before leaning in on your good side’s arm. A groan of exhaustion forces itself from your mouth as your eyelids begin to gain exponentially more weight than they have any right to bear. You attempt to fight it for a moment with a gentle tap of the foot and several attempts to slap yourself awake, but, in the end, your body gives way to the day’s events.

And, with a defeated swear, you lay back on the bed and cover yourself with what little covers that you can be bothered to pull over.

There is no sound, no smell, nor want besides the primal desire for sleep’s sweet embrace.

And, just after blinking away the maddening fluid at the corners of your eyes, you are whisked away into an all encompassing darkness where reality is no more than an afterthought.

…

……?

Too cold.

You throw your body on your left side before crawling deeper into your sleep ball, with an arm steadily placed under the pillow while the other huddles close to keep your dear midsection nice and warm.

You hadn’t been left to your bed for more than a minute, and already you feel as if it’s winter back home. Long nights full of fitful sleep, with one extra layer of blankets being either too cold or too hot, followed by lazy mornings where you would think of your dreams while enjoying the pleasant feel of your worn mattress.

Pulling up the covers closer to your face, you shudder at the feel of momentary bliss as you huddle close into yourself.

Though, before you have the chance to get some actual sleep, something permeates through your eyelids without regret or mercy.

That something being a bright light, and not the one of the artificial light produced by magic.

“Oh hell no.”

And, with those famous last words muttered, you attempt to save your sweet face from the invading rays of sunlight coming from one of your windows…

Wait.

You don’t have windows in your bedroom.

Popping open a tired eye, you spot several bouquets of white roses followed by one clump of yellow ones.

“Oh, right,” you say nonchalantly while remembering it all. Eye shutting back closed, you further shove your face into the warm pillow, adamant on milking the soft thing for all its worth.

…

Your face scrunches up as your lips purse up, and, with eyebrows furrowed, you slowly crack open both eyes and lift your head to look at the bouquets yet again.

“Oh shit,” is all you can muster to say as the realization comes back to you. No calm morning followed by a bit of coffee and leftovers for breakfast, no getting to work early to try and make that one mare—one which you know has a good heart underneath that callous exterior—laugh in order to make her day at least a little better, and, worst of all, there’s no way in hell you can manage to have a normal day.

Cursing another time, albeit under your breath, you find the strength to ignore your favored notion of going back to sleep before sitting up proper in the bed.

Sitting for a long while, devoid of any thought that isn’t vulgar or coherent, you stare out blearily eyed at the wall in front of you. Several different lines of thought fight for dominance within your mind, ranging from what happened last night at Sweet Apple Acres all the way to how hungry you are, before one eventually dominates all others and asserts its rule with an iron fist.

Namely, the urge for the bathroom.

Hey, catheters only solve half of the problem. And not pleasantly, at that.

Gently removing the covers—and by that you mean nearly throwing them on the floor—you slowly sweep yourself from the bed while rubbing the sleep clear from your eyes.

Leaning slightly on your left side, you stand and audibly crack your neck while scouring the room for the restroom. You’re more than slightly surprised at how loud—and painful—the pops are, but you ignore them altogether as you spot the room’s laboratory.

Despite your entire body feeling stiff and somewhat sore, you make your way to the promised land soon enough and, with a great sigh of bliss, relieve yourself.

Finding yourself in front of the sink and mirror, you naturally give into your great thirst and slake it with a healthy dose of lead-supplemented tap water. Once you’ve received your fair share of the sweet clear liquid, you think you’ve just overdone it as a sudden flash of nausea sweeps over you.

It passes over quickly enough as you spot yourself in the mirror, though.

“Oh god,” is your immediate response as you notice the abomination that is your hair. Spread out in every direction, the once proud thing is now a disgrace to all that is holy.

And so after several minutes spent in front of the mirror tidying yourself up, you find yourself returning, albeit with a slight limp and a grimace every time you put too much pressure on your right side, to the sepulchre that holds the flowers and cards.

Balancing yourself upright on the bedside, you merely settle for staring at the cluster of flowers with your mind a million miles away. Your eyes look past the sentimental—albeit obligatory—gifts and sentiments as your mind drifts to last night.

You can’t remember anything beyond finding that one… thing somewhere within the orchard. If only you could remember it…

Blinking at the thought, you think for a moment before exactly wondering why you can’t remember exactly what went wrong.

Your bursts of nausea, the slow responses to change, a general feeling of terrible, and memory loss? You’re no doctor, but you’ll be damned if your high school’s football coach never pressed the symptoms of a concussion into your thick mind.

You smirk at that. Apparently the overaggressive manchild was actually good for something after all?

Letting the wistful look eventually subside from your mug, you find your hand slowly inching towards one light yellow card with a familiar stamp on the cover which is followed by choppy, childlike handwriting that is just barely legible and looks like it was done hastily. The obvious crayon coloring is enough to scoff at it all, though.

Hi AnonemousHi Anonymos Hi Anonymous!

How are you? Are you alright? Applejack won’t tell me what happened, like everypony else, but I’m not worried, I know that you’re alright.

You’re a Hunter, and Applejack says that Hunters are the best of the best, they can’t be beat! Granny Smith was even telling me how you used to help keep the farm safe when you first came here some nine years back, how you would help keep out Timberwolves and the like just because she asked. She’s really kooky sometimes, but she remembered you helping around the farm and helping big brother Macintosh with his math homework when he almost failed eighth grade.

Seriously, why doesn’t anyone tell me these things? Heck, everypony only talks about you all quiet like, with hushed words and low hanging heads. You’ve been nothing but helpful, I reckon!

I don’t know what’s happening, but come back soon! You gotta tell me what happened, and why Applejack’s being so weird about all this.

Apple Bloom

By the end of it, you’re left with a goofy smile that you can’t help. Like most people, you have a soft spot for little ones and their endearing stupidity.

“I’m surprised the old nut remembers me helping her,” you chuckle out with a look of nostalgica overtaking you, “I’d be lying if I said that I don’t miss her apple fritters, though…”

Letting the memories flow through your freshly awoken mind, you smile broadly at the thoughts of happier times and good company. Long since have those times died and withered, but you still hold their memories close to your chest.

Besides your hunts and trying to make that one mare at your early morning shift at your secondary job laugh, the memories were crucial in keeping you going when times get tough.

Giving out a small laugh as you remember a specific instance of your idiocy upon Sweet Apple Acres far before it became home to one of the Element bearers, you all but drip with gusto as the memories begin to come in like a tidal wave. Stories of old come back as if they happened yesterday, and, for a moment, all is perfect.

That moment is broken all too soon, though, when you hear the sound of one door several feet behind you open.

Leaning your head back just enough to get one of your peripherals on the door, all is silent as your sensible chuckle dies in your throat while your mouth goes into a thin line.

There, just in front of the now open door, stands one Equestrian just as bleary eyed and confused as you are. You two lock eyes immediately, your eyes matching the shock of his light blue ones, and you both are still for several moments as you eat up the other’s form.

You can eagerly say that you’ve never seen this one bloke, that’s for sure. His slick hairstyle, one of a greasy combover that looks suspiciously like a fake head of hair, leads down to an oval pair of glasses that sit precariously on the bridge of his light beige muzzle. But, most striking about him is that dominating horn that sits just above his eyes with an almost tangible aura of power about it.

Truth be told, you’re not paranoid about unicorns.

You just know what they’re capable of.

Raising an unimpressed eye, you set down the card back on the table with an audible ‘clack’ in its upright position while maintaining eye contact with the Equestrian all the while.

You chose to simply tune out the Equestrian as you slowly turn towards him while purposefully dusting off your loose fitting hospital gown. You only realize that the gesture has little practical use as you finish it, but you decide not to cry over spilt milk for too long as your eyes snap up to meet the Equestrian’s.

“So, doc,” you say evenly while trying to hide the slight grimace as you stand straight, “mind telling me exactly happened last night?”

The doctor in question—one easily identifiable by his generic white overcoat and stereotypical stethoscope wrung around his neck—gives off a flash of anger on his face before wiping it all away with a gentle facade.

Silence soon reigns king in the room as he sizes you up, a bit of trepidation visible under the mask of kind understanding as he muses the thought of telling you upfront. The silent game continues on for a moment too long, and your patience with the Equestrian snaps as you don’t care to maintain the pretense of amicability.

“Oi!” you bark with a few snaps of the fingers to get his attention back to the situation at hand, “Did you hear me, or are you just brain-dead?”

That snaps him out of his daydreaming, that’s for damn sure.

“Of course I heard you, sir,” he says with a glower now plastered upon his face as he doesn’t dare to hide his annoyance with you, “it’s just that… Well, perhaps you should take a seat. My names Dr. Horse, by the way.” His voice has some bite at the end, but all you can feel is sheer bark as you merely shrug off his needless requests.

“I can take whatever you throw at me,” is all you have to say to Horse while you cross your arms in a no-nonsense manner. Your lips go thin again as you give a barely perceptible nod to the Equestrian, ready for whatever news he may perceive as troublesome.

If something truly bad happened, they you’d already be dead.

“If you insist, sir,” he secedes the point before shaking his head and meeting your eyes, “if you must know, I’ll start from the beginning…”

The good doctor looks up to you with mournful eyes as he finishes his tale at long last, his eyes just having the thinnest layers of tears visible on them. He looks as if someone just kicked his puppy, if the lowly held shoulders and depressed eyes are anything to judge by.

And, of course, you were right on your presumption of this one. He’s your stereotypical unicorn: one of substantial power, but with mental capacity equivalent to your shoe.

You’ve just learned that Caramel was killed by the same beast that left you with four surprisingly small holes in your side. Horse goes on to say about how the damage was mostly superficial, the wound only going about a full inch into you, but the toxin within the beast’s claws nearly did you in, as it was released directly into the bloodstream in four separate points in large quantities.

