Fallout: Equestria - Of Shadows

“It's amazing how infected that the natural world and all its things can be!”

“Ye’ sonuva mule! I’ll bash yer Goddess-damned ‘ead in, Ah swear!”

I watched nonplussed as a burly stallion, inebriated out of his wits, reared up to kick at an equally drunken pony who had been egging him on for the past half hour. His pitiful attempt came up far too short and instead pitched his face into the floor, causing his foe to snicker.

“Heheh… I think you… *hic* ...missed.” He grinned, chugging his third tankard of foul-looking beer.

How can anypony in their right mind drink at this hour?

I sat at a rickety old table in Rotgut’s, fighting to keep my eyes open as I hovered over my half-eaten breakfast of tarberries and radigator eggs. My mind had been swimming in a feverish haze ever since I woke with a sore body and throat. I’d initially shrugged it off as a symptom of all the stress I’d been under recently, but that had been disproven once I found that the faint morning light was sharp enough to force me to shield my eyes.

There was little doubt left in my mind that some kind of sickness was growing within me. Whether it was from my dismembered wing’s wound, all of the gross swamp water I’d touched, the insects that had stung me, or the horrible goremoth attack… I didn’t know. There were so many potential causes, and it terrified me further that I couldn’t identify the source.

The tarberries that had tasted so juicy yesterday were flavorless in my mouth; the eggs, similarly devoid of any appetizing qualities they may have once possessed, had been abandoned after one bite. Even Rotgut had questioned my haggard demeanor, genuine concern in his eyes, but I’d waved him off and reasoned that I was just tired from exploring. He didn’t look convinced but had been drawn away by impatient customers.

“F-fu… fu… y’... muh...” The pony sprawled on the floor had taken a violent hit to his jaw when he’d collapsed; his slurred speech was now even more unintelligible, a tongue lolling out. His intoxicated opponent attempted to coolly rise from his seat, but immediately lost his balance and pinwheeled into the bar, prompting Rotgut to shout at him in annoyance. Fed up with all the clamor, I wrapped up the remnants of my meal and stowed them in my bags, bought two bottles of rainwater, and then headed across the street.

Inside Tough Sell’s, I noticed he’d put the dress and hat on display behind the counter, using an old worn-out mannequin. He’d mentioned last night that Guilty Pleasure’s mares would fight each other tooth-and-hoof over purchasing the set, providing a special form of entertainment for him.

“Do you have a doctor in town?” I asked Tough Sell, trying my best to appear hale.

Tough Sell was once again chipping away at his stack of receipts, and gave me a questioning glance. “A doctor? Whatever for?”

“Um… for doctoring?”

“Hey, if you’ve got something that needs fixed, I’ve got healing potions, a few bottles of this remarkable old tonic, and of course, our invaluable stim…”

I cut him off, not needing to hear another advertisement. “I meant for an illness.”

This gained his full attention. “... Why? You aren’t sick with anything, are you?” His tone was accusatory, and he subtly leaned away from me, wary.

“No, I’m just… asking for future reference.”

The merchant clearly didn’t believe me, but answered my question anyway. “Well, we did have one a few years ago. Loopy fellow, that one.”

“... Loopy?”

Tough Sell nodded. “Loopy, ditzy, unstable; whatever word you prefer, he was never quite right in the head, and we couldn’t ever figure out why. He diligently ran a small clinic out of Buckwater for a year or two, but just up and vanished one day. A real shame, too, because he was damn good at his job. Never found out what happened to him.” He snorted derisively. “Rotgut’s gone an’ convinced himself that it was the Institute; snatched him up in the night without a trace.”

“The ‘Institute?’ ”

Tough Sell sighed. “Look, if you want conspiracy theories, ask Rotgut. He’ll talk your ear off all day spouting his wild stories. Now, are you gonna buy something or not?”

I purchased a brush and a bar of soap, hoping that washing up might rejuvenate my senses. The inn had a small shower wedged between two outhouses connected to the side of the building. Inside, I doused myself with half a bottle, lathered up as best I could, and then scoured as much dirt and muck from myself as possible. The brush was forcefully tugged across my coat and caught in my tangled mane several times, but after a few minutes of struggling, my sandy beige fur began to regain some of its color.

The area around my wound was gingerly cleaned, but without disinfectant there was no way to directly clean what still remained. My single wing was rinsed off and preened, satisfactorily aerodynamic despite its missing counterpart. Filthy water ran out through the floorboards while my mane clumped together, dark beads dripping from the ends.

There was a basin and a washboard in the shower as well. I filled the basin with the rest of the bottle and attempted to clean my robes, but the hole in the back split apart down the spine as it was scoured against the board’s corrugation.

“Dumb fabric…” I growled as I held them up, certain that my rudimentary mending skills were no match for this amount of damage. I certainly didn’t want to throw my robes away, though, so I folded them up and crammed them alongside the rest of my belongings, hoping that somewhere down the line I could find a competent tailor. I could already tell that the bloodstains marring the undershirt were never coming out, but I spitefully scrubbed it anyway, furious to have lost a rather comfortable piece of clothing. Glaring at the permanently-discolored fabrics, I crumpled the shirt up and tossed it into the corner of the shower in frustration.

Later, I browsed Tough Sell’s small clothing section, trying to determine what attire was best suited for swamp traversal. After considering a grey hoodie for awhile, my eyes were caught by the bright yellow 56’s hanging on the wall.

