“Easy now, give your body time to adjust”. A gentle elderly voice spoke as my eyes darted open. I sat up with a sharp breath. “Welcome back to the living”. My vision was blurry and my body felt foreign. My legs didn’t feel like they were attached to my torso and my head ached like I had just been hit by a shovel.

“Where am I? Who are you?” I spoke quickly but my tongue felt foreign, I doubt my words were even coherent.

“You’re in my house, or my surgery as it’s been for the last week or so. And all you need to call me is Doc”. The elderly pony spoke calmly. His voice was sweet to hear, reassuring even, the kind of voice you appreciate when light feels incongruous and your senses are dull.

“Why am I here, Doc?” my voice shook as I started to find my tongue again. Light began to make some sense to my eyes - but not completely; my vision was foggy and I could barely make out this elderly pony wearing a white doctor’s gown over his usually brown coloured coat. His mane was grey, possibly due to his age. Sewn on his gown, I could make out a green wreath surrounding a unicorn horn and a single snake wrapping around it - the mark of a combat medic for the New Equestrian Society. Beneath it, there were three words hemmed into the fabric, ‘In arduis fidelis’, it was an ancient pony language that I couldn’t translate.

“Well, you were found buried up in the cemetery after somepony heard gunshots up on the hill. He dug you out of your grave and brought you here since you were still breathing”. The doctor’s exposition brought memories back of the described events. I remembered being tied up and gagged by a shallow grave, a pony in tweed told me, ‘it was just business’ moments before shooting me.

“How long have I been out?” My head was swimming with thought and confusion. I didn’t remember anything after getting shot.

“Well, you were brought to me eight days ago. Ever since then, I’ve been trying my hardest to pull you through. Though, reconstructing your face was the hardest part in my professional opinion”. He deadpanned; I hoped. If it was a joke, it led my next thought to my appearance and how I looked after having two bullets put into my head.

“Give it to me straight, Doc. My chances of winning the New Trottingham beauty contest; how are they?” Humour; it’s my way of coping.

“You tell me”. The doc seemed to have an air of pride in his voice as he moved a mirror in view of my face. My coat was still a dusty brown and my mane remained the same-old dirtied blonde, my eyes hadn’t been replaced, thankfully they were still a deep, emerald green and amazingly I had no scars from the bullets. This doctor knew some magic that I couldn’t comprehend!

“It looks...like nothing happened to me at all!” I laughed with delight, “thank you so much doc!” I gave the small elderly pony a hug as I couldn’t believe I had actually survived an attempt on my life and come out looking fine. I guess it’s some well-earned luck, seeing as I was recently murdered.

The doctor strode to the other side of the room with a chuckle before beckoning me over to the door, he said he wanted to check that I hadn’t suffered any damage to my motor skills, especially after being practically dead for over a week.
I examined the wooden floor, my vision obviously hadn’t completely recovered as the floorboards appeared to bend and contort around the ambient light that flooded in through the shutters over the windows, the orange glow of the setting sun gave the room a comforting appearance. I shook my head hoping it would help my eyes focus; it did not.

I cautiously reached my front-left hoof out from under the blanket and placed it gently on the ground. The floor was warm and inviting, the sensation under my hoof left me feeling confident. I put pressure on my leg and felt the muscles tense up and shake violently from the stress of my bodyweight on atrophied muscles. In an attempt to balance myself I quickly put my remaining front-hoof onto the floor and put an equal balance of my weight onto both of them. I felt like a filly trying to learn to walk again, the effort was exhausting and I felt like collapsing against the welcoming floorboards, but I wasn’t a quitter.

Once my legs stopped wobbling under my weight, I attempted to coax my back-left leg down to the floor. The experience of instability was now focussed in my flank, as my leg shook and I grew exhausted from the exertion. My body pivoted to the right and I began to lose balance. Before I collapsed onto the floor in a useless slump, I shifted my last leg off the bed and pushed it against the floor, rebalancing my body across all four of my legs. I breathed heavily, hoping that the worst was behind me.

The doctor spoke up, “Good that’s a healthy start considering you’ve been on the cusp of death for the last few days. Your body is very weak from its ordeal so don’t feel bad about the first few steps”. I stared at him as he flawlessly loitered under the doorway at the end of the room. Beside him was a low workbench that contained a quaint chemistry set. Glass beakers, retorts, flasks and u-tubes were organised in a neat and typical fashion. There appeared to be a beaker containing a blue liquid bubbling over a burner on the far left side of the workspace, the doctor was probably brewing potions for all sorts of medicinal purposes. If I could make it to that workbench, I could use it to prop myself up and take some of the effort out of standing.