If someone were to ever ask why you wore so many layers of padded cloth in your hunts—you were often more likely to die of heatstroke than any other risk—then you would refer them to situations like this where several of your organs were saved by the thick layers of padding and camouflage.

But, worst of all, the Equestrian before you expects you to care about the death of Caramel.

You raise an eye at the Equestrian before giving out a haughty scoff at just how much this one is caring for his compatriot. He actually expects you, a recluse from the town who spends his days fetching game in the forest, to care about the death of some nobody farmer who you’ve only ever met a handful of times.

Oh yeah, and there’s the fact that you’ve been sleeping away the past four days. That was nice too, you guess.

“I’m more worried about how you preluded to the fact thought that there were two sets of tracks around the body rather than anything else,” you say aloud while tilting your head slightly. “Matter of fact, have we even identified exactly what we’re up against here?”

The immediate impact of your scoff and words are quite amusing, to say the least.

After blinking away his tears—it seems as if this one was particularly fond of the dead fool—, Horse makes to scowl at you in a way that you haven’t seen since your last encounter with Keen Spark several weeks back. You can practically taste the loathing in his glare and the hatred that is now flowing freely through his body.

You smirk knowingly at the Equestrian before waving him off and pointing at the door. “Please, good doctor, go see if you can’t fetch up my release forums so I get out of your hair before you say anything you regret, hmm?”

Horse’s eyes twitch slightly at this—something which only gives you cause to scoff and raise your eyebrows in amusements—before he follows your wise words and makes way for the door.

As the door slams shut, you’re left to your thoughts and the sweet letters yet again.

Even if your day doesn’t turn out that good, you’ll still have this moment to look back upon and smile.

And so you continue to look down and continue to read the letters which, admittedly, make you pause and question the intentions of the writers.

Specifically one Applejack, as her is particularly self-deprecating and worried about your state.

It takes you a moment to wonder why you should even care about her and why your first thought was one of wanting to debunk her suspicions of worry. You’re sure that she doesn’t even like you—what with your botched first introductions and whatnot—and that this all might just be a well crafted hoax due to some Equestrian obligation with their hatred for all things associated with death.

Maybe you’ll say hello to her on the way back home, though. If nothing else, you’ll get to say hi to the Apples again.

Maybe there’ll be apple fritters?

Ooooh man, now there’s a thought to get a smile on your face!

Several hours have passed since your humorous encounter with the good doctor, and now your thoughts are all in a scrambled mess as another pang flares up from your side after putting just an ounce of excess pressure upon your right leg. You only grimace at it, as opposed to earlier curses when you were indoors and in private, as the thought of embarrassing yourself with a slip of the tongue is exponentially worse than any pain your flesh wound may bring.

Thankfully, you’re now back in a set of familiar clothes that fit perfectly on your form.

Sadly, you’re using said clothes in a trip down to see your superior, Lieutenant Damascus of the Royal Guard.

A primal—and often dominant—part of you votes to ignore the obligation altogether, but a smaller part of you demands that you just get it over with.

Well, it more has to do with the fact that the Royal Guard station lie just in the direction of your house than anything else. You’re a sucker for convenience, after all.

The soft orange glow of the sunset bathes Ponyville’s buildings and crowds in a gentle orange light, letting a sleepy feel overtake the otherwise lively town that is always filling to the brim with rural antics of the youngins or other prepubescents.

Several handfuls of Equestrians remain throughout the town at this hour, some of which you actually recognize, though you’re quick to catch onto the glances and hushed conversations before even the whispers even leave their mouths. It doesn’t take a genius to guess that you’ve been the talk of the town—as well as what happened on the orchard—for the past four days.

Keeping your chin high, you continue on your way, nonplussed about the several pairs of eyes that flicker to the back of your skull as you try desperately to not irritate the wound.

One thing that you notice, however, is the appearance of a guardsman on each corner.

Your only reaction is to shrug lightly at this. The last, and only, time that you’ve seen this occur was directly after Nightmare Moon’s return some couple of months ago. And, even then, with all their pomp and shining armor, they were completely forgotten during the chaos of that night and were left to keeping the townspeople from panicking.

Walking—and somewhat limping—past all of them without as much of a thought, the entirety of Ponyville proper passes by in a blur as you think about the current situation.

Was the good doctor in his right mind when he said that there were two sets of tracks? Just what in the hell did you shoot? And, least of all, what happened to Baron?

Before long, you find yourself smack dab in front of the over-glorified Guard station. Made entirely out of concrete, and bearing a great number of banners alongside all of its walls—undoubtedly there are several to the false gods—which nearly drape down to the ground from the third, and final, floor of the massive complex.

You scowl at the sight, memories playing through your head at that one infamous day along the coasts of Griffonstone, before cracking your neck and entering the station. If nothing else, the place is warm enough to give shelter from the biting cold of October.

The talk with the mare at the front desk goes by without a hitch, and before long you’re ascending the fourth, and final, level of the building. The stairs make it an arduous journey, one filled with momentary stops to let your wounds cease their sizzling pain, but you find yourself before the all too familiar door of one Damascus.

Sure, she didn’t have supreme control of all that happens within Ponyville proper, but her word still carries significant weight within the close-knit command structure. And, more importantly, she was the one who signed your paycheck.

The Hunters, while technically not a direct branch of the Equestrian military, are still required to report to certain members of the Equestrian Military Police, lest it all devolve into chaos.

Shaking your head away from all the incessant, haughty chatter from your brain about who lies beyond the door, you give two brief knocks that are met with a gruff, yet familiar, “Come in!”

You straighten yourself to a respectable position before nodding silently to yourself and letting yourself in. Immediately, you are hit with the scent of tobacco and cheap beer, which is accompanied by the sight of two unwelcome and detestable Equestrians which makes you internally scowl.

The door closes with a soft ‘thud’ from just behind as you now stand in the center of the office, eying the dominant figure of the two, of which has a poorly rolled cigarette held loosely between her chapped lips. You recognize this one instantly, an aspiring guard from Manehattan with one hell a poker face and a horn much sharper than she.

“Oh yeah,” the aforementioned mare says aloud with a broad smile, “you’re still alive, oh how good for you!” Her staple white fur gives way to dark bags under the dark blue eyes which stare into your own with mild amusement and loathing. A few strands of fading blue hair reach down to the corners of her eyes, something you’d learned that she only does when around good company.

Taking it all in stride, you merely ignore the second figure off to the side entirely while absentmindedly cracking your knuckles.

“Yeah, it’s what I tend to do, Damascus” you say with your tone turning slightly condescending, “now, can I get a report on what happened these past four days so I can leave this place? I’d love to stay and chat with you, but god knows I actually have things worthwhile left to do before sunset.”

You can almost smell the alcohol behind her yellow-tinged teeth as she guffaws at the rebuttal. She shakes her head in faux-amusement before snapping to attention at you, eyes narrow slits as she attempts to stare you down.

“I should be asking you why someone died on your watch, Anonymous,” Damascus says with voice low, in its best attempt to be menacing. Her posture changes from one sitting loosely behind the desk to one with a foreleg draped over the worn wooden desk, her head tilted slightly downwards as to really push for the effect of something dire truly going on.

“You seriously think that I let it happen?” you say aloud with a wry grin. “Please, you know that I’d rather avoid all the paperwork that comes with another dead Equestrian, along with the mandatory visit to this pisshole that you call a ‘workplace’.” Your arms are wide open come the end of your explanation, gesturing to the room as a whole as you circle in place to emphasize the point.

Her eyes don’t bulge in the slightest, though.

You give a quick ‘Ha!’ at this before continuing on with a lopsided grin appearing on your face, “I know that you’d have given the order for my head if you even had the smallest bit of evidence against me, so don’t think that you know something that I don’t.”

It’s then when you hear the gentle voice that sends chills down your spine. A voice so calm, so restrained and such a far cry from its normal disdain, that you can’t help but feel extremely uncomfortable, if only for a moment. The last time he’s talked to you was nine years ago, just after the Silver Stallion Incident nine years ago.

“Why don’t you calm down?” the garnet colored stallion says with a singsong voice before taking another swig of his bottle. Your eyes meet his green ones as you give him a sidelong glance, your upper lip reeling in disgust, before you make quick to let him know his place after mustering your courage.

“I didn’t come here to make chatter with you, Keen Spark,” you remark with an accusing finger pointed at his smug face, “now why don’t you make like a tree and shut the fuck up?”

The stallion in question merely gives you a warm smile before going back into his drink with gusto, his eyes flashing something akin to knowledge as he tilts his head back to let his magical grasp on the bottle lift it high.

Turning back to Damascus, the aspiring lieutenant, you lock eyes with her before the whole situation seems to settle.

You’re not sure why the two are sitting around and having a grand old time like they’re old friends, but you don’t intend to find out.

The staring session between you two lasts for several moments, bordering on a minute, before the mare scrunches up her face in anger before her horn lights up in a shade of grey magic. An audible ‘pop’ is heard before you feel something flat and lightweight hit your chest.

Forever dexterous, you catch the folder without breaking eye contact with Damascus.

“I don’t need your shit,” you can hear her grumble as you turn on your heel to leave, “little shit coming in and killing my buzz…”

“I’m older than you,” you blurt out before closing the door, just a moment before something hard hits it and violently shatters. The sound of liquids dripping against the floor and glass pattering away on the ground is enough to greet you out, which makes you smile in the small victory.

Well, if nothing else, you can at least sleep happy later tonight knowing that you’d gotten the last say.

While walking home, you realized something. Something very important, something that you’re surprised that you’ve neglected for these few fleeting hours of realizations and newfound pain.

That something is your appetite.

You take a whiff of the strong smell of vegetable grease and savory meals being prepared by slow roast within the restaurant. The slick, white walls reflect the magic lit light bulbs strung about the place’s ceiling, illuminating the nearly three dozen tables and accompanying seats in a healthy amount of warm light.

Nearly all of them are empty, save for a solemn few which are scattered about at equal intervals, usually among the window-seats.