“How much is the Stable barding?”

“Forty.”

Slipping into a suit, I was surprised by how comfortable the fit was; the fabric stretched enough to keep pressure off my wound, and it breathed well, in addition to feeling resilient. I purchased it along with nine bullets for Riptide. Thirty-eight spare caps still rested in the bottom of my saddlebags, hopefully enough to cover any trip expenses for a little while.

As I left Buckwater, I ruminated on the contract I’d formed with Willow. A thousand caps was a large amount, and I couldn’t be sure that I’d be able to scavenge seven hundred by the time we reached the border, however long that took. Anxiety and a low fear burned in the pit of my gut as Guilty Pleasure’s warning about Willow’s temper echoed in the recesses of my memory. How would the guide react if I didn’t have the payment by then? Uncovering the dress yesterday was a stroke of luck the kind of which was allowed maybe once in a lifetime. I couldn’t expect the wasteland to ever be that forgiving again.

And on a related note, I’d told her that my allies would be waiting for me at the border, when I didn’t even know if the Phoebe was still in one piece. Regardless of its condition, we’d only brought a meager sum of caps, maybe two hundred total, having assumed we’d never need to land for anything. It could be possible to resell some of the weapons in the armory or any rations that hadn’t yet been consumed, maybe Vox and Ardent's belongings…

No. No, I wasn’t selling anything of theirs. I’d already turned down Tough Sell’s offer for the PipBuck; why would I think like that, anyway?

You kept it because it’s a PipBuck, obviously. But they no longer need their clothes, weapons, books…

I halted, looking up at the sky and collecting my thoughts. Three days in and I’m already thinking more like a scavenger than a Scribe. This train of thought had to stop now. Preserve, don’t pillage. I needed a task to occupy my thoughts, so I studied the details of the regional map on the PipBuck while I walked to Willow’s home.

The residence in question was a small, run-down shack with a shallow porch resting on a hillock overlooking Buckwater. Curious as to why Willow Wisp had chosen to live outside the city, I wondered once again why she’d chosen to conceal her identity within Rotgut’s.

An old dog lounged at the base of the front door; I hesitated as I got nearer. I’d barely seen any of these creatures in Equestria, and I’d been led to believe that most of them had died out. The dog raised its head and I jumped back in surprise, but it just stared at me with sad, tired eyes for a moment and then returned to its slumber. Concluding that the dog wasn’t a threat, I stepped over it and knocked on the door, its panels slightly warped from age.

“Willow Wisp? It’s me, Quillwright!” I called, trying to mask the hoarseness of my voice. “I’ve got your caps, and I’m ready for the trip.”

I heard a few noises from inside, like somepony rearranging furniture. As I was about to knock again, Willow yelled from inside, “Just wait on de porch, yeah?”

There was a rickety old chair next to the dog, and I eased myself onto it, stretching my new barding. The dog looked up at me, and I stared back.

“What?” I mouthed.

The dog just blinked and lowered its head again, eyes occasionally flicking my direction.

I looked out in the direction of the town below. The fog hadn’t cleared yet, so the town wasn’t currently visible, but a nicer day would’ve afforded a pleasant tableau of the bayou and surrounding landscape. After the commotion inside finally died down, Willow cracked the door, peeking out at me. To my surprise, she was once again wearing her long black cloak, with the hood pulled over her face. “You got de caps wid ya?”

“Three hundred.” I offered the three emerald caps from my saddlebag. Willow lifted them in a field of her magic, a soft golden glow, and held them up to eye level; which is to say, she floated them under her hood to study them.

“So what’s with the cloak?” I asked.

Willow shook her head before disappearing back into her home. “It’s… uh… comfy.”

Hey. That's my line.

When she next emerged, Willow Wisp was packed with her own set of gear, including brimming saddlebags, a long double-barreled shotgun, and a worn-looking pistol holstered to her leg. I rose from my seat, and now that we were both standing, I noted that Willow was quite a bit shorter than I was; granted, I was fairly tall for a pegasus mare. “You fixed for at least a week?” she asked.

Shifting, I lied, “Yeah.”

“We’ll be headed nort' to Divide. Dere’s some shit to trudge t’rough, but dere’ll be a few stops too."

“I’ll follow your lead.”

Willow bent down, stroking the dog’s greying fur with a hoof. “Let’s go, cher.”

“He your dog?”

“Family pet,” Willow answered. She made a clicking call and the dog stood, droopy eyes loyally transfixed on his master. His gaze followed Willow’s as she looked back at me, appraising my new outfit. “Steel Ranger yesterday, Stable Dweller today, yeah?”

I breathed in deeply, the breast of the jumpsuit stretching firmly against my fur. “Just wait ‘til you see me tomorrow.”

“Sure,” the guide snorted. “Alright, dis way.”

We started northward, Willow’s dog weaving his way across a worn path down towards the bridge. After crossing it, we were back in familiar wilderness, ancient trees towering over us and marshy soil underhoof. Deviating from the path leading to the Ministry hub, Willow guided me along muddy trails that sliced through the vibrant undergrowth. The fog had begun to disperse, allowing faint sunlight to brighten the air.

Just by watching Willow Wisp, I was already beginning to learn how to safely traverse the swampy environment. There was an art in deciding where to place your hooves, spotting the telltale signs of a hidden puddle, and cautiously navigating tall grass. She was clearly experienced, and within an hour I was keeping pace with her.