With a deep breath, I carefully lifted my front-left leg and tiresomely placed it a couple of feet in front of me. My muscles tensed up once more from the movement, the shifting of my weight from four legs to three left me unbalanced again and, combined with the weight of my pipbuck that rested on it, my step was made more cumbersome than it should’ve been. I wobbled like I was inebriated - yet I felt sober. The experience was possibly the most frustrating thing I’ve ever experienced in my life as a fully grown mare. I took yet another breath, if the doc thought I was able to walk to that side of the room then perhaps he wasn’t as good of a doctor as I thought. I tried another step with my back-right leg and moved it forward, again, only a couple of feet. I did the same with my front-right and back-left. Each step was as unsteady as the last.

“You doing okay there?” The doc spoke up after watching my embarrassing display of one of the most basic of skills.

“Oh yeah, just peachy! I always walk like a pisshead on a night out!” I shouted in response. I could hear the doctor huff with a quick exhalation from his nose, possibly to vent any anger that might have surfaced from my ungrateful words. Yet I did not apologise, I was too frustrated with my inability to walk at the age of twenty-one. It was humiliating. I tried again, starting with the same first step as before. It was more stable this time, not perfect but definitely better. I continued with each step. ‘Front-left, back-right; front-right, back-left’. I kept muttering that to myself. Each step got better than the last. Eventually, I reached the workbench and - with my front legs - I leant on it. I laughed at the fact that I had actually made it, though I was tired from exerting myself so much.

“Good, glad to see your recovery won’t have too many complications”. He smiled at me, though I could hear from his voice that he was slightly annoyed by my attitude. He stared at the window, the sun had since set in the time between me getting out of bed and walking to the other side of the room. “It’s getting late. I’m going to retire for the evening. I shall see you in the morning miss—” he paused and gestured with a slow twist of his neck and a gentle tilt of his head, making it clear that he wanted me to finish his sentence with my name.

“Oh, uh, it’s Express and sleep well doc”. After calming down from my frustration I felt bad for taking it out on him. He didn’t deserve it; after all, he did help me in my time of need. The doc didn’t say anything more after I told him my name, he simply said ‘uh-huh’ before turning and leaving the room, closing the door to my room behind him, leaving me in a room flooded with blues and silvers from the moonlit darkness that forced its way through the shutters.

I sighed as I stopped leaning on the table. I stared at the single bed tucked in the corner of my room, which was lit up by a small table-side lamp, and - with my improving ability to walk - I lumbered back over to my bed and clambered onto it. The mattress springs were worn and squeaked under my body, yet the mattress was still significantly more comfortable than the floor. I lifted the quilt with my magic and flattened it over my body, it was soft and warm. The pattern on it suggested it was hoof stitched, possibly by the doc but the tiny lettering that was hemmed into the border of the quilt - where it would rest upon the chest of a pony under it - suggested otherwise. It read: ‘Stitched with the love of those who you saved’, obviously it was stitched by some pony the doc used to work with. I rested my head onto the cold, yet inviting pillow. My body relaxed with a slow exhalation. The room was silent and calm - the perfect conditions for a peaceful night of rest. Considering I’d done nothing more than lie in bed for over a week and take a few steps, I was exhausted. With my magic, I flicked the light off by the bed, leaving the darkness to consume the room. My eyes fluttered as my comfort and exhaustion took control of me and, with a final conscious breath, I slipped into a quiet and content slumber.

***

I stirred to find myself alone and out in the desert again, but that’s not possible. I fell asleep in a bed, being aided by the doc, how was I out here? I tried to sit up but I couldn’t move. I couldn’t even feel my body, I was paralysed. I tried to scream out for help but not even that worked. I looked to my left to find a wall of earth suddenly rising out of the ground and surrounding me, the sky got further and further away as the earth rose higher. I started to panic, a cold sweat swept across me. That’s when I heard his voice again.

“It’s just business”. The pony in tweed. He was back and had me buried in a bigger grave! That’s when I heard two gunshots echo across my mind.