Doing your best to ignore them, you approach the cashier with a steady gait and a chin held high. Sure, it’s been several weeks since you entered such a place for anything more than a good milkshake or similar treat, but you just can’t be bothered in cooking anything tonight.

“Good evening,” you say to the young stallion manning the cash register, of whom gives you a polite smile and ‘hello’ back, “I’ll take the number seven today, no flowers, thank you very much.” The transaction goes steadily enough, with you handing over a small handful of bits and telling him to keep the insignificant change, before you’re left to your machinations to wait for the order to finish.

You find an isolated table—thankfully it’s one in a corner with a nice window view of the sunset—and plop down before resting your forehead against the impromptu pillow that is a pair of folded arms. And, before you can even blink, you give into exhaustion that your wounds have created in the past hours of lenient physical activity.

…

……

There is a faint ‘clank’ as something metallic and heavy is set in front of you, but, by god, the smell is enough to let you know what it is.

“Thanks,” you say only with a slight slur, unable to move your head from the comfortable creases in your arms that some call elbows. There is a faint response, one of a generic ‘no problem’, before you hear the sound of hoofsteps against the wooden floor slowly grow fainter until they cease altogether.

And so, with a great sigh, you force yourself to look at the meal before you with a voracious and steady gaze. For using fake meat within their patties, these Equestrians know damn well how to make a meat-free burger that isn’t half bad.

Sitting up with a brief yawn, you lazily begin to enjoy the meal of one burger and a side of potato wedges. The calm nature of the evening and a gentle chill in the air makes it all the more comfortable as you open your mouth to take the first bite…

And then your eyes absentmindedly snap to the front door to your far right opening.

“Well I’ll be damned,” is what you would’ve said if your mouth wasn’t filled with freshly prepared burger. Instead, it comes out as a rather crude amalgamation somewhere along the lines of trying to say the Pledge of Allegiance and gurgle sulfuric acid at the same time.

There, walking in with tired eyes and a carefree filly with her book bags still strapped on, stands Derpy and her child. The mother stands as a nice bit of juxtaposition to her babbling and smiling foal that has eyes contently locked onto her carer’s expression as they move towards the front desk.

You keep your eyes on them for a moment longer while enjoying the slow-cooked meal, not sure exactly to react.

You’re too far to hear anything, but you can all but feel the excitement coming from young Dinky as she prattles, presumably, about what she had learned today at school to her slightly weary mother. The filly doesn’t notice, not in the least, as she moves to circle her mother as they walk forwards, in a little show of her energy and speed.

The mare, on the other hand, looks completely drained. Even from this range, and with your not so spectacular vision, you can clearly see the slight bags under her eyes, which are followed by a slow gait and a head slightly hung due to the day’s events.

Hm, so that’s what being a parent is like.

Truly, life is hell.

Gulping down the first bite of the chow, you give out a small chuckle at the droll display before reminiscing back to your own days of youth. Yes, back before you grew estranged to all, you were quite the talkative child who would often seek his parents’ wisdom and guidance through the world. In fact, you would never shut up.

Memories rush by of forgotten faces and detestable people as you reminisce of times long past with your jaw slowly having at the meal. Though, before you have time to truly ponder the sad thing that was your childhood, you’re caught off guard amidst a thought-filled sip from your fruity drink.

That something is a little blur of bouncing blonde in your peripherals.

Raising an eyebrow and glancing at the odd vision, you’re met with the tight-lipped, yet beaming, Dinky Hooves who manages to hold her head just above the table by supporting her front hooves against the table’s edge, which reminds you of a disobedient dog from time’s past. The eyes of the same shade of light yellow meet your skeptical ones as you continue to sip, forever unfazed, from the complimentary straw, pinkie eternally raised in the traditional fashion.

Several long moments pass with your drinking being the only notable noise as you two continue to lock eyes through the several moments that dare to drag onto minutes. You don’t dare break the eye contact—or the drinking, for that matter—as the situation is half-entertaining, half-alien to you, as it’s been quite some time since someone’s sought you out for reasons other than your skills.

Though, thankfully enough, you’re not forced to act as a certain mare comes to your rescue from just behind her foal. Her approach was soft, so soft that you didn’t even notice until she was in your peripherals, though her voice is slightly strained when she speaks.

“Sorry,” Derpy says with a sheepish chuckle that is followed by a rub to the back of the neck, “you know how it goes, look away for a moment and then they’re gone…” A small smile forms on her face before she looks down towards her child and shakes her head at the young one in a playful manner.

“It’s fine,” you reassure her with a dismissive wave of the hand, “she wasn’t a bother, in fact, she hasn’t even said anything to me. She’s just kind of… stood there and stared at me expectantly.” Just after the words leave your mouth, you and the mother both look down the see the little one realize she was the topic of discussion, to which her eyes go wide and her vision flickers between yours and her mother’s.

A nervous smile now on her face, she descends from leaning on the table for support and lands back on the floor with a soft ‘clop’ that echoes throughout the silent restaurant. Now it’s time for her to utter a nervous laugh, though much higher in pitch, that forces the corners of your lips to curl upwards in amusement.

“Like mother, like daughter,” is all you can say at the scene before you. And, thankfully enough, the other two find it humorous enough to give out a good laugh at it, to which you join after a moment’s hesitation.

“Come, come,” you utter after regaining your wits after suddenly being forced into social contact and overdoing your innate fears, “take a seat and forget what ails you.” You gesture openly towards the two seats opposite of your own, and, with smiles, the two accept and take their places.

Both of them show clear interest in you and are expectant of something, some sort of explanation, as the two sets of blonde eyes are fixated upon you. The child tilts her head in anticipation while the mother merely relaxes in her seat, seemingly grateful for the small break from the day’s events.

Not being one to disappoint, you lean back in the chair before bowing your head in slight resignation while lifting up a palm as your lips begin to move. “So, I presume that you two are slightly curious about the whole situation…?”

Dinky nods her head furiously while her mother settles for a quick, and much more calm, one that is interrupted by her daughter.

“Yep!” the young Dinky blurts out with a raised hoof, mimicking the generic classroom behavior.

You expect her to continue on with her question, but she looks on expectantly with a look of interest within her eyes, hungry for knowledge like all children are. Though, before long, she realizes her faux pas and gives out a nervous giggle before getting on with it.

“Are you okay?”

That catches you a bit off guard, you’ll admit that much. You expected something to be asked about how you “beat the monster” or what happened, something of that childish nature.

“Me?” you say aloud to buy more time than anything else as you point weakly to yourself in disbelief, “I’m invincible, kid, so don’t worry your little head about it.” A little pang shoots to your spine as you gently pat your side, but nothing else as your staple, cocky grin returns to your mug, “I’ll be good as new come next week, trust me.”

Wonder is evident on the filly's eyes, but the mare is a bit more skeptical, and rightly so, at your bravado concerning the wound. She raises a skeptical eye at you, one to which you respond with a roll of the shoulders.

“It’ll take a lot more than… whatever that thing was to take me down for good,” you dismiss with another flick of the hand, “but, yeah, I’m not dead yet, thanks for asking.”

With another bashful motion of the palm, you lean back even deeper into your seat as the situation dawns on you that, despite your usually quick mind, that you had no idea how to actually hold a conversation with the mother and her foal. And by that you mean that you have no idea how to break the ice, nor what they would be interested in talking about.

“I hope the hospital wasn’t too bad.” And, thankfully enough, you’re not too pressured to speak first as the weary mare does so first, and with a welcoming tone that you haven’t heard in quite some time. It’s almost as if she actually worried about how your stay was, or even cared for that matter.

“Actually, I just woke up earlier this evening,” you state matter-of-factly with a finger pointed upwards, thoughts of previous moments now all forgotten as you look the mare in the eye, “I was completely gone for the past four days, slept like a baby and had a brief session of concussion-induced amnesia, funnily enough.” There was a moment of silence as you break eye contact to look out of the window to see the glorious sun setting over all the lands before mumbling to yourself, “That’d make a pretty cool story, actually…”

“Did you read my letter, Mr Anonymous?” blurts out little Dinky, which gets your attention to snap back into the situation at hand, “I was kind’a hoping that, you know, since you seem like a nice person and all…” Her words die in her small throat, however, as she leads onto the end, eluding to something that you once read that made you very, very confused.

“Of course I read it, thank you by the way,” you say with a slight scrunch of the face, “but I’m rather baffled as to why you’re so interested with Hunters all of a sudden. As of now, you’re the only one who’s really shown even a smidget of curiosity with us,” your words are rather vague, unwilling to fully go into depth about her request that settled oddly with you when your eyes originally read her words.

The young Dinky looks not dismayed by your words, however, but only excited as she sits up in her seat with eyes wide. “Nobody ever really speaks about them, they’re like a modern day… enigmer? Enigmeh?” She fumbles with her words for a moment, but, thankfully enough, her mother whispers the right word to her daughter, which defuses the confused look of Dinky which turns into one of excitement yet again.

“Enigma, yeah!” little Dinky says with eyes filled to the brim with childlike jubilation, “I didn’t even know Hunters were a thing until Apple Bloom told me about them last Monday just before we went to grab you!”

Her eyes slightly dim as she realizes something, though, but only for a moment before she speaks again. “Like, nobody speaks of it, but Hunters are just as important as the Royal Guard,” Dinky says with forearms gesticulating wildly as she stands on her seat to allow for such movement, “Royal Guard keep away the bad people, and Hunters keep away the monsters.” She ends her little speech with clanging her two front hooves together, as if having two little hand figures duke it out.

Though, before you have time to respond properly, two trays and drinks are set down by the waitress to your right. The mother gives off her thanks, while little Dinky merely grabs the oversized milkshake before her and begins to suck furiously from the terribly inadequate straw.

Huh. Apparently you aren’t the only one who enjoys the burgers after all.