We hadn’t spoken since leaving, aside from Willow offering me assistance if I needed guidance over an obstacle. The oppressive concentration of trees gradually thinned out, and the morass that surrounded Buckwater had fully given way into firm soil. We entered a field where an overpass stood ahead, continuing the road that had run past town.

“So... why aren’t we following the highway?” I asked, needing at least a little conversation to break the monotony of travel.

“Don’t know what it’s like for you up nort’, but down here we've got two types’o ponies,” Willow explained dryly. “Good ones who live in de settlements and mind dere own business, and bad ones who prowl de wilderness, lookin’ to kill anypony dey set eyes on. Some bad types watch de roads.”

“Raiders? Slavers?”

“Slavers, yes. Raiders... dat label’s kinda broad. Define it.”

“Marauding and murderous rapists who lack any and all morals?”

“Well, we got tribals. Lotta dem could fit dat description.”

I kicked a branch out of my path. “I’ve heard they’re cannibals.”

“Eh… depends,” Willow stated. “Lots o’ different colors. Some are friendly, some’ll fillet ya up an’ eat you. Ot'ers will enslave you, a couple like to just torture you for years, and I know at least a few’ll sacrifice ya to dere voodoo gods or some shit like dat.”

“ ‘Voodoo?’ ”

“Tribes here deal in all kinds of black magic, yeah.” Willow turned to regard me as we trotted into the shadow of the concrete overpass. “You tellin’ me dere ain’t none of dat in Equestria?”

I shook my head. “I don’t really know, I mean… I wouldn’t be surprised. I’ve never read about it or personally seen a unicorn use any spells like that.”

“Well, voodoo’s designed for non-unicorns like yourself.”

I slowed my pace. “Wait… so... you’re saying somepony like me could use magic?”

Willow nodded. “Mostly basic stuff like telekinesis or teleportation. It's not too unlike de PipBuck on your leg,” she gestured at the device. "Dat grants anypony wid targeting and detection spells, yeah? It's just in a cleaner package."

This was news to me, and as we continued, I contemplated the implications of voodoo. Perhaps it was best that Equestria didn’t have potentially destructive magic widely available to any who desired it.

The field gave way back into swampier ground, and as we neared a wide creek, we reached a network of makeshift bridges formed from lashed-together planks. They weaved across the water and around trees, floating inert atop the undisturbed creek. After Willow assured me that the waters here were too shallow for radigators, we set about following the bridges. I mentioned to my guide how I’d already encountered a giant gator my first time venturing through the swamplands.

“Dey’re annoying, but dey sure taste good. Not de worst t’ing out here, t’ough.”

“What do you mean?”

Willow chuckled. “Well, sure, we got gators, but we also got giant snakes, spiders, leeches, mot’s, lizards, plants, everyting you could tink of. Plus de aforementioned raiders, tribals, an’ skeleton machines, too. Add in pockets of radiation, tropical radstorms, an’ eart’quakes, and you’ve got de beautiful quagmire we call Mulisiana."

We finished crossing the creek, and continued over tree roots and ground that alternated between mud and sandy grit. A diverse array of trash was scattered up and down the banks.

“ ‘Skeleton machines?’ ” I inquired as we passed a fossilized wagon axle.

Willow’s voice was forming an annoyed edge from all the explaining she was having to do. “De synths, yeah. Same shape and size as you or me, but wid glowing eyes, metal an' wires for insides, razor-sharp hooves, and advanced weapons. Ya don’ wanna tangle wid dem; dey’re always hostile.”

I still had a mile-long list of inquiries, but figured it’d be better to refrain for a while. With little else to do than walk, I switched on the PipBuck’s radio and allowed the soft music to accompany us.

An hour later, Willow called for a lunch break. I was relieved; my legs were weary with exertion. I had kept up a healthy facade for as long as I could, clearing my throat to mask my coughs, but all this walking had my stomach churning. There was a warm, unpleasant tingling feeling at the base of my throat that flared painfully every time I swallowed.

The highway had doubled back across our path, and the trail led up to a resilient old passenger wagon stop. Both the small bench and awning were overgrown with vegetation and discolored with age, but I happily collapsed onto the seat with a sigh. Willow gnawed on a radigator skewer as she fed her dog a few scraps.

“You eating?” she asked me.

I shrugged and pulled a wilt apple from my pack. I studied it, my stomach blanching at how unappetizing the fruit looked.

“Dey’re better if you peel dem,” Willow explained. “Scrape de insides off de skin like mashed ‘tatoes.”

The mental picture of mashed wilt apples was enough to finally kick my gut over the proverbial edge, and I felt bile rise in my throat. Groaning, I barely managed to round the corner of the stop before I completely regurgitated this morning’s meager breakfast. I could hear Willow mutter, “Dey ain’t dat bad…”

Once my stomach was done heaving, I coughed a few times, shakily supporting myself against a faded, defaced advertisement for the Brayton Rouge Museum of Natural History encased on the stop’s side wall. Normally this would have garnered my interest, but that was difficult when my entire head was pounding in tandem with my heartbeat. Hot tears had welled up in my eyes, rolling down my cheeks.