***

I shot up out my bed with a throaty scream; combined with my quick and panicked breaths, I started to choke from terror. My body was soaked with a cold sweat as was my mane from tears that I’d been shedding in my sleep. My lungs burned as my choking started to cease, partly due to my body slowly coming down from my adrenaline high and partly due to my body running out of any air to choke on. I desperately tried to take slow, deep breaths, whilst frantically searching for anyone who would want to harm me in the room, but I was alone. I leant back onto the headboard of the bed and placed a hoof over my heart, I felt it beating hard and fast; like it was about to burst out from my chest. My pipbuck’s glow lit up the dark room with a warm amber. It was much more sightly than sitting in a gloomy room that was lit by the filtering of a barely risen sun through the windows.

“It was just a dream Express, calm down!” I told myself in a shaky and choked voice. It wasn’t long before the doctor came into my room asking me what was wrong. His eyes were wide and slightly bloodshot. “Nothing doc, I’m fine. I just had a nightmare”. I clearly startled him as much as my dream had terrified me.

“A nightmare? What about?” His breathing was fast like mine had been moments before I started to calm down. I explained it to him and he merely nodded as I spoke, he asked no questions; possibly because he didn’t need to. “Sounds like you might have those nightmares for awhile, Express. You’ve been through a traumatic experience, I would be quite surprised if you didn’t show some signs of post-traumatic stress”. His explanation came as no surprise to me, but I didn’t want to go through that fresh hell once more. Unfortunately, it seemed, I wouldn’t have much of a choice.

“I see. And there’s absolutely nothing I can do to prevent it?” I had hoped his answer would be longer than a slow shake of his head. I nodded in understanding. “Listen, doc, about yesterday evening; I’m sorry for taking my frustration out on you”. I turned my shameful gaze to the ground as I spoke, I really didn’t want him to think of me as ungrateful, especially since he’s even concerned about more than just my physical health.

“Don’t worry about it too much, it’s normal for patients to experience some lapse in control of their anger during the process of healing. You’re not the first patient to shout at me and you won’t be the last”. He gave me a reassuring smile along with his generous words of forgiveness. “Anyway, I wish to check your vitals now and after that, I’d like you to go outside today; stretch your legs a bit, get to know the ponies of the humble town of Coltgrave”.

“Sure thing, Doc. I’m willing to do that, I’d also like to personally thank the pony who pulled me from the dirt”. I was both excited and nervous at the thought of getting out of this bedroom. As nice as it was; it was nothing compared to being able to freely roam about as I pleased.

After the doc had taken my temperature, measured and calculated my pulse and respiratory rate, he pulled out a strange looking pump. He called it a sphygmomanometer. It meant nothing to me at the time, until he told me it measured my blood pressure; something I did understand. It took a moment to manually pump it up though, so I decided to make a small conversation with him, I wanted to know more about him since he did save my life.

“So, doc; what did you do before you came here?” I smiled as he slipped the cuff of the sphygmomanometer over my front-right leg and began pumping the bladder inside.

“I was a combat medic for the New Equestrian Society. Worked at many outposts across Trottinghamshire. My last stationed position was during the last battle for the Beaston Hydroponic Power Plant,” he paused to check the aneroid as it had finished measuring the air pressure in the cuff that was over my leg. It felt tight over it, constricting it to the point it felt like my blood had stopped flowing through it all together, he wrote down the numbers on a pad and turned a release valve on the complicated device, this released the pressure in my leg and I could feel blood flowing through it again. He continued with his story, “then I retired and came here, where my late wife and I had family members living. I’m all that’s left of that family though. Anyway, your blood pressure is slightly raised, but after your stressful awakening this morning - I would say that it’ll lower over the day”. His voice sounded relieved, which meant that I had nothing to worry about.

After he was done with his analysis of my vital signs he assisted me in walking to the door, though I was considerably better at walking than I was last night. At the door, he passed me my saddlebags and told me to come back at night to rest, since he didn’t feel completely confident with leaving me to return to the wilderness just yet. I agreed, mainly due to the fact that my barely functional gait would leave me an easy target in the wasteland.