“To answer your question,” you say while grabbing a potato wedge and waving it about idly, “it’s because we Hunters don’t get golden armor and, generally speaking, aren’t of Equestrian blood. You can see how it would hurt the national pride of Equestria to hear about griffons, or a creature like myself, defending you all rather than another Equine clad in enchanted armor who bears your colors.”

And, much to your surprise, the two still give you their undivided attention as you shed some light unto the situation. Just as you blink, though, you catch confusion by the one that you wouldn’t expect.

Well, at least Derpy lives up to her name. You lock eyes with her and raise an eyebrow in question, giving a silent nod to prompt the question in hopes to slake her curiosity, and give rout to her doubts.

“I think I know the answer already,” she says with a short pause to take a sip of her water, “but, why are Hunters mostly foreign people?”

You wonder if she truly wants to know the answer, as Equestrians are usually skittish as all hell about The War and all facts concerning it. Hell, you’d found out soon after returning some several months ago that people knew very little, if anything at all, about it besides the sides and the war crimes which are so well written about.

“Equestrian education and culture focuses on the 'magic of friendship' and other such ideals that run opposite to what us Hunters do: keeping people safe by other means." Ever so idly do you lean back in your seat while lifting up a potato wedge between your fingers before plopping it in your mouth and continuing, "Naturally, it's not that desirable of a lifestyle over anything else that your everyday pony can get here, especially when the next closest thing is serving Celestia herself with the title of Royal Guard. My upbringing, as well those of griffons and minotaurs for that matter, varies drastically in terms of what life is sacred and how you exactly one should see violence as a means to an end, among a myriad of other things."

“And,” you conclude while slowly relaxing in your seat and raising your drink to bear, “that’s why the other two Hunters here in Ponyville are griffins who also live on the outskirts.”

Derpy gives out an understanding nod before she looks down to her meal, and begins to delve into it with only moderate enthusiasm.

You don’t fail to catch the sight of Dinky watching you all the while, though. And, as usual, there’s a hint of recognition and curiosity within her eyes as she continues to suck in some milkshake through the straw that gives only air.

“Why hasn’t Miss Cheerilee taught us about The War yet?” little Dinky says after releasing her vice grip upon the straw, her blonde eyes now looking up towards her mother for some guidance.

A flash of apprehension crosses Derpy’s face before she wipes it away and looks down to her child, her mouth full of potato wedges. “You’re a bit young, sweetie,” she says after swallowing the load, “but you’ll learn about it, trust me.” And, with that, her eyes have a placating and caring nature about them as she smiles down at her child, not wanting to break the child’s reality apart and introduce her to the real world just yet.

Little Dinky, however, merely purses her lips and darts her eyes off to the side before grumbling something to herself before biting down onto her straw.

You give off a light chuckle at the child’s antics, and are soon joined by Derpy who also is able to enjoy the brief moments of levity. And, just as your merriment reaches its apex, the little one looks up with an indignant spark in her eyes before pouting.

“I’m twelve, that should be old enough for anything!”

There is a clear moment of silence as you look straight at the little filly, eyes of which are currently flickering between you and her mother's, as you manage to hold a poker face. Soon, as you find out, Derpy isn’t nearly as skilled as you with the art of deception as she manages to burst out into another fit of laughter soon after one rather long session of eye contact between her and little Dinky.

Soon enough the whole table is enveloped with a deep laugh of all three of you—Dinky most likely is just laughing because you two are—that dies down all too soon.

The meal passes in relative silence after that, with the small talk consisting of what little things about the town that you’ve missed during your little nap, how Ponyville now has an unspoken schedule where the streets are empty come eight, and the increased guard presence within the town.

It was all interesting, but nothing truly noteworthy in its own right.

When the last bit of meal is scarfed down, you all lean back in the chairs and merely enjoy the late evening feel of the place as the gentle sunset bathes the restaraunt in a nice orange. So nice, in fact, that you feel yourself begin to drift off into something resembling a food coma, though, before anything of the sort can happen, Derpy’s voice fills your ears and kills all notions of sleep.

“Oh shoot,” she says while looking to the window to your side and then to the large clock on one of the establishment’s walls, “time really flies, huh?” With that, she gives an unintentional flap of her wings to get them moving again before standing from her seat and wiping her mouth with one of the many napkins provided with her meal.

Upon realizing what she was so surprised about, you too feel your face fall, if just a little bit, as you had plans for the time after this meal. Namely visiting your neighbors down in the acres, but, as Murphy's law would dictate, nothing ever goes right for you.

“Well,” you say while straightening your back and getting out of your seat while handling the trash of all three as a courtesy, “that went by faster than I thought possible.” You quickly fill out the garbage and return the trays to the young cashier just before catching up to the two as they wait by the front door for you.

“Thanks,” you say aloud, just noticing how Dinky is having much more success with her milkshake now that it’s not pretty much frozen, and how Derpy holds the door open for you and insists that you be the first one out. Another set of thanks are given before you all stand outside the establishment with heads held high and one little filly sipping noisily from her creamy treat.

“I’ll see you two around town, I guess?” you say with a nervous chuckle, not entirely sure about how to go on with the departing.

Though, thankfully, the mare holds her own in the terms of socializing skills as she comes to your rescue with a warm smile and a dismissive wave of the hoof.

“Of course, of course!” she says with a flick of the hair, “Thanks for keeping us company in there, it was really good to fina-”

And then that’s when you all realize it.

You’ve never actually introduced yourself to either little Dinky or her mother, Derpy.

You rub your neck nervously at that before putting on a sheepish grin and giving a quick bow of the head to both of them. “Sorry,” you say with eyes flickering between the two, “never got to properly introduce myself.” You take a step back before dusting yourself off and doing a steep bow that lasts for a few solid seconds. You raise to your full height with a cocky grin now upon your face, the calm and collected facade returning in full force.

“Anonymous Unknown, at your service.”

Derpy, for the most part, looks a bit taken back by this. Though before long she manages to catch herself and, with a shake of the head, she too gives a bow before looking up with a sheepish smile.

“Derpy Hooves,” she says before gesturing towards her smaller compatriot, “and this is-”

“Ditzy Hooves!” blurts out the little one as she smiles broadly and gives you an enthusiastic wave while she holds her milkshake aloft by a gentle purple aura, one which she immediately returns to after the words have left her mouth.

“Thanks for talking with me and mom, Mr Anonymous,” she continues after relenting from the drink for another brief moment, “You’re a really cool guy, and way more smart than anypony gives you credit for.”

You’re taken back when you hear this. It’s been some several months, give or take a few, since you heard something so complimentary without it being forced or being said with a hint of some ulterior motive behind it.

“Quite the charmer, aren’t we?” Derpy says to her child, once again filling in where you pause. She leans over to give little Dinky a rub on the head, one which she leans into and giggles with joy.

Shaking your head and clearing any thoughts of doubt or fear, you jab a thumb back at the direction of your house and speak without being able to meet their eyes.

“Yeah, thank you and all that, but it’s getting kind of late, and I’ve yet to even talk to my boss about what happened,” there is a moment where the wind picks up and whips everyone’s hair about the place, yet you don’t blink as you continue your farewell. “It was fun, until next time, you two.”

Dinky settles for another enthusiastic wave followed by an energetic bounce—no doubt due to the milkshake which is now half empty—while her mother settles for a kind smile and a small wave.

And, with your own lips curling into a small smile, you turn heel and begin to make your way home as the sun sets just to your right, keeping a solemn light over you as your battered and bruised body limps home, eager to be away from the day’s worries.

After the whole situation, though, there’s one thing that you can’t shake off, no explain.

It’s the giant smile plastered on your face as you think of the two and how they actually cared about how your day was.

Author's Note

I'm tired, I haven't done a lick of work for two major, major assignments due at the beginning of next month, and I'm going to homecoming in two weeks with an actual grill for the first time.

And how do I decide to spend my time?

Writing about ponies, naturally.

I hope this chapter wasn't too sporadic, but I want to put something out before leaving for a couple days. As per usual, let me know what you think within the comments, ~~it seriously means so much to me, guys, like I can't articulate my appreciation,~~ and all that good stuff!

Until next time, don't be a stranger.

Chapter 4: Old Friends, New Problems.

Chapter four

You can recall the memories all too clearly now.

Yes, they flood into your perturbed mind like a great hurricane of distress and uncertainty. Like bullets screeching past your head and leaving your ears ringing, they cloud your wisdom and drag you into an altered state of consciousness as your blood turns hot from within you.

You once called her a friend.

You will never forget those countless nights of ridiculous stories, always interrupted by fits of giggling by all parties, by the fireplace which were once the only highlight of your worrisome days that left you utterly exhausted.

She was one of the few people that you’ve ever that special bond to, that bond which enabled you to think of them as that sibling you never had, and, by god, you can still hear the faint echoes of her laughter as a wistful smile tugs on the corners of your lips.

Leaning back in your chair and taking a good moment to breathe heavy in order to calm your nerves, you caress your eyelids with a cold hand that does little comforting. After a long moment of containing your inner emotions, there comes a familiar silence over you two as the wind picks up.

Leaning down in your seat to lower your own bottle of fizzy soda—she was never much of a drinker, and you didn’t want to make it awkward or anything, so you went the safe route when in her company—down to the her’s, you take a moment to mouth a solemn, “Cheers” before clinking your glasses together and taking another long swig of the substance.

The fattening substance does little to calm your nerves with its flavor, but does wonders as to bringing back memories spent with the young mare and her clueless wife. Slowly, yet surely, your eyes blankly graze over her another time as a weak film of water forms over them.

Her white slab is all too familiar to your eyes—of which you can feel the bags under all too well—as you read the carefully chiseled name that has plagued your mind for the past decade.

Greymane.

Then, all at once to your senses, there comes a roar of steam from a beast of crude iron and coal from some ways off to the right. The sound is near deafening—so much so that you can feel your insides shake at the train’s sheer momentum—but, as per usual, you’re not one to react to anything with any semblance of fear.