I can’t let Willow see me like this. If she suspects I’m sick, she might think I’m trying to freeload medical assistance from her…

I spat, sniffed my running nose, wiped my eyes dry, and then returned to the bench, where I quickly shoved the wilt apple back into my saddlebag without looking at the offending fruit. Busying myself with the PipBuck, I tried to avoid the gaze that I knew Willow was laying on me.

“You alright?”

I cleared my throat. “Yep. I’m fine.” My voice croaked out, barely audible, and I internally cringed at how blatant my lie was.

“T’rowing up’s just part of your daily routine den, yeah?” Willow’s dog moved to sniff my bile, but the guide called him back. “Ah-ah! No, Wick!” He dutifully returned to her side, looking mildly disappointed.

“I’m just… not used to the smell of wilt apples,” I offered, hoping that Willow would drop the conversation.

She didn’t. “’De smell’s de least shitty t'ing about dem,” Willow replied. She leaned forward, voice serious. “I t'ink you’re lying about some'ting.”

Resignedly, I shut my eyes and bit my lip. No use in digging the hole any deeper. “Okay, I’m… I’m sick.”

The guide’s expression was hidden as she nodded. “And when did you t'ink it’d be a good time to tell me dis?”

“Look, it just came up this morning,” I explained. “I’ve been through a lot the past few days, and I don’t exactly know how it happened. I didn’t plan on telling you, since I know you weren’t planning on having to help me…”

Willow cut off my ramble. "I’m not, no; I’m no medical pony. But dere’s some friends of mine up de road dat might have some'ting dat could help you.” She gestured down the highway. “It’ll cut into de travel time, but I reckon dat continuing while you’re sick wouldn’t be any faster.”

“Thanks,” I grimaced. “I’m sorry…”

Willow’s dog, Wick, perked up and peered around the woods, alert. Ignoring him, the guide stood with a sigh. “Don’t matter to me; I’m not in any hurry.” She helped me to my hooves. “... Just don’t cough on me.”

“Shit.”

Willow managed to fit more dread into that single word than I thought was possible. The canopy covering the road had begun to thin out, and we had just been afforded our first clear view of the sky ahead, including a plume of dark smoke that rose into the dirty clouds above. The guide’s pace quickened, and I struggled to keep up as she began to gallop, Wick running alongside her.

The highway led past a roadside diner, the burnished silver sides stained with years of exposure. A tall sign out front identified the establishment as “Quick Serve’s Shakes.” Ramshackle defensive walls surrounded the building, several sections reduced to smoking ashes, some still flickering as the last of the flames hungrily consumed the wood. The front gate was hanging wide open, swinging gently as a soft breeze caressed the unlatched door. Bullet holes peppered the sides of the building, and a few of the boarded-up windows had been defaced with a crude red, green, and purple insignia.

Willow’s shotgun was out as she rushed to the gate, leaning inside and checking the area for any hostiles. Satisfied, she hurriedly moved to the diner’s entrance and nudged the door open, Wick following closely.

“W-wait!” I wheezed, just now reaching the wall. My body throbbed with my pulse, completely out of breath. Drawing Riptide from my bag, I turned back to find that Willow had already entered the diner alone. Fearful for her safety, I poured on the coals and galloped across the cracked parking lot to the door. I passed one dead body, but didn’t stop to check who or what it was.

Inside, Willow’s horn had lit up into a warm golden beam, and she panned it around the darkened interior. Thin shafts of sunlight poured inside through cracked and bullet-riddled shutters, gleaming off of spent casings littering the floor. I activated the PipBuck’s lamp to see that several tables had been overturned, while various clothing items, empty boxes, and kitchen utensils blanketed the tiled floor. It was hard to place a hoof anywhere without stepping on something.

Behind the front counter, Wick was snooping around the corpse of a pony. Half of his head was missing, and based on the color and lack of decay, he hadn’t died more than a few hours ago. His body was slumped against the counter, and adjacent was a door leading to the kitchen, its window shattered and dangerously lined with jagged glass shards.

Willow clicked at her dog, who abandoned the body and returned to his master. The unicorn raised her weapon, inching close to the door, and softly called out, “Harvest?”

“I told ya to stay away!” came a shriek from inside the kitchen, and all three of us flinched as a shotgun blasted buckshot through the window. The shot whizzed across the diner and embedded into a booth at the far end in a fantastic puff of upholstery.

“Marigold! It’s Willow Wisp!”

The screaming paused, the shrill voice now disbelieving. “W-willow? Why… I… oh, Celestia…” This was followed by heavy scraping as metal was dragged across tile. A few moments later, the door opened inwards and out stepped a quivering, wan mare who regarded us with apprehensive hope. Her carmine mane was a mess, swept out of eyes reddened with tears. Wordlessly, Marigold lunged forwards and embraced Willow, who stiffened but didn’t object, her telekinetic field lowering her shotgun to the floor. At this, I stowed Riptide.

“Oh, Willow, th-they shot Harvest and took him, a-and I tried to stop them but I couldn’t, and Harv told me to barricade myself in the kitchen like we’d designed it, and I did, but they dragged him away, and I could hear him screaming, but I couldn’t go out and stop them, and then…” She sucked in a breath. “They tried to get in, b-but I shot him, and then they left, but they said they’d come back, and... oh…” The mare sobbed uncontrollably, while Willow patted her on the back with a consoling hoof.

“Shh…” she eased. “I’m here now, it’s gonna be okay. Where did dey go?”

