Broom closets. The only place in the wasteland to find a broom. Not like anypony actively looks for a broom. If they did this place would be a whole lot cleaner. Broken glass on the floor, chunks of cement and lots of dust. Jazz Rivet notices all of this as he dives into the broom closet and slams the door behind him. Grabbing the aforementioned broom in his magic, he wedges it across the door. Settling against the back wall he readies a pistol, pointing it at the door. There he waits. Listening hard for the sound of hooves on the floor outside. He might have lost them by ducking into this building but he knew they wouldn’t give up easily.
Three hours later. The only sounds, other than some distant shouting, are the rats skittering around. Removing the broom and cracking open the door he takes a peek outside. The hall is empty. The sunlight streaming in the windows almost gone. Nightfall will give him cover to slip out and head for home, maybe. As quietly as possible he creeps out of the building. No raiders or slavers in sight, or any sign of his pursuers. Turning towards home he slips into the shadows, his black coat blending well.
Later, as he drops into bed, he thanks whatever goddesses are listening for another successful day. He’s one step closer to some answers. The information he found today will go to good use. He just needs a few more pieces of the puzzle. When he’s done the wasteland will change, for better or worse, it will change.
******
Walking slowly down the hallway, sunlight dances through the curtains billowing in a breeze on the left. Glancing out a window he can see the blasted building across the street. A crumbling monstrosity of concrete, steel and glass. No sound reaches his ears but the rustling of fabric as the curtains flop in the gentle wind. He continues walking to the end of the hallway and pushes open the heavy wooden door. He steps into a nice cozy study. Books line the walls and an overstuffed chair sits behind a large oak desk. Looking one last time at the dead world outside he closes the door and turns to the desk.
Taking in the room he notices a familiar looking cello sitting in the corner. He scratches the side of his head with a hoof in an attempt to dig up the memory. With well over two hundred years worth of things to remember it sometimes takes a moment. As he stares at the cello his thoughts are interrupted by a creaking noise as the chair spins around. The mare that is sitting in the chair triggers a deluge of memories and feelings long forgotten, and also triggers a feeling he thought he was long over. Fear.
Imposible. This pony smiling at him from the desk chair, grey coat and raven black mane, she’s been dead for two hundred years. Killed in the balefire like the world outside. The closest thing he had to a mother and the only pony he ever truly loved. Octavia Melody.
“Hello Jazz” her voice echoes strangely, the accent sounding distorted. “Have you practiced your scales today? You know you have to keep at it or you'll get rusty.”
He struggles to find his voice, swallowing hard. “I don't understand, how are you here? You can't be alive.” his mind reels in confusion for a moment as he backs towards the door. She slides out of the chair and walks around the desk causing him to cower on the floor. It’s like I’m a foal again in the orphanage, waiting for the first blow of a beating to fall. He thinks, closing his eyes as she reaches for him, but the impact never comes, instead he feels a gentle hoof brush through his silver mane.
“It’s alright Jazz. I would never hurt you, you know that my sweet one” her voice is soothing and his fear is brushed away by her hooves. He stands up from the floor and wraps her in a hug which she returns. “You are safe here with me, don't you worry bout a thing. Your days in that horrible place are over.”
A whiff of smoke touches his nostrils and he opens his eyes to look around. Octavia’s--No--his mother's soft amethyst eyes begin to glow. Still in his embrace, her entire body bursts into flame, turning everything but her bones to ash that falls through his hooves. He barely has time to scream before the entire study is washed away in balefire.
******
He snaps awake, jolting upright in bed. “MOTHER!” he shouts to an empty room. Brushing his sweat soaked mane out of his face with a shaky hoof he catches his breath. Nightmares are a fact of life for Jazz. A side effect of living for two hundred plus something years, seeing what he has seen, doing the things that he’s done. He rolls out of bed and heads for the bathroom. A hot shower is what I need he thinks to himself. One thing he has learned in all these years is that the little things matter: hot water, cold drinks, toasted bread, ice for your whiskey, a clean living space. In this blasted world where nopony bothers with a broom you have to do what it takes to stay sane.
Stepping out of the shower, the memory of the nightmare washed away with the sweat, he walks into the kitchen and grabs a box of Sugar Apple bombs and a bowl. Pouring a cup of coffee and taking a seat at the table, he watches the sun rise over Hoofington, what can be seen through the cloud cover anyway, through a window that shows a view of the great walled city.
The sight of the piece of old Equestria unnerves most ponies, but he finds it comforting. They are alike in a lot of ways, the city and Jazz. They come from the old world and are unchanging. Monuments to the past. I keep walls up around my heart, protecting my secrets just like Hoofington. He thinks. This is the only place in Equestria I feel at home.
Washing the dishes and putting them away, he prepares for the day. Donning his black riot barding, a pair of saddlebags and a PipBuck. Strapping a revolver to his foreleg and slinging a rifle over his back, he uses his magic to secure various other tools here and there. He’ll be running escort for a caravan down to Megamart today so he loads for trouble. There is always trouble in the Hoof and it’s best to be prepared.