You don’t flinch at the metal behemoths approach, nor do you blink as it gives off another steam-induced scream to alert others of its approach, but, rather, you keep your eyes trained on the final resting place of the one mare who enabled you such confidence all those years ago.

Despite her stubbornness at times, you would always find yourself intrigued with that quirky and cranky personality of hers that often reminded you all too well of your little brother’s. There was nothing in your heart to suggest anything more than a platonic love for the mare—as you’d have had to repeat a great many times to people who would’ve thought you would put the metaphorical horns on her wife—as she made your life worth living for a time.

Swallowing the fatty drink, your side stings with the pain of an injury almost a week old, but your heart bleeds fresh from the visiting of an old friend who made you what you are to this day.

Then, to remind you of the time, comes the fourteen consecutive gongs of the bell that hangs from the top of town hall. Two o’clock, on the dot.

It was the second time that the bell has interrupted your thoughts.

Sitting up from your comfortable seat and kneeling down to dust off her tombstone yet again, you gingerly place the two bouquets of white flowers off to either side of the stone slab.

With only another sad smile given to your best friend, you give a friendly pat to the top of the tombstone before uttering the request which you always knew the answer to.

“So, same time next week?”

The smell of freshly baked goods, plucked vegetables, and the unmistakable scent of Equestrian filth fills your nostrils yet again another excited towns person rushes past your weary body. Like the others, he too wears a look of mild interest and excitement on his long face that doesn’t give you any reason to calm down.

You can already guess as to what the locals are all upbeat about—the sizable, yet dissipating, cloud of smoke coming from the train station is clue enough for your mind—as your tired legs carry you onwards to the usual place you love to stop by after the regular Saturday visit.

Though, sadly enough, the cozy pub is on the exact opposite side of town from Greymane, and it takes you nearly twenty minutes to reach it by the way of foot.

And to add insult to injury, the place is right next to the train station to swindle the tourists out of their hard earned money.

Well, whether you like it or not, you’re going to see what all the commotions about.

The locals, as you’ve come to expect, give you a second glance when they see you again—no doubt surprised about your quick recovery and wondering of the story you have to tell—but fall in line towards the crowd amassing at the foot of the train station. Said crowd is bustling with whispers and excited chatter, but nothing much more than that as all look up expectantly towards the large mass of steel that’s screeching to a halt.

“Probably something about the false gods,” you mutter at the crowd with the disdain nearly tangible in your voice, though not before a moment of unmolested silence breaks your step mid-stride. It’s a rare silence, the type that would only occur right before you cursed loudly in the classroom or something similar, which was always followed by either a moment of embarrassment or fear.

While all of the Equestrians among the crowd lean on the tips of their hooves to get a better look at the show on the stage, you offhandedly tilt your head to the side to catch sight of whatever it is all these morons are fretting over…

And when your eyes lock onto the six puppets of the false Gods, freshly emerging from the train that hasn’t even skidded to a complete halt, to which you can’t help but sneer at.

With a disgruntled mumble leaving your mouth, you return your attention to finding a nice seat by the fire with a mug of hard liquor at your side. Truly, after a morning filled with discussing your situation with your boss, which was followed by your weekly visit, you deserved at least some downtime.

Hurrying along, yet being careful not to seem like you’re in too much of a hurry, you skirt along on the outskirts of the crowd, of which has now started to chatter incessantly to the six lap dogs. You see several familiar faces, but nobody that is willing to give you any greeting or recognition beyond the natural flick of the eyes to see the large figure in their peripherals.

You don’t need them, though. All you need is a hard drink and someplace with silence enough to let your thoughts reign supreme.

Though, when you meet the sweet lady that is an open street as you leave the crowd, you’re met with a terrifying sight. Your eyebrows furrow slightly at the sight, which is followed by a thinning of the lips to show some hint of displeasure, all the while you lean slightly back before the group of ten odd children as they rush by.

As their dust cloud soon passes you as they rush by to the commotion, no doubt trying to get into the thick of it, you idly check your watch while wondering why the youngins are out so early...

Slapping your forehead just after remembering that it it’s Sunday, you make to pick up your feet and begin to retreat back towards the pub, one quaint Huff and Puff, with an alacrity that surprises even yourself. Truth be told, your side cramps up with every step you take, every bit of movement making you grimace deepen all the more, but you can’t be bothered to stop and rest while knowing that relaxation is no more than two minutes away.

And so with a muffled grunt of effort, you spot the familiar pub that houses some of the best mead and potato wedges you’ve ever had the pleasure of eating. Picking up the pace, you are interrupted by a faintly familiar voice calling out your name.

“Anon!” it calls out with an unmistakable lick of that certain drawl that you were once so accustomed to that it brings back memories of the once complete Apple family, “Anon, Anon, hey, Anon!”

There was some sort of commotion just to your left, one that you recognize as a certain mare trying to move her way through the thick crowd. Her apologies for muscling her way past the mediocrity were a constant as she rapidly grew near, calling for you all the while.

Coming to a halt, you give out a tired sigh before slowly turning your head to get a look at the approaching ten-gallon hat that serves as a marker for the one mare. Your eyes focus on that familiar color, memories of the previous owner returning all too vividly, of which force your breathing to quicken as goosebumps hit you.

Your fingertips warily rub the creases on your forehead, a bit of sweat already beginning to accumulate on the smooth skin. Feeling just a bit better as you try and rub away the stress, you relent your off-hand before opening your eyes to see something that makes your breath stop for just a moment.

“Anonymous!” says the young Applejack, her green eyes locked onto yours with worry, excitement, and a myriad of other, unreadable emotions evident in the orbs. She stands before you, uncaring of the attention that you two have now gathered, and has you deadset in her eyes, all of the world made insignificant before your reunion.

Blinking, you take a moment to actually look about to see a sizable number of stares now directed at you and Applejack. You spot a number of familiar faces, several of which are devoid of their usually uninterested looks to ones of rapt interest as their plate sized eyes stick onto you like those first days after emigrating to Ponyville from way back when. You’re hard pressed to find any face that brings any semblance of comfort, though.

Snapping your attention back to the mare with a quick shake of your head, you scramble for a response to the young mare who continues to look up at you for a response.

“Good morning, Miss Applejack,” you say after another moment’s hesitation with a slight nod, “what brings you to this neck of the woods?” You take a moment to look up from her eyes yet again to scrunch up your face in confusion before admitting your thoughts, “Sorry if there’s something obvious that I’m forgetting, I can’t remember much of that night besides what others told me.”

Your words seem to bring a cringe to the young mare, but she quickly recovers with eyes glued to the ground, oddly enough. Her ears splayed back, she audibly gulps before letting out a nervous chuckle and giving her reply.

“I was just…” Applejack says aloud with eyes slowly lowering down to where your right hand was gently held over your wounds, of which she eyed for several silent moments, “worried about you, is all. Sorry I had to leave with the girls to Appleoosa, it was just that everything happened at once, the Royal Guard said they would keep everypony safe while we were gone, and Braeburn said he really needed our help…”

The young Applejack seems rather upset at herself for all of this,—as her eyes find the dirt road extremely interesting as a hoof idly plays with the pebbles underfoot—something that you wouldn’t expect from someone that’s supposed to have a sense of bravado to match your own.

Hell, you’d expect this type of shy behavior out of her big brother, not the aspiring Apple that owns the entire family business and runs her household of four.

Rolling your shoulders, you’re all too aware of the silence between you before the distinct cracking of your neck speaks for you. The cracks are as meaty as they are relieving to your battered form, but you’re more into doing this for the effect that it’ll have.

“Believe me when I say that it’ll take a lot more than two of Them to kill me,” are your words that leave your mouth with the utmost conviction you can muster. And, for a moment, you wonder if you even believe yourself before going forward with the next words that come to mind, “They got lucky: it was an ambush in the dead of night and they held every imaginable advantage while I was going two days without sleep and dinner.

“Hell,” the words that leave you slowly gain courage before ending in a low chuckle as a little grin tugs at the corners of your mouth, “and even then I managed to take one down with me before the other one ran home with another breathing hole.”

Your mind temporarily flashes back to what you’ve heard from that night by the small garrison of Royal Guard that came to the scene to respond to your brief message. A sizable trail of blood dripped all along as the second beast ran back, unsurprisingly, to the Everfree and left a crumbtrail that’s yet to be followed beyond the fringes of the Everfree. As such, the trail has gone cold as no more information was provided other than that more guards were a must from the situation, as the killing of an Equestrian on their own soil is something near unheard of and dealt with swiftly.

Though, surprisingly, no course of action has been taken other than bulking up Royal Guard numbers around the perimeter of the town and setting up watches on the borders of the Everfree.

Returning from your little flashback to that night and what has happened since, your eyes flick back to Applejack and those Equestrians surrounding both of you. With your frame still made masculine from your time back in Aragon, you stand like a god among the Equines who now look up at you with several emotions swirling in their eyes, ranging all the way from admiration to mild trepidation.

But your eyes focus back onto the second youngest of the Apple family before anything else, and you give off your usual cocky, lopsided grin at her, which is just enough to get her lips to begin to move.

Though, sadly, that isn’t meant to be as another mare takes her spot in the conversation with a voice that’s near forgotten to you. It speaks with a gilded and meek tone that makes your eyes go wide before snapping onto the light blue form of one now distantly-familiar unicorn.

“If…” the young mare says aloud, her words failing her for a moment before she shakes away her nervousness and speaks anew, “If you did so well against the two of Them, then why haven’t the Royal Guard done anything to get rid of them?” Her words seemed forced, as if someone urged her on to speak the words before pushing her outward from the group, but are met with murmurs of agreement from the rest of the crowd as their worries are now made known.

Truly not expecting the young Minuette to speak out to you or about such a matter—your mind flashes back to the first meeting between you two, the young one just starting puberty and seeking to try her hand at writing, what with a strange alien living on the outskirts of the town with a master that seemed nice enough—after your last, explosive meeting after your framing at the Silver Stallion some long years ago, you take a moment to look at the mare oddly while letting your brain attempt to process just what the young mare had said.