“I-I don’t know, we’d never seen them before!” Marigold wailed. “It was horrible, their faces were… were all painted up, and they had these knives, and…”

Willow finally pried the mare off of her, a hoof still on Marigold’s shoulder. “Tribals, yeah? Dey said dey were comin’ back?”

Marigold nodded. “Said I was next. Oh, Willow, they’re gonna kill Harvest…”

“Hey. Hey.” The guide straightened as best she could, still shorter than either myself or Marigold. “I’ll get him back. We just gotta…” she trailed off, looking around the ruined diner. “Damn fuckin' savages! Dis’s too far.”

Marigold had composed herself, and noticed me. “And who’s this?” Seeing my jumpsuit, “A… Stable Dweller?” I'd left the front of the barding partially unclipped, so she was unable to see any "56" designation.

“No, I’m a Steel Ranger. Quillwright’s the name,” I clarified, unable to hold back a cough.

The mare didn’t seem to recognize my title, so she just gave me a quick and polite smile. “Quillwright. I’m Marigold… I… I live with my husband, Harvest, on our little homestead here.”

“Okay, introduction’s over,” Willow interrupted. “You need to get to Buckwater.”

Marigold looked taken aback. “What? No, I'm not going back! Harvest needs me!”

“You’re in shock, no state to fight in.” Willow said, matter-of-factly. “An' we can’t, ‘cause Quill here’s sick.”

“I am not leaving my husband to be sacrificed or… or eaten by those monsters!”

“Dere’s no way to know where he is!” Willow yelled. “Unless you saw him getting dragged off, we ain’t trackin’ dem back to any den. I’m sorry, but dere’s not’ing we can do.”

“If they’re coming back, we can catch one. Make him talk.” Marigold was defiant. “If I die trying, then so be it, but I’m not living without Harvest by my side.”

“Damn it!” Willow shouted. “Mari, you…” She bit her tongue, whirled around and stormed off, clearly done trying to reason.

Marigold placed her hooves on the counter and sighed wearily as she watched Willow telekinetically shove her way through the front door, Wick slipping out behind her. “I’m sorry, you’re probably a customer of hers…?”

I nodded. “Yeah.”

“I don’t want to involve you two,” Marigold gritted her teeth. “But I can't let those animals abduct my love like this. I won’t let them win.”

“I understand,” I reassured her. After a tick of silence, I asked, “Excuse me for asking, but… would you have any medicine I could take for a fever?”

Marigold perked up all of a sudden. “A fever? Um… yeah, just wait here a minute.” She crossed the diner and began to dig through the looted containers that had been spilled all over the floor. I groaned in exhaustion, shivering slightly.

“So where are you headed?” Marigold asked me as she lifted a cabinet back onto its feet.

“Equestria,” I grated.

“Is that your home?”

“Yeah.” With my throat still irritated, I wasn’t feeling very talkative.

The mare returned with a clear orange bottle. Twisting it open, she presented a small white pill to me. “Here’s a painkiller. I’m afraid the tribals stole any other medicine we had.”

I thanked her and swallowed it, wishing the pill was an instant remedy. As Marigold continued to clean the ransacked interior, I cautiously exited the diner, searching for Willow. The surroundings were still, the only sounds audible being the ambient chirping of insects and very sporadic thunder many miles away. The light had taken on an amber glow as the sun began its descent into the western horizon.

I found Willow sitting by the corpse out front. While her face was hidden, her hood was intently focused on the body. I approached, unsure of her emotional condition.

“... You alright?” I ventured timidly.

Willow didn’t respond.

The tribal’s body was sprawled before her, laying in a dried pool of blood that suggested his chest had been blasted with a shotgun. His coat was pale green, his face painted purple with a design that started around his eyes and then ran back and down his cheeks, ending in a crude streak. He had been clad in dark, sodden clothing, covered in small bits of moss and gossamer. A couple of flies were buzzing around his face, eager for the corpse to begin decaying.

“Look, I know you want to help, and…”

“And I would, but I’m just one mare. You’ve got places to be, an’ Marigold needs support from de folks in Buckwater now.”

I lowered my brow. “I know. What I’m saying is that we can help.”

Willow turned. “ ‘We?’ ”

“You and I.”

“You’re sick.”

“Not sick enough to try and help.”

Willow shook her head. “I don’t involve my customers in matters like dis for a reason. Eit’er of us gets injured, it could slow de whole trip down. I didn’t pack enough medical supplies for some'ting like dis.”

“You don’t have to spare them for me,” I responded grimly.

There was a pause. “Why do you even care about dis?”

"... Excuse me?”

Willow looked at me, her tone dismissive. “You're de first Steel Ranger I've ever seen dat wasn't just a slogan on a poster. Why do you suddenly want to help us?”

I was caught off-guard by the contempt buried in her words, but my surprise quickly morphed into indignation. “Because I too was born and raised on the surface. I'm not some Dashite from above the cloud curtain or a pony born in a cushy Stable. I joined the Rangers of my own volition, because I believe that they have an incredible capacity for good, but I'll always be a wastelander first and Steel Ranger second.”

Willow was quiet, and I sorely wished I could see past her hood and know what expression she wore at that moment. I continued.

“We're a much more diverse group than you might think, in both background and beliefs. Many are too calloused to care about ordinary ponies like Harvest or Marigold, whom they’d consider a lost cause. But on the other side of the bit, there are those of us who believe that they’re worth fighting for and that technology shouldn't be our sole focus.”