When the doctor shut the door behind me, I used my magic to rummage through my saddlebags, looking for something to wear. I pulled out my mother’s Stable 83 jumpsuit, the zipper on the back was well used, probably because almost eight generations of mares have worn this thing. The blue and yellow colours were slightly faded, but my mother was always seen wearing it. It’s actually a surprise that she and I were the same size. I considered wearing it to honour her memory but I shook my head. It would just be weird to wear it, my pipbuck was evidence enough that I come from a family of ex-stabledwellers. I continued to go through my saddle bags until I happened upon my dark-brown hooded jersey. I examined it for any damage, hoping desperately that it was still intact. The hood still only had holes for my ears, thankfully those were the only holes in it; besides the leg, body and head holes. I breathed a sigh of relief at seeing it in perfect condition, aside from a few frayed hems of course. It was a gift from my father. He purchased it from a trader in mainland Equestria during his travels and I’ve kept it ever since; that was on my seventeenth birthday four years ago and time has been kind to it. I slid the jersey over my head and pulled it tightly down my body, it did nothing to cover my flank, but it did cover most of my body and, since it was dark and my coat was not, it was great for stealth.

I stood on the porch to the doctor’s house; the sun was low in the clear blue glass that was the sky, it was barely over the horizon but it was high enough that the land was awake with life. It would’ve been a pleasant day if it weren’t for the sweltering heat of the morning. I could hear the whistle of some birds as they flew over the town, the desert wind was whistling across the dunes. The smell of arid air mixed with my own body sweat left me feeling both sticky and uncomfortable. The doctor’s house was built on a raised plateau and you could see the entire town of Coltgrave from his front door. The town was small and contained about ten homes organised in two neat columns of five houses each built parallel to a small road that led both in and out of the village.

I could see ponies out and about, tending to small farm plots or their livestock, while some ponies just relaxed under the morning sun. The building furthest from the doctor’s home was the largest of them all, it had a small wooden sign placed above the door, though from this angle I couldn’t read it.

Surrounding the perimeter of the town was a steep hill to the left and a large cliff-face on the right side that ran from one end of the town to the other, it formed a very natural looking entrance and sheltered Coltgrave from the devastating sandstorms that brewed up in the desert sands every now and again. Behind the town was a vast expanse of forest, or what was left of the forest after the megaspells fell almost 250 years ago. Now they were nothing more than a giant graveyard of trees and wildlife, it resembled more of a giant charcoal farm than a forest. Though, not all of the natural inhabitants of the Griffish forests died in the balefire cleansing of Equestria.

At the foot of the hill that led to the doc’s house, there stood a stallion. His face was concealed by a scarf wrapped over his mouth and nose, revealing only his, ice blue eyes. His pale white mane draped over his left eye, concealing even more of his face. I approached him with a careful step - the hill proved more difficult to walk down than the straight floor of the doctor’s residence. He didn’t move to greet me in a particularly personal way, instead, he gave me nothing more than an impersonal upwards nod.

“Hi there, I’m—”

“The pony I dug up. I don’t really care for your name or where you’re from. I dug you up because nopony deserves to be buried and left dying”. He cut me off, his voice was emotionless and dry - not the friendliest pony I’ve ever spoken to. “I just came here to give you this,” the earth pony handed me a small piece of paper, “found it placed on your body when I dug you up. It probably has more meaning to you than me”. With that, he turned and walked back to his house on the corner of the street. As he walked away I could make out his grey coat and his crossed spade and pitchfork cutie mark - a farmer. Might explain why he wasn’t eager for a conversation, he’s probably a busy pony - that or everypony in this town is sceptical about strangers - I hoped it was the former and not the latter.

I levitated the paper the pony gave me to a position where I could read it. The note wasn’t anything cryptic, just my contract I signed off on for my last delivery. The only changes made to it was a messy scrawling of the word “terminated” - charming. I examined my contract again, for the first time since I actually accepted the delivery.

“One platinum bit from an unknown source to one Mr Pipsqueak in New Trottingham, the address given was the Royal Trottingham Hotel”. Every time I read the contract to myself nothing gave me a clue as to why some pony wanted me dead, it seemed like any other contract I received. To somepony on the outside of the courier business, it might be suspicious that the source was anonymous, but it was more common than most ponies thought to receive an anonymous delivery request. I shook my head; still confused about the reason why the delivery was important enough that the pony making it - me - needed to die.

I remembered the large building at the edge of the town and how I couldn’t read the sign that was out the front. From the end of the road, I saw several ponies walk in and out of it, which suggested to me that it was an important building in the day-to-day lives of the ponies of Coltgrave. It was probably a good idea to check it out for myself if I was to improve my chances of learning anything about the elusive pony in tweed.

I started my arduous walk down the street towards the large building where ponies seemed to enjoy going. It was constructed from red-brick and was typically rectangular in shape, it did, however, have a bend to it and so the building resembled a short “L” shape. My slow walking was driving me mad with impatience. The more I examined the building as I moved at a snail’s pace, the more ponies I saw going in and going out. They were trotting so perfectly whilst I was restricted to a pathetic crawl.