There is silence for a moment longer as you force yourself to look into the eyes of Minuette, you now too aware of past emotions reemerging up in as all eyes are now upon you. Taking a short breath, you answer with as much confidence as you can, though you can’t help but let a little edge leak out into your words.

“If I know Equestrian Military, and, trust me, I do, then Lieutenant Damascus is sticking to her training and avoiding going on the offensive, lest she repeat any mistakes made in The War and suffer blinding losses at the hands of the unknown.”

“But this isn’t The War!” shouts a voice from among the crowd, shattering what you were about to say. Several Equestrians among the crowd, more loudly this time, make their protests known yet again.

Raising an eyebrow at the crowd and finding your temper growing at the blatant disrespect upon your and Applejack’s privacy with every interrption and moment eavesdropping, you give out an experimental cough before raising your voice that of a man needing to be heard above all else.

“This isn’t a discussion for me to be having,” you holler at the crowd at large, eying every one of them—save for the two named ones in front of you—with as much disdain as you can muster, “If you’ve a plan for how to best deal with Them, then go take it down to Lieutenant Damascus at the headquarters in the town center, and, if not, then you’re more than welcome to piss right the hell off!”

As if you’ve given all of the personal death threats, eyes grow wide as if the Silver Stallion Incident had just reoccured and all were present to witness it. Eyes flickered to the ground, and then back to you when they thought you weren’t looking, before the crowd quickly dispersed before fifteen seconds had passed.

Well, you still had a crowd of two.

As if sensing that you’d just thought that, Minuette grows fearful of no longer being with her friends and looks behind her to see no friendly faces awaiting her. Turning back to you, she gives you a sad and pained face that almost seems apologetic as her mouth opens to say something, but closes after a few moments of hesitation.

Minuette wordlessly turns away and hastily retreats to find her compatriots, eager to be rid of your company by the looks of it.

And now it was someone else’s turn to be confused, as Applejack gives a baffled look about her as she tries to get an idea as to why everyone found your words so threatening. The stereotypical head scratching goes on unmolested as you give the mare time to look about and shrug at the sudden privacy you two enjoy.

“Well…” Applejack begins after a short, awkward chuckle, “that sure is one way to deal with a crowd, huh?”

And, for the first time in a couple of days, you’re given reason to smile. There’s just something about her chuckle and smile that forces her optimism and good mood to spread to you after a moment of your face holding solid, but only for a second before your normal facade shatters into a slightly bemused grin.

“Eh, that was nothing,” come your boastful words as you regain your composure and comedically dust yourself off, “I wasn’t even trying to be loud; if I was then your ears would be ringing right about now.” And, unsurprisingly, this gives the young farmer cause to raise her eyebrow in a skeptical manner.

“You… loud and intimidating?” Applejack mutters with a bemused look overtaking her face, “The shut in, quiet Hunter that only comes to town when he needs to buy some ammo and beer every Sunday?” Her face is thick with jest and good humor as she tilts her head to the side with a knowing smile upon her lips, “Shoot, I’d bet five bits that Granny Smith could beat you in a hollering fight.”

Your eyes lay upon the young farmer for a moment longer, unsure if she knows of your history with her elder, before both of you erupt in a fit of chuckling, probably both for different reasons. Her probably just for the fact that she’s being teasing, and you delving back into memories of better days and friendlier faces.

Though, sadly, the moment of levity doesn’t last too long between you two, now not entirely unfamiliar, associates.

A small cough is had by Applejack, one followed by a flick of the eyes off to the side while she makes a rub for the back of her neck, just before she mumbles some words—most likely motivational—to herself before addressing you properly and with a tone completely void of humor.

“You know that wasn’t pulling your leg earlier when I said I was worried about you, Anonymous.” Her words are chalk full of conviction and, much to your surprise, honest compassion that doesn’t fade for a moment as she speaks, “But, uh, I just don’t know what to do or where to begin… I wasn’t lying when I also said that this all happened at once,” Applejack says, her voice now dripping with exhaustion as she allows the drain of the days to show on her, what with you now noticing the slight bags under her eyes as she allows her shoulders to slump heavily, “we’ve never had anything like this in Ponyville, and it’s all the worse when it’s on your property while you’ve got a family to look after, duties to do with the whole ‘Element of Honesty’ thing, and a whole bunch of other stuff that was just kinda’ thrown at me.”

Hmmm. Now that she says it like that… It does seem rather bad, doesn’t it?

“Well, we did have something like this way back when,” you half mutter to yourself and to Applejack with an uncharacteristically quiet voice before bumping back into your usual, bravado filled tone, “but, honestly, I feel pretty bad for you.

“I just got ran through,” you continue with a quick pat to your aching side, “I don’t have to worry about anyone mourning me or providing for a family, much less a younger sibling. Lord knows that if I were in your position that I wouldn’t sleep without having all of the windows boarded up and having at least three guns by the bedside.”

“Pfft, yeah, you’re telling me,” comes the exhausted reply from one Applejack, with just a hint of jealousy in her voice as to your ability to purchase firearms and ammunition with impunity. Two of the few benefits that come with being a Hunter, actually.

Though before any more discourse between you two can emerge from the encounter, there comes something.

Or, rather, someone tackily dressed with a large, white bonnet that replaces her usual red ribbon. An unusually large pendant, one of a light golden chain and decorated with a bright red gemstone in the middle, dangles from the little one’s neck as she makes her way over towards you two, now able to find you two with the streets being clear of pests.

“Applejack, can we go home already?” comes the call of one young Applebloom as she finally makes it to her sister’s side, breathing a bit heavy with the bulging briefcase that lays resting on her back. . The sight of the little one all done up makes the corners of your lips curl up in unmolested mirth, as you could never have expected such a sight.

With a hand-me-down dress—one that looks just a tad bit too large and made out of a white fabric that holds a few stains but looks good nonetheless—on her little body and that bonnet making her look like a little puritan, Applebloom takes a small breather by her sister’s side, seemingly unaware of your presence.

Applejack gives out a coy little smile at this, her previous exhaustion vanishing in the blink of an eye as the little one reemerges into her life, before acting with a voice that speaks of mischievous joy.

“Well ain’t that a rude way to say hello to a friend, Applebloom?” come her words, which are followed to a playful bump to her sister’s shoulder, along with a nudge of her head towards you.

Upon her elder’s words, the little one scrunched up her face in a humorous manner before focusing her tired eyes dead ahead. Though, before she notices your unseemly sight, she glances at her sister with an irked look that is often so common in the youngins. Somehow she hasn’t noticed you and dismissed her sister’s words upon not immediately seeing a friendly face at her level.

“Now what in the hay do you mean by that?” Applebloom questions aloud, “Are you still thinkin’ that I’m mad ‘bout when you made me sleep in the same bed with ya’ because ya’ were afraid of the wendigo gett-”

Sploch.

Both you and Applebloom slowly lower your eyes to the youngin’s mouth to, unsurprisingly, see an orange hoof belonging to Applejack placed firmly on the lips of the younger sibling.

A moment of silence passes upon all three of you. The young Applebloom raises an eyebrow at her sister, effectively communicating the unspoken “Really?” between them as the aforementioned elder grew a funny shade of red in the cheeks.

“Smooth like butter,” you can’t help but blurt out with an patronizing, yet playful, nod.

“Oh hush,” is all Applejack offers you along with a quick glance that bore a momentary grin, before returning her attention to the young one.

Though Applebloom could care less about her elder at this point, as she had just glanced over and has her eyes deadset upon your own. And, by god, you see a warmth and joy directed at you that has all but been forgotten.

She remains still for a moment, a moment filled with the ambient chatter of the crowd that has moved onto greener pastures, before a high pitched cacophony filled the air. It was a rather harsh, yet impassioned, mix of what you guessed is a cheer, a surprised yelp, and perhaps a botched saying of your name.

The little one, upon dropping all of the possessions on her back and giving a quick sprint towards you, latches onto your right leg with a certain degree of desperation and strength that you never expected.

You’re taken aback at this rapid set of events. Why would this little one care so much about someone she doesn’t even know? Perhaps it’s due to that special childlike idiocy that holds children captive until early adulthood? Perhaps she was never told of your situation? She sure sounded unsure of your state in her letter from the hospital, after all.

“I thought you were a gonner, Anon!”

…

……

You look up from the small Equestrian firmly hugging your thigh, which she also has her face firmly planted into for an inkling of comfort up, up to the Element of Honesty.

“Now don’t you go worrying your little head about me,” you say in a friendly tone while keeping eye contact with Applejack, your face keeping a neutral appearance all the while, “I told your sister that I’d have it dealt with, and I dealt with it, didn’t I?”

A moment of silence followed your little question, one you filled with a quick tipping of Applebloom’s newfound bonnet so that she can look up to your eyes. There is a moment of cathartic release for the youngin as she looks up to the man who she had thought had possibly died, eyes wide with joy and relief.

You have a moment to spare to glance at Applejack, though. She stares at you for a few solid seconds with a blank, neutral face before she gives off a nervous chuckle and darts her off to the side, suddenly interested in something in the background.

“She just told me that it’d all be fine,” the little one still looking up at you says with a huff of annoyance that forces your eyes back onto her’s, “always telling me to just ‘not worry about it’, as if everything’s all Hunky-Dorey!”

As if sated by this little outburst, the little one returns to the ground on all fours with a little clop as her hooves hit the dirt road. One last puff of haughty air given out, she tilts her head slightly at you while looking for some words to utter; some profound words the encapture her exact feelings as she looked into the eyes of the local giant.

“Whew!” says one Applejack as she nears, cutting an effective end to whatever her sister was on the verge of saying, “I dunno’ about either of y’all, but I’m exhausted after that train ride and all that, so how ‘bout we head in for a little shut-eye, huh, Applebloom?” The elder ends this with placing the once-forgotten luggage bag of Applebloom upon her own back and giving her sister a light pat on the head, an honest, yet stern, smile plastered down at the youngin all the while.