The guide was quiet, and then sighed, “If you say so.” She looked back at the corpse. “But we’re still at a disadvantage.”

I studied the ruined barricades around me, chewing a lip in thought. “I think we’ll stand a chance if we refortify the diner,” I offered. “We have the element of surprise, too.”

Marigold joined us a minute later, and we discussed the possible ways to shore up the homestead's defenses. The existing walls varied in strength from untouched to disintegrated; the lock that held the front gate closed was busted into pieces, and a few shutters were badly damaged. The diner’s parking lot still held two rusted wagon carcasses, both resting on cinder blocks with their wheels long since looted: the right size to patch up the two largest gaps in the wall, on the diner’s front and left sides.

Willow’s telekinetic strength was barely strong enough to lift either wagon, even with Marigold and myself helping to support the frames, but we successfully plugged both holes. The gate was left open to invite any attackers through without much suspicion, and we tried patching up a few shutters with random scraps of cardboard scrounged from the corners of the building. They wouldn’t stop any bullets, but after this was all over, the couple wouldn’t have to worry about open windows.

As the sunlight began to fade into dusk, we lit two fire barrels and positioned them on either side of the gate. From inside the diner we had a view of the entire front and side area, and while the rear of the diner was out of view, the single back door had been sealed before the war. The only way somepony could flank us was if they could slither in through the thin, elevated windows reinforced with metal grates.

Together, we were armed with Riptide, Willow’s shotgun, Marigold’s sawed-off and an old varmint rifle that the settler had retrieved from her storeroom. Unfortunately, the majority of ammunition that Harvest and Marigold had owned had been stolen in the first attack, so we needed to make our shots count. Willow reminded us to aim for the legs if we had any hope of taking in prisoners for questioning.

I sat in a moldy booth, my pistol on the table before me, while my sore eyes continuously scanned the diner’s left wall. The lanterns within the diner had been left extinguished, the only source of light being the fire barrels and a faint twilight haze in the sky above. Willow was stationed at the front, while Marigold watched the right side, opposite me. I had the responsibility of keeping the front door clear. Every second that had passed was one of discomfort, quelling any conversation, but even now I was beginning to doubt whether or not the tribals were returning tonight.

“You think maybe they were just dissuading you from following?” I asked aside, not looking away from my post.

“I could tell by his tone…” Marigold assured me. “He was frustrated that I’d run them off.”

“Regardless, dere’s no point in leaving de diner vulnerable,” Willow said. “Dey had one successful attack, which means dey’ll be confident enough to try anot’er.”

I suddenly jerked awake as I remembered my Eyes-Forward Sparkle. Booting up the PipBuck, I anxiously tapped my hoof against the table as the display swam into focus. My condition was not-so-helpfully registered as "ill", and the ammo stuffed into my Stable jumpsuit’s pockets ensured that I had nine bullets available in addition to four hollow-points. There were no hostile readings as of now, but I felt infinitely more secure with the E.F.S. active.

My reignited attentiveness only lasted for ten minutes, though, and I felt my eyes begin to droop shut in exhaustion. Just as my head was nodding forward, there was an urgent “Psst!” Willow was signaling that there was movement at the gate, and sure enough, at least seven more lifesigns had been registered on my compass, all of them red.

I could see through the front of the diner just enough to watch the group hesitate at the sight of the fire barrels, clearly remembering that the wagon frames hadn’t been propped up against the walls last time. A less-cautious tribal tried peeking in through the front windows, having no idea that he’d just lined up his eyes with the end of Willow’s long shotgun barrels.

“Fuck off and die!” the guide shouted as she pulled the trigger.

KA-BAM!

Nice job aiming for the legs, Willow.

The sight of their ally’s cranium being reduced to a cloud of crimson mist spurred the remaining tribals into action, a shotgun slug blasting apart the shutter just next to Willow. Three tribals split to my side, while one moved to the right. I rotated, trying to get a good angle on the trio as they skirted the wall, and fired Riptide as the sights centered on the figure of a unicorn. The bullet caught the side of his face and violently twisted him to the ground. One of the red marks on my compass winked out.

As I heard Marigold shout in pain behind me, my remaining two targets backed off from the wall and galloped with reckless abandon for the door. My next shot whizzed past the lead pony, who halted and turned to aim at me. I recognized the faint silhouette of a battle-saddle-mounted assault rifle just in time to scream as the shutter in front of me was shredded apart by his volley. I threw myself to the floor, chunks of wood and dust pelting me.

The entrance was bolted shut, but the assault rifle tribal unloaded half of his magazine into the door’s glass windows, shattering them. As he reached inside, trying to undo the lock, I stood and fired two shots, both of which hammered him in the chest and neck. He grunted, falling backwards, and emptied the rest of his rifle in front of him, aiming wildly but wide enough for one bullet to punch through my thigh. I reflexively gritted my teeth in pain and caused Riptide to fire inadvertently, almost giving me whiplash and emptying the pistol of its final shot. I stumbled and dropped the weapon, which clattered to the floor, and watched as the second tribal drew the latch back and hooked her hoof on the outer handle.

Rushing forward, I barreled into the door before she could pull it herself; it swung out and whacked her muzzle. The tribal shouted in surprise at my preemptive attack, but my injured leg gave out and I tumbled out onto the concrete. She’d kept her balance, and growled aggressively as she advanced with a wickedly-sharp bowie knife clenched in her teeth.