I gritted my teeth as I grew more frustrated with my legs that weren’t communicating my movement perfectly, though with a considerably improved performance than last night’s embarrassment. I tried to pick up my pace, my slow walk became a slightly faster trot. Each step in my gait was exhausting though and I began sweating and breathing profusely. It was as if I was shot as a healthy twenty-one-year-old mare and woke up - eight days later - as an obese pony in dire need of exercise. By the time I reached the building, I was too tired to even attempt to read the sign. Instead, I sat on my haunches in the middle of the street panting and wheezing, which felt more demeaning than walking so slow that a snail could match my pace.

“You okay there ma’am?” Another mare’s voice called out to me from the door of the “L” shaped structure I overexerted myself to reach.

“Yeah, I’m— whew!” I wheezed as I replied, “I’m just a little— a little out of shape. That’s all!” I tried to take slower, deeper breaths as my lungs burned from the inside out, the humid air wasn’t helping me catch my breath. Maybe I should have taken the doc’s advice about ‘taking it slow’.

“Okay,” she didn’t sound convinced, “well when you’re done resting on your tush then come on inside and get a nice drink!” She sounded welcoming with her words, much unlike the previous pony I had met. I began to catch my breath and I stood back onto my own four hooves again - another basic skill I was beginning to get used to. I shifted my eyes from the ground where I had been sat to the sign above the door.

“The Salt-Lick Inn. A pub. Well, that explains why so many ponies were going in here”. I chuckled to myself after reading the sign. If there was one thing to be sure about in the Griffish Isles, it’s that farmer ponies love their alcohol.

With a shaky hoof, I pushed open the door to the inn and was greeted by a small area dedicated to hanging hats and jackets. It had a particularly smokey smell to it that mixed with the smell of cheap liquor that permeated the room. The room was dark and poorly lit due to the absence of windows in the entrance. In front of me was a staircase that led to the second storey where I assumed the bedrooms were, since the sign out front claimed to be an inn. To my left was the main area, where there was a line of tables and benches pushed against the outer wall, each table sat under a window, giving the ponies who sat there optimal lighting to enjoy their beers and cigars. Immediately to the right in the main room, there was a long wooden counter that was red in colour, it was clearly a bar since I could see small metal faucets that were connected to barrels of beer that were probably stored beneath the building.

The inn was full of conversation between ponies discussing the harvest and, unsurprisingly, the mare who was found buried in the cemetery on the hill - they were gossiping about me. I could also make out a distinct voice in the background, it sounded gruff and old yet pleasing on the ears. He was talking about some group called ‘The Remnants’ and how they were holed up in Stable 21 where they were harassing the ponies in and around New Trottingham. I had heard his voice before, I believed it was a pony who went by the name of “Mr New Trottingham” and was the host of Radio New Trottingham. It wasn’t a particularly original radio station, but according to my father, it was as good as the radio station that the ponies had on mainland Equestria, if I remembered correctly the host of that station was called DJ-Pon3. Maybe these radio presenters were just really lacking on clever aliases that they could go by. I breathed in the bitter scent that was the lingering smell of cheap booze and sat upon a tattered leather stall at the bar. The pony next to me moved away and sat on a table by the window - on the other side of the room. Something tells me the ponies of this town really don’t trust me.

“Don’t mind them. There’ve been rumours going around that you work for The Zebra Legion”. The voice came from the other side of the bar, more specifically, it arose out from under the other side of the bar, as did she. “You’re not are you?” The mare poured some clear water into a glass and placed it on the counter in front of me. I politely levitated the glass to my lips and took a small sip of the crisp water and relished in its refreshing nature as it ran down my gullet, cleansing my palate of the grit and dust of the desert.

“Why would I work for the Zebra Legion? We all know how mares are treated under their rule”. I was quite offended by the allegation if I was to be perfectly honest.

“That’s what I thought, but you can’t be too sure during this day and age!” The mare nodded and extended a hoof over the bar, “Name’s Salt Lick, and this is my pub!” I shook the clean white hoof in front of me and I looked the mare in her blue-green eyes framed by her short silver mane that sat neatly curtained at the back of her neck.