For the most part, Applebloom looks dismayed at this but manages to hold her tongue. With a quick glance back up to you, she gives off her best attempt at a smile that shows true amicability and warmth, yet still has bits of doubt clinging on the fringes as she gives you a wave goodbye before steeping in line behind her elder.

“Sorry ‘bout that,” Applejack excuses after leaning in an a not-so-discreet lean in towards you with a hushed voice, “it’s just that… So much’s been going on and all that, I don’t really know what to tell her right now.” The finely-hatted mare gives out a look that’s heavily stirred with unease and confusion before her eyes rest upon you with a tinge of her past unease returning. “Listen,” Applejack begins to say with her voice now back to its proud self, “how ‘bout you come on over sometime later tomorrow for a beer come lunch time? Lord knows me and little Applebloom need some rest after all of this, plus I’ve got a long list of things to check up on now after being gone for so long…”

Hmm. Now that second to last bit caught your interest from the moment ‘beer’ was uttered.

Free beer? You’re no bum, but you’ll happily take a free drink when it’s offered in good company.

And you’re also not one to drag on a conversation when it’s apparent that the other has things to do.

“You can count on it,” you say aloud with as much bravado as you can muster in an attempt to sound like your usual sure-fire self, “though don’t be surprised if I’m more than a little late; it may be just a flesh wound but, by God does it hurt like no other.”

You catch the suppressed flinch of one Applejack as you finish saying your piece, but you don’t say anything as the two give you their goodbye smiles and waves. Both do seem quite tired as you can see slight bags under their large eyes, the idea only furthered by their somewhat sluggish movements as they are joined by several others as they begin to make their way back to Sweet Apple Acres.

You catch the immediate sight of a few of the other element bearers breaking from their chatter to unite with Applejack and her little sister,—their faces showing similar levels of exhaustion as the farmer and her little sister—which is sight enough to make you scrunch up your face in anger before turning back to the direction of your destination and heading on your way.

No, they weren’t regular Equestrians and locals in that group that just greeted her after waiting for her business with you to be done, but, rather, they were of the other five element bearers; more lapdogs to the false gods.

You know all of the others by title and by name, all except for two, and you know them as genuinely good people. But, after all, you cannot know just what they’re up to, whether the false gods have doted upon them so much that they turn as vile as those which they all but worship.

Applejack excluded, of course. She offered you free beer, and anyone who does that is good in your book.

With that in your mind, you lazily grasp the door handle of the Huff and Puff tavern after walking about fifty more paces, a pained expression overtaking you as you misstep for the last time as you enter the second most familiar part of this town that you know.

There is a slight burn, a hiss of pain as it shoots down your throat.

Holding it in, you taste the sweet relief of the drug as the chemicals hit your brain like gentle pinpricks, letting forth another wave of cathartic, yet unspoken, relief.

Blowing out the stream of white smoke, you let the stream of white linger in the air for however long it wills it necessary. Although initially thick and blinding, the cloud eventually dissipates into nothing which effectively brings to light the “fine” scenery all about you.

Your off hand rests half of your body weight against the darkened mahogany table below—which, thankfully, is at a comfortable height that comes up to your breast—that seems to sway every which way but still. You’re forced to try and hold in your previous meal at the sudden nauseousness that overcomes you with little success, a familiar, and burning, taste overcoming your tastebuds that ends in you coughing violently into your elbow.

“Blegh, fuck,” you can’t help but mutter to yourself…

Wait a moment… You’re still coughing like mad!

Getting your little fit under control, you have to give an actual effort to look to your right, where the oddly-familiar voice came from. Sadly, your addled mind can only remember that it knows the voice and cannot—probably due to the alcohol—focus on who the enigmatic voice belongs to.

Dark green eyes, ones displaying a cathartic level of anger and disappointment, stare down at the countertop as you can hear a distinct smacking of the lips, as if the stallion is tasting something and trying to determine whether it’s good or not.

“Hmmm,” says the garnet colored stallion with a certain eloquence about him, “tastes like shit.”

Wait a moment. Now you remember why you can’t get a good look at this guy!

Removing the cigarette from directly in front of your face, your vision clears up significantly as the picture of the lad comes into full quality.

Your eyes widen slightly as his detestable face now meets with a freshly opened bottle of imported wine, the type that tastes horrendous but is acclaimed by people with copious amounts of money, without so much as a flinch as he begins to chug freely. The young one drinks greedily from the bottle, like a baby on the teet of his mother, as his gulping is audible from the two chair distance you two share.

The emerald green field around the bottle slams the glass thing down upon the countertop as soon as its contents are drained. There is an ominous silence as you, as well as all other patrons of the pub, openly stare at the young one with open annoyance, mild interest, and bits of boredom.

The bartender, one Berry Punch, gives a skeptical look at the young stallion, a look that doesn’t care to hide how unimpressed it is by the blase act and attitude before her, before shaking her head with a sigh and reaching for something under the counter. She returns a moment later with a thin bottle, one identical to the first, clenched between her mouth.

Though before she can set it down to give to her customer, a sickly green aura emanates the entirety of the bottle before it is unceremoniously yanked from the mare’s mouth. This, understandably, angers the bartender noticeably, if her immediate frown and eyes boring into the head of the stallion before her chugging the bottle were any indication.

“Mate,” says one Berry Punch after leaning in over the counter and slowly, yet firmly, grabbing the bottle and pulling it down to end the drinking session, “I get it, you’re angry and stressed about Them and all that, you have a right to be.” Her voice is originally restrained and gentle, but hardens along with her eyes as she makes eye contact with the green eyes of one Keen Spark, “But if you do that again, then I’m kicking your sorry ass out of my bar without a second thought.”

This contact holds for a moment longer as the bar’s owner and the newcomer continue in a silent contest of wills, other patrons and regulars holding with bated breaths for the outcome of it all. And, for a moment, you’re sure that you’re going to get the opportunity to glass him upside the head.

Hell, it’s been far too long since you’ve done that…

Though before you have the opportunity to bash in another skull with your favorite brand of beer bottle, there comes a gruff pout from Keen Spark that is followed by an incoherent mumble that sounds an awful lot like, “Whatever…” before he waits for the bar owner to slowly set the bottle down upon the countertop.

The young stallion takes it in with initial bits of uncertainty before taking it back into a full chug again. And, before ten more seconds have passed, the thin bottle is depleted of its nectar and left only with its glass shell.

Slamming the bottle down yet again, though a little less noisy this time, you can now see the visible distress and indignance in his eyes as he looks left and right at all the Equestrians eying him curiously. He cares not what the think enough to actually act upon his rage, though.

Or, well, that is up until he sees you.

“You!” he hisses with a familiar edge to his voice that brings back memories of nine years prior, “Why the hell are you in here instead of helping our lads with the search for Them?” He approaches you in a bold manner, his emerald eyes bearing no sign of amicability or intent, but, rather, unmolested malice and hatred that you’ve come to expect out of this one.

And now he stands before you on two legs after slamming his right hoof down on the counter in an attempt to intimidate.

Through your drunken stupor, you can’t find a better course of action than to take a slow drag out of your cigarette and to blow it off to the side of the young stallion’s head. You don’t care to act with any words, and instead find yourself ready to glass the bastard at a moment’s notice as you idly flick the cigarette’s ash into your allotted tray.

“You act like you’re tough shit around town, always looking like you own the goddamned place and giving us those condescending eyes,” Spark says with rage as bits of spit scatter on your face and jacket. “But what the hell do you do when lives are actually at stake?” he takes a moment to scoff and point his off hoof at you, “Yeah, that’s right, you hide in this bar like the fuc—”

“Alright, that’s enough, you’re done!” comes the rarely assertive tone of Berry Punch, one that you’ve learned not to argue with in fight’s past. It is a tone that you yourself had to once master when times required it: assertive, confident, and unwilling to put up with any backtalk.

Keen Spark doesn’t care in the least, though, as he continues on uninterrupted.

“Yeah, you have no idea how to really be a hunter of beasts, you know only how to kill us, you fucking Imperial!”

At those last lines the bar goes quiet save for Spark’s heavy breathing and the sound of Berry making her way over.

Imperial: a derogatory term used to identify anyone loyal to the king of the Aragon Empire.

Imperial: often synonymous with one favoring genocide, scorched earth, or favoring fascism over all.

Imperial: used to denote an active enemy combatant to half of the civilized world during The War.

You slightly reel from the accusation, now more than half of the eyes in the pub being squared solely on you. You can only imagine if they heard it or not, or if they’re going to believe this insolent colt.

“I said enough!” says a voice that interrupts your hand beginning to raise itself in the beginning notions of vengeance, “Get your slimy ass outta’ my pub!”

Keen Spark tumbles downwards to the ground in a grand fashion, hitting the ground with a hard smack that echoes throughout the establishment.

You cannot help but muster the bravado but to give a low chuckle at this, half tempted to spit down at the young stallion who almost signed his own death warrant. Sure as hell, Berry Punch was one of the few ponies within Ponyville that could offer you a challenge in an arm wrestling match as well as a fight, and this just goes to show it.

Not that Keen Spark was ever a muscular one, though…

As he slowly picks himself up from the ground, groaning as he does so, you cannot help but shed a little light onto his situation after another drag of your cigarette.

“Believe you me, old friend,” you say aloud with a visible pause to flick the ash of your cigarette down upon his unsightly face, “I want to go burn their dens and crucify them more than nothing else for what they’ve done to me, but I can barely walk as is.” You turn fully in your stool as he finally stands on all fours, making a show of gently hovering your hand over your wound in your left side of your ribs, careful not to disturb it any, that suddenly becomes painful as you pay attention to it.

“It’s only been a couple of days, Sparky, just go home and take your dick-smelling breath with you.” With those words spoken, you turn fully back in your seat to the counter, intent on destroying your drink and what little remains of your third cigarette.