My mind raced, but came up empty for solutions. Willow was busy defending the front, and Marigold sounded as if she’d been wounded. Riptide still lay inside the diner on the floor, and I had no backup weaponry on me. I raised my hooves in a feeble attempt to block my attacker’s strike as she lunged at me.

Suddenly a shrieking blur collided with the tribal’s side, sending her to the ground, writhing in panic. We both screamed; a goremoth had appeared seemingly out of nowhere, and bit ferociously at her exposed belly. My brain already seizing at the sight, I scrambled backwards only to bump into something behind me. I turned and tried to rise, dreading that my eyes would meet some new horrible creature, but instead I found myself facing a wild-looking earth pony wielding a revolver. He was clad in a mishmash of clothing, with half a dozen saddlebags and satchels hanging from his back, a gas mask around his neck, and a bandolier slung around his shoulders.

He raised a hoof and shoved me back to the ground. “Shtay down,” he grunted around his weapon, and then charged forward, completely ignoring the goremoth which had just finished mauling its unfortunate victim. The bug, likewise, expressed no reaction that a blood-filled pony had just left his back exposed. It instead spread its wings and flitted over the top of the diner, shrilling.

Considering myself a bonafide expert on goremoths by this point, I hauled flank back inside the building to retrieve Riptide. As I lifted the pistol and whirled back to leave, I spared a glance at my allies to find them watching the booms and flashes from outside. Their weapons were lowered, Marigold clutching an injured shoulder but transfixed on the action before her. Was my mysterious savior attacking the tribals?

I limped over and peeked through the ruined shutters just in time to witness the stranger’s revolver blast a fleeing pony in the back. The tribal crashed into the mud and began desperately crawling forward as the stranger nonchalantly opened his revolver’s cylinder, emptying the spent casings and plucking more from his bandolier. Willow swiftly realized what was about to happen, and shouted, “Wait! We need him alive!” while she spun and ran out of the diner. I helped support Marigold and chugged a healing potion as we followed.

We rounded the building to find the stranger pinning the tribal down, leaning on one hoof and holding his revolver loosely in the other. His mane was short and cream-colored, his coat a dappled brown beneath his light grey shirt, streaked with old bloodstains and smudges. He looked up at us as we neared, and my heart seized in terror as the goremoth swooped down onto his back.

“Duck!” Willow yelled, raising her shotgun.

The creature didn’t attack, instead folding its wings and clinging to the tough hide barding strapped to the pony’s back, as if it were a perch. Willow’s weapon hovered cautiously, but she was waved off.

“Save your ammo.”

Willow’s head tilted in confusion, while her weapon lowered half an inch. “Dere’s a goremot' on your back,” she spoke slowly.

The earth pony nodded. “You’re correct. Impressed you can see outta that hood well enough.”

I found that I’d been holding my breath and staring at the giant moth ever since it came into view, and I let it out in a trembling laugh. “Heh heh… it’s like… a… a pet…?”

“That she is,” the stranger smiled. “Ain’t Molly beautiful?”

“You… you named that giant blood-sucking insect ‘Molly?’ ” My voice was teetering between laughing and screaming.

The earth pony’s eyes narrowed. “I did. She’s the best companion a stallion could ask for, too.” The tribal he was holding down squirmed, and he leaned into his hoof, eliciting a shout of pain. “So what d’you want this wretched thing for?”

“We need to interrogate him and find out where they’re coming from,” Marigold spoke up. “They took my husband.”

“Before dat,” Willow cut in, “Who in de hoof are you?”

The stranger nodded. “Name’s Cam. I’m… a medical practitioner.”

Willow’s shotgun clattered to the ground. “Doc? Doctor Camphor?”

I recalled Tough Sell’s description of Buckwater’s former doctor, and so far this pony was fitting the bill to a T. ‘Ditzy’ indeed; he was allowing a goremoth to sit on his back without so much as a reaction. The mere sight had sent my skin crawling and pulse racing.

“That’s me... how…” the stranger’s eyes alit with recognition. “Aha… how’d I ever forget that accent? Sable Glow, right?”

“Her daughter. Willow Wisp.”

Doctor Camphor chuckled. “Willow… I ain’t seen you since you were knee-high to a balefire fly. You earned your cutie mark yet?”

“... I have.” There was a creeping sense of embarrassment in Willow’s voice, likely due to my presence. “Look, Doc, it’s nice to see you again, but we’re in a hurry. Mari here was attacked earlier today, an’ de tribals made off wid her husband, a stallion named Harvest.”

The doctor nodded. “I’ve been keeping an eye on this tribe, and they’ve been abductin’ people from the surroundin’ area for the past month or so. Haven’t been able to intervene myself since they’ve traveled in packs of at least seven or eight.” Camphor glared at the tribal pinned underhoof. “Got themselves a comfy, fortified position in Saint Mare’s.”

Marigold groaned.

“Kill you!” the tribal screamed. His thick accent, vaguely similar to Willow Wisp's, suggested that Equestrian wasn't his first language.

Camphor looked at us, concern in his gaze. “They’re new. Really new. In two months they’ve expanded to a size that other tribes have taken years to accomplish, and they’re extremely aggressive.” He dug the edge of his hoof deeper into the small of the tribal’s wounded back, evoking another howl. “Spreadin’ like a fuckin’ sickness, these ones.”