“Express, and it’s nice to meet a friendly face, Miss Salt Lick”. My energy to hold a conversation began to deteriorate, moving my recovery along with walking to a small trot in less than a day took more out of me than I cared to admit. I took another sip of the cold, crystal water. “I have to ask if there've been rumours going around that I work for the Zebra Legion, why did you not believe them?” I rested my front leg on the bar and leant my head onto my raised hoof as a way of balancing on the stall that offered no support for my tired body.

“You want me to be honest Express? At first, I did,” I raised my eyebrow at her words, “but when I saw that pipbuck on your leg there, I remembered a stallion I met a year or so ago. He came here looking down in the dumps, a right old mess of a pony. He sat a few feet down the bar from where you are now and couldn’t stop talking about his recently deceased wife and how he had to “be strong for her”, though he never said who ‘her’ was. He also mentioned some other pony, Odysseus? Something foreign like that. He told me he was to meet them at a place called ‘The Divide’, I don’t know. He also rambled on about how he shouldn’t have told me that name - ‘ears everywhere’ he was ranting, a bunch of crap if you ask me!” she chuckled at the absurdity that a pony could have ears everywhere, “Anyway, it all made no sense to me - the moral is, he wore a pipbuck just like that one. He even had a small flask he kept drinking from. It had uh, 83 written on it in big yellow letters!” My eyes widened and my mouth fell open slightly. I fumbled through my saddlebags and placed my father’s flask onto the countertop. “Yeah just like that! Where’d you get it?”

“This was my father’s,” I paused. I was amazed that my father had even been here when he travelled after mother passed away. But who was this Odysseus? He never mentioned him. “I was given it when he was found dead in the wasteland”. Salt Lick didn’t need long before she put two and two together. She curled her lips in an uncomfortable manner and placed a hoof on the table in front of me.

“I had no idea that pony was your father. I did think you might’ve known him though since you wear a pipbuck too. Just didn’t imagine you’d have known him as family. I’m so sorry, Express”. I wiped a tear from my eye and smiled softly at the mare. I didn’t speak anymore, I felt that if I opened my mouth I would begin sobbing and nopony wanted to witness that.

I pushed away from the bar and gave a gentle downwards nod to Salt Lick before I went back to the door of the inn. I didn’t learn about the pony in tweed, but I did learn about someone who may have been the last pony who saw my father alive. I needed to learn more. I would have to find him and ask him about my father. I wanted answers, why did my father seem so adamant about leaving about a year ago? And why did he need to be ‘strong’ for ‘her’...for me? I shook my head. It was starting to ache from all the new questions I had. First, there was a pony who had it out for me, now there’s a pony who knew my father? At this point, I just wanted to go to bed.

Once I was back outside, I could see that the sun had started to set over the world once more. The sky was burning red from the western horizon and bled into purple as the sky spread into the east. There were still no clouds in the sky though, there never were any clouds during drought season. I turned my head slowly to look at the home that I was staying in until I was completely recovered from my ordeal. The lights in the porch glowed like a lighthouse beckoning me towards harbour, a safe place to lay my head for the night. My body was screaming at me for a release from moving, but no matter how badly I needed to sleep, I would not be running back. I paced myself, taking slow and steady steps back to the hill that the doctor’s residence sat upon and, even slower still, I dragged myself up the hill to door. Once there, I opened the door and closed it behind me, which is how it remained until the next day.

***

I repeated the process of waking up from nightmares, getting my vitals measured and strolling back and forth to the Salt-Lick Inn for several days. Before I knew it, six days had passed and I was back to feeling like myself. My walking had improved and I was now able to trot from place to place at a typical pace. On the few occasions that I did break out into a full gallop, I didn’t feel like I was close to dying. I was the Express I was before I was put into and pulled out of a grave. Unfortunately, the nightmare was still haunting me at night, which - according to the doctor - meant I might have to be more patient, or I should seek something to calm my post-traumatic stress - he suggested a hobby, but I knew getting answers would be my stress release. The doc wanted me to stay just one more night to be certain that no further complications would arise and I would be free to finding answers to my questions. Who was Odysseus? And why did the pony in tweed want me dead? Today though, I wanted to return to the Salt-Lick Inn and tell Salt Lick the good news - that I was better and I could leave soon.