The sad little stallion tries to give his rebuttal, but Berry Punch makes her wishes known and ushers him out without any trouble whatsoever.

Smashing the butt of the cigarette down into your tray, you make eye contact with Berry as she returns behind the counter in her normal position. You put on a thankful little smile while sliding a handsome amount of bits into the tip jar, giving the old acquaintance a nod of amicability that she returns with a weary smile.

“I don’t know what happened before or between you two,” she says while leaning in on the counter after hopping onto her seat, “but… We really… Uh… Ah hell, nevermind.” With her attempts at being eloquent aside, the middle-aged mare merely switches her face from sincere and warm to neutral as she reaches below the countertop before audibly searching for something.

She returns a moment later with something blocky and easily identifiable that she shakes with a warm smile that makes you chuckle and shake your head in embarrassment.

“Really?” you say aloud with genuine joy in your voice as your face grows a bit hot, “We barely even talk, Berry…”

She configures the blocky camera within her hooves to try and get the thing working, though her voice is a mild one that you’d only expect out of a kind mother as she speaks, “Oh, we talk a lot, you just don’t remember much.”

Now that sends your blood cold for a moment.

Sensing your hesitation and pinprick eyes, Berry gives out a hearty, yet short, chuckle before turning her attention back to you with a calming look. “Kidding, kidding, sheesh…” she says comfortingly enough that you can feel your heart rate decrease, “though you have told a number of funny stories about you and Greymane, though, but nevermind that.”

She takes a moment to click something in the camera and looks up at you with a kindness that you haven’t seen since your last meeting with Derpy. “You’re a good guy, Anon, I’ve learned that through the years. You’ve been nothing but good, if not apprehensive about accidentally pissing me off, you’ve always tipped nicely, laughed at my jokes when nobody else did, listened to my tales when nobody else gave a damn, and, hell, you came back after all these years, out of all the pubs in Ponyville, to my little hole every Sunday? I may not show it, but I appreciate you.”

Awestruck by the words of kindness by a mare that you always thought hated your guts for your bad first encounter, you watch silently as she raises the camera for a shot to your mug.

Smiling bright, there is a powerful flash of white as the troubles of day’s past seem to melt away, giving forth to a new sense of euphoria and good feelings.

You can get used to this, that’s for damned sure.

You lazily wave and give out a drunken smile at the newfound friend, one Berry Punch, that eagerly sees you off.

She was pretty adamant that something bad might happen on the way home, what with Them yet to be caught along with the notion that she thought that Keen Spark will try something, so she did you a solid and walked your drunk ass home.

“I’ll see you next Sunday, or whenever. Have a good one, Anon!” she says with a tired wave of her hoof which you happily return while staggering for your keys. She gives off a bemused scoff at your attempts to pick out which key is right, but trots off into the night just as well as any other.

Her hoofsteps grow only fainter as time goes by, which eventually dissipates into nothing.

Struggling for the right key, you eventually find the right one after several minutes of work and find yourself lazily shutting the front door and stagger inside.

You can’t do much at all now except drunkenly tumble around your first few rooms in a desperate attempt to find your beloved bedding.

“We shall not stumble, no we shall not fall,” you sing a little song to yourself, emboldened by your relative isolation as you find your room’s entrance, “we shall not crumble, no, we shall stand tall!”

Belching, you swing open the door and slam it shut behind you, exclaiming the last bit of the vocals to yourself as you now make a crash course for your bathroom. You emerge minutes later, now fully ready for rest and prepared to be lulled away by the sound of whatever song is playing on the radio right about now.

With a smack down on into the sheets, and immediately curling into the sheets to gain a bit of protection from November’s nipping cold, you soon find the world dulling into nothingness as a drunken sleep overtakes your senses.

…

……

Your eyes shoot open, uncaring of how tired your body is and whatever else is hurting.

You can sleep through parties, storms of incredible magnitude and everything in-between, but not this.

There’s no way in hell that you’re going to sleep through the sound of a door opening in your house while you’re in bed.

Trying your best to ignore the premature hangover pounding in your skull as exhaustion also makes itself known, you clamber out of bed while trying desperately to strain your ears for any precious sounds that would feed you information on the situation.

As you reach under the bed and pull out an old friend that has helped you a great many times, each time you having to add a scratch along the barrel of the thing in remembrance of its utility. Switching off the safety, you’re not exactly pleased by the powerful silence that now resides over your dwelling.

Your mind races at the possibilities. Did you even close the front door? Hell, did you even close the door separating the front of your business that connects it to the rest of your goddamned house? Maybe its someone running from Th—

Your blood runs cold, if only for a moment, when the surefire sound of a singular, bold footstep echoes throughout your head and tugs at your heart.

The sound came from the pathway between your business and your living room, the ominous creaking of your wood flooring letting a familiar calm run through your body. Something in your mind clicks again that recognizes the familiar situation and puts you into full survival mode: it’s either you or them.

Creeping forward, thankful that you know the place to a fault and where to step to avoid noisy spots that would groan under your weight, you shoulder the smoothbore shotgun, one with a barrel that is seemingly covered in marks, with ease before arriving to the right side of your closed door. Glancing down, you notice that, unsurprisingly, you did none of the several locks adorning your door earlier this night.

It’s steps echo throughout your mind and beat against your eardrums like being slammed with a bat. Currently it’s walking about the kitchen, being deathly quiet besides its audible footsteps, as its feet smack quite distinctively against the tile for those who care to listen.

Just what in the hell are you going to do?

You hold the advantage here, that much is true. This is your home, you know it better than anyone else alive, and you’re sure that the thing probably doesn’t expect an ambush with fire and lead.

As much as you’re sure of your own capabilities, it’s a double-edged sword; you know your own capabilities.

You’re groggy, not nearly as reflexive and quick as you can be, you still have crust in the corners of your eyes, you can’t see all that well in the dead of night, and you know how quick these Things are. True, your pellets would outrun it in a heartbeat, but you can’t be sure that you won’t be dead if you miss the first shot and surrender all of your advantages if you twitch in just the wrong direction by a centimeter.

Before you can ponder any longer on the next course of action, there comes a noise that reminds you of just how out of it you are: the sound of raspy breathing.

Eyes snapping to attention, you take a single step backwards from the door while shouldering your weapon, not entirely sure of what the hell is going on, yet determined to make sure that you don’t end up like Caramel.

There is a jingling sound, however, that you’re not entirely expecting which makes your pupils dilate.

That jingling sound is the door knob being crudely, if not gently, handled by the thing on the other side of the door.

And, just like that, it happens.

Your hands move on their own as your eyes catch sight of the oversized and hideous hand that holds the door knob. There is a flash and a thunderous crack that sends a red mist into the air.

There is a cry of unmolested pain and terror from the thing as it audibly reels back into your living room before toppling over what sounds like your coffee table.

If you’re to trust your sight when the flash of the shot went off, then everything below the bastard’s right elbow should be a fine, indistinguishable clump of hanging meat, bone, and sinew.

Rushing through the door to follow the cries and mad panic of the thing as it tries desperately to gather its wits, you’re only able to see its vague outline through some early morning light that’s coming out of the few windows you have scattered about the place. You flick towards the body without truly aiming center mass, and are rewarded with the thing, in a surprising show of reflexes, rolling just out of the spread and scrambling for the front door.

Aiming hard this time, you take a moment to give a slight bit of lead, considering how fast the thing is going, before releasing a breath and pulling the trigger.

There is another loud crack of gunfire as the shot echoes throughout the countryside for the third time tonight, though there is something amiss as the sizable pellets zoom towards their target.

Namely the blinding gold shield that appears before your eyes and sends the pellets back in all directions.

Your brain doesn’t care to process the information and instead tells you to aim again after cocking your weapon again. You snap onto the target, rapid as it reaches the door, and let loose another salvo of pellets that scream towards the target at a blinding speed.

The same result occurs, unsurprisingly. You’re familiar enough with this sort of technology, but you don’t dare give up the initiative and give chase.

Following in suit, you enter through the door to the front part of the business to see the thing scramble out of the front door to the vast thing that is the Whitetail Woods, given some smidget of light by light blue rays of morning sun. You trace the figure roughly, even as he passes through the doors and takes a hard right towards the forest proper, and fire at the next chance as he passes through your vision by the window.

There is another echoing gunshot that rings out to Ponyville proper and the countryside abroad, though you’re sure that there was no distinct flash of gold to come and save your game from the fate it deserved.

The gunshot resonates aloud in your ears and through the early morning sky, unable to let you rest for a moment as you stand there, just behind your counter with weapon still aimed and another one loaded into the chamber, unsure of what the hell just happened.

Your breath is heavy, yet not labored, as vivid memories of past experiences with the most mass produced goods during the time of The War come back to you all at once. Shields, as they were often called for simplicity’s sake, are personal protection wards—often powered by the initial magic that was made to create it, though are considered useless and potentially dangerous when drained fully—that are used exclusively to block traditional ammunition by reflecting it back in all directions. Potent shields can withstand seven direct shots from larger caliber rifles, while weaker, less efficiently made ones, can only take a hit or two from smaller rounds before shattering.

But as you can hear the distant sound of Ponyville’s belltower urging all to find safety within their homes and shops, there comes a strange moment of tranquility as you look down and realize that you’ve nearly killed an intruder, shot up your house in an attempt to snuff out its life, set the whole town of Ponyville on high alert, all while butt ass naked with a nasty hangover.

“And somehow I feel like I’m going to be blamed for all of this,” you spit at nobody in particular before skulking off to your room to get prepared for the group of Royal Guard that’s bound to come and investigate.

Author's Note

Hey all!

Sorry, I'm in a rush at the moment, I need to shower and pack before going off to do some Navy stuff, so I'd hope that you'd wish me luck if you like the story.

Don't forget that comments go a long way, and thank you for your ongoing support, friends!