Marigold turned to Willow. “That’s it then; we know where Harvest is.”

“... Yeah.” Willow made an exasperated shrug. “If you tink it’s doable… den we can try to get him back.”

Camphor returned his pistol to his mouth and then casually unloaded a bullet into the tribal’s head. I flinched as gore splattered the doctor, who was unfazed. “We’re headed to Saint Mare’s, then.” He holstered his weapon and retrieved a rag, wiping the blood splatter from his front and hooves, and then noticed that Marigold was still gripping her wound. “Looks like you need treatment ‘fore we leave.”

We returned to the diner, where Camphor helped Marigold to lay flat upon a desk. While he cleaned her wound, Willow assembled our supplies and organized the remaining ammunition. Wick had fled the building the moment he laid eyes on Molly; the goremoth sat calmly near Camphor while it busily rubbed its antennae with slender forelegs. With nothing for me to do, I simply huddled in a booth, legs drawn up in a vain attempt to becalm my shivering, sickness-addled body.

Even though I was surrounded by allies, I still made sure to keep a watchful eye on the oversized, carnivorous insect only a couple yards away. Able to view the idle and passive Molly in better light, I took a moment to further study the goremoth’s anatomy. Its folded wingspan was as wide as my shoulders, the sandy-colored wings covered in intricate networks of defined veins. The insect’s body was fat and fuzzy, its small triangular head held two large, dark, glittering compound eyes, and its bristled antennae were at least a foot long. There was also a small blue tag clipped to the edge of one of its wings, differentiating it from any other goremoth encountered in the wild.

I soon coughed, which caught the attention of Camphor. “By the way,” he mentioned in my direction. “I don’ believe I got your name.” He hovered over Marigold’s shoulder with tweezers clenched between his teeth, his eyes meticulously observant.

“I’m Quillwright.”

Camphor grunted in confirmation, carefully lowering the tweezers into the entry wound. Marigold had turned her head to the side, eyes shut tight and teeth digging into her lip. In only a few seconds the tweezers had emerged with a small bullet clamped in its metal jaws, which was deposited into an empty bottle with a clink. Camphor leaned back, dropping the tweezers back into a hoof. “Bit uncommon to see pegasi ‘round these parts.”

As the doctor cleaned his instrument and offered a healing potion to his patient, I answered, “I’m from Equestria.” I coughed again, this time getting a suspicious glance from Camphor.

“You look a bit pale.”

“I haven’t been feeling great today,” I admitted.

Camphor beckoned me over, and I hesitantly rose and made my way over to him as Marigold rejoined Willow. The doctor pulled his surgical mask over his mouth and then began circling me, looking my body up and down. “Symptoms?” he queried.

“Sore throat, tired eyes, aching joints, headache, upset stomach, chills…” I listed off, shifting uncomfortably as Camphor paused at my side. I let out an “Eep!” in surprise as he grabbed my wing and extended it to its full length.

“Pegasus… feather flu?” he muttered to himself. Raising his head, he peered over my back to see my wing stump. “You’re missin’ a wing.”

“Grenade.”

“Ah. That would do it.” He returned to his diagnosis. “Hm… hay fever, maybe?” Suddenly he had pulled one of my eyelids down, and he leaned in close, studying my eyes. “Any vision or hearin’ problems?”

“My ears feel a bit stuffy.”

“Any digestive issues?”

“I threw up earlier today.”

Camphor pried open my mouth and peered in at my tonsils. “Any contact with possible contaminants in the past week?”

Once he let go, I answered, “A couple.”

“Oh?”

“I’ve fallen into and probably ingested swamp water, been bitten by insects…” I glared at Molly, who was still passively watching us. “... And I was mauled by a goremoth.”

Camphor backed away, brow scrunched in thought and seemingly oblivious to the jab made at his pet. “Well, it’s a bit of an educated guess, but… you’re in the early stages of typhoof.”

“You ‘guess?’ No offense, but… how are you even considered a doctor?”

“Ain’t the first to ask, won’t be the last.” Camphor grinned. “I’m mostly self-taught. Grew up outside the Neigh Orleans ruins; there’s a big ol’ hospital there, and I spent months explorin’ the entire place.” He took off his surgical mask as he continued. “Found plenty o’ pre-war medical journals. Stuff was fascinatin’ to me, and I reckoned even an earth pony like me could become a doctor if I just put my mind to it.” He gestured to himself. “All that studyin’ means I’ve got about a decade more experience on the topic than most wastelanders. Not gonna lie an’ say I’m perfect, but I try my damnedest.”

His backstory still hadn't reassured me much, but I shrugged. “Okay… well then, how is typhoof cured?”

Camphor drew a bottle of pills from his bags and rattled it. “We can start flushing it out with plenty of clean water, but we'll need some strong antibiotics to really purge it. I’ve been out of them for over a year, but I think I know where we can find some.”

“Saint Mare’s?” I moaned in dread.

The doctor nodded solemnly. “We need to get you properly treated soon. If this sickness is left unattended for too long, you’ll start developin’ a rash and then it all goes downhill from there.”

“Typhoof. Fantastic...” I shut my eyes, rubbing them with the frogs of my hooves. As I tried to let out an exasperated sigh, the air snagged in my throat and I let out a painful, hacking cough. “I really hate swamps.”

Footnote: Level Up.

Perk point banked.