As soon as the doctor gave me freedom to leave the house for the day, I took off down the road at a healthy trot and I was down the hill and to the Salt-Lick Inn in less than a minute, but something seemed off. There weren’t any ponies going in. Every pony seemed to have suddenly had an interest in sobriety, which was odd for farmer ponies who had shown no signs that suggested they cared about the health of their livers. I pushed on the door to the inn but it wouldn’t budge. Something was definitely wrong. I went around the back of the inn and tried the back door, which was open. I called into the darkness that hung around the back entrance. No pony replied, not even Salt Lick. I was concerned. I flared up a lumination spell on my horn and stepped into the darkness that had consumed the once lively bar. The spell on my horn barely lit up the building, and the faint glow of my pipbuck made the darkness feel thicker.

“Hello? Salt? Is everything okay?” I called out into the darkness once more, hoping for a response. I got nothing. I entered the main area of the pub, the floor felt sticky and moist. The smell of beer still lingered on the edge of the air as did another smell that seemed familiar, it left a copper taste in my mouth. The windows had all been covered with wooden barricades, which explained why it was so dark in there despite it being morning. The radio blasted static into the room filling the building with a haunting symphony of the twinkle of my horn’s spell, static and my own breathing. I tried to turn the lights on but the power wasn’t working, instead, I was given nothing but the whimpering click of the light switch.

“Okay, this is most definitely not right”. I whispered to myself. I checked my pipbucks EFS, but there were no markers inside the inn. The static from the radio was bothering me, I decided to attempt to tune it to the Radio New Trottingham frequency, but upon turning the dial slightly to the right I heard a stranger's voice echo across the radiowaves.

“‘I’m sorry I wasn’t strong enough’. His last words, correct? Hello, Express. Your friend Salt Lick shouldn’t have told you my name, only one pony can ever know of my existence at any time, and I do have ears everywhere. Your father was dumb enough to tell her it, but then your father knew he had nothing left to lose. Except you of course. If you wish to know more about your father, then follow my trails. They should be easy to find. When you’re close to one your pipbuck will detect an unknown radio frequency. Keep an eye out for the Equestrian flag painted onto walls; see those and you’ll be following in my hoofsteps. Discover my past, find my location. Go alone”. My heart jumped to my throat. I dropped the radio onto the floor and broke it, not before my pipbuck recorded the frequency on its radio-wave receiver. I stumbled back into the middle of the room where I felt a hoof brush through my mane. I turned around and shined the light from my horn behind me, I saw a white leg floating from the roof, as I followed it up, the body it was attached to became visible.

Salt Lick hung lifelessly from the rafters, a rope was tied around her neck and hung from a hook that had been quickly placed into the roof. I felt sick. Her face was blue and I could see tears dried beneath her eyes. There was a deep puncture in her chest that stained her coat red as it congealed and clung to her fur. Her blood ran from just below her neck and down between her legs and onto the floor. I saw a pool of the red liquid under her, along with a trail that led from the backdoor to here. I wasn’t walking in spilt beer when I entered, I was stepping in my friends spilt blood, and now I understood what that familiar smell was. I gagged. I couldn’t believe that she was here like this, stabbed, bloodied and hanged. Yesterday, she and I had been laughing about how funny life could be, and now here she was, hanging from a rope tied to the roof. I felt tears begin to swell in my eyes. On her body was a small note stabbed into her by a knife. I pulled her down from the ceiling and removed it. The note read:

“Come alone, or not at all. And don’t you make the same mistake she did. You’ll find yourself in the same situation. I’ll be waiting courier number six. Odysseus.” I crumpled the note up and stashed it into my saddlebag.

“I will avenge you, Salt Lick, I’ll find his trail and I’ll follow it until I find him. I will get him to tell me about my father. Then I’ll kill him for what he did to you”. I felt a tear roll off my cheek. I turned around and left through the back of the inn, the same way I entered. I couldn’t leave her in there to rot though. I had to tell the sheriff of the town, but in a way that didn’t mean I would have to tell him I was there and what I found. I decided to leave an anonymous note slid under the door of the sheriff’s office which two houses down from the Salt-Lick Inn. I then returned to the doc’s house and without a further word, I locked myself in my room, where I stayed for the remainder of the day, thinking about the ways I would get revenge for my friend.

The next morning the doctor approached me, he didn’t take any medical examinations. He did ask me if I had another nightmare though, the answer was yes - I had several in fact. The usual nightmare where I was in the desert with the pony who tried to murder me and one which repeated the sight of my friend - Salt Lick - swinging from the rafter of her inn. Her face soaked with tears and the blood that was draining from the stab wound in her chest, pooling on the floor beneath her. The sound of the rope creaking as she swung back and forth. The message of the pony over the radio echoed through my mind. I tried to forget it, but that was easier said than done.

“I guess this is goodbye then, Express. Try and take things easy from now on”. The doctor interrupted my thoughts with words of concern. I shook my head.

“Unfortunately Doc, I have a delivery to make and a pony to follow”. I spoke with a bitterness that I hadn’t ever felt before. I was teeming with anger and sorrow. I wanted to get revenge. I also wanted answers.
“You’re going to go after the pony that tried to kill you?” he sighed, “Well if you’re sure, and there’s nothing I can say to deter you from this path, then I suppose I have information that will help you”. The doctor sounded reluctant with his words, almost as if he felt guilty for giving me information that he thought would lead to somepony dying.

“Doc, if you know anything, please. Tell me”. I stared the old pony in the eye with a serious expression that seized control over my face, a seriousness that I had never felt before. There was a sense of clarity to my thoughts that made me feel as though my path was the right one to follow.

“I saw a pony dressed in a tweed coat hanging around the town the same day you were brought to me. He hung around the Salt-Lick Inn, probably drinking away any sense of guilt he may have felt”, the mention of the inn made me retreat into my mind again, remembering Salt Lick’s face, the fear that was immortalised onto it. That image would never leave my mind. “He went west, towards the New Equestrian Society outpost. Try asking the ponies there if they saw or heard of anypony who fits your attacker’s description”.

“Thank you, doc. You have no idea how much this means to me”. I gave the elderly pony a quick hug to display my gratitude. Not only for helping me recover, but also for helping me on my quest for answers and, subsequently, vengeance. Once I was done hugging him though he told me to wait by the door before I left. Moments later he came back to me with a small, sandy brown box with a red first aid cross on it and a sealed potion bottle full of a purplish liquid.

“I know they’ll be no help in removing bullets from your head but these should keep you from finding your way back onto my doorstep”. He spoke in an urgent tone. He opened the box and showed me several bandages, ranging from the magical kind that helped seal wounds whilst keeping a wound dressed to the regular dressing used to keep a minor wound clean and bandaged.

“I don’t know what to say Doc. Thank you so much for this! This is far too kind of you!” I placed the box of medical supplies into my saddlebags. I examined the potion and pondered its origin and use, I shook it at the doctor, “What’s this do?” I understood that there were magical potions that could be created by anypony but they’re usually pink in colour. I’d never seen a purple potion.

“It’s a potion I’ve been working on for years. It’s like your typical healing potions which heal any wound rapidly, but the basic variants usually leave scars for deeper wounds. This particular potion not only increases the rate of healing but also improves the division of deep tissue cells which would normally scar and remain damaged from gunshot wounds or stabs. I haven’t got a name for it so I just call it a Stimpotion. Short for stimulant potion. If you get shot, and the bullet passes straight through, drink this and you’ll be fine in seconds with no scarring and perhaps a brief feeling of strength. Same with a stab wound”. I stared at the doc with a thoughtful expression as I tried to understand all the science he just dropped onto me.

“So let me get this straight. If I get stabbed or shot, and I drink this, I won’t experience scarring and I’ll feel stronger for it? Is this the potion you used to fix my face?” I placed the potion into my saddlebag, where my pipbuck would catalogue it. The doctor nodded, suggesting that my summary, whilst absent of the science, was accurate. “Thank you doc, I will remember everything you’ve done for me”. I smiled as I placed my hoof on the door, prepared to step out into the desert again and this time, I wouldn’t be returning to Coltgrave. As I stepped out of the door and into the ruined sands of the Griffish Wasteland the doctor called out to me.

“Express!” he stood in his doorway while I stood out on his porch, “I hope you find what you’re looking for. Without losing who you are”. The doctor’s final words were given to me as he closed the door behind me. Leaving me alone to think about what he said.
I took a deep breath of the hot air of the morning and began my walk through the street of Coltgrave. The words of the pony in tweed echoing through my mind and ricocheting off my thoughts like the gunshots he put into my head should have done. The face of Salt Lick after Odysseus had her murdered to pass me a message. The final words of the doctor who nursed me back to health. So much passed through my head, each voice merged into the next. ‘It’s just business. Follow my trail. Without losing you who are’. It was enough to drive a normal pony insane. But I was not a normal pony. I was a survivor, and I would follow the hoofsteps of the pony who tried to kill me.

Author's Note

Footnote: Level Up.
New Perk Acquired: Black Widow - +10% Damage to ponies of the opposite sex and unique dialogue options with certain ponies.