The Horrible Dream of the West
Space Pirate Captain Spike
The deck of the Horrible Dream is a seizure inducing swathe of blue-green holoscreens reading constant tickers of information. Clicks, beeps, buzzes and whirs ring out even when the ship is at rest. And in the backdrop, like a bass line to a jazz song, the rumble of the engines. Spike taps his foot as he navigates to the captain's chair, earbuds blaring far past the healthy volume. Even in the empty ship he preferred the closeness of in-ear earbuds to the speakers installed on the ship. It makes him feel right there playing along with the band.
Spike runs his scaled hand along the red couch, brushing the fabric against the grain. With some sadness he walks past the 'living room' of the ship, with its oh-so-comfy and chic furniture, soft black rug and massive holoscreen. No cartoons and cereal today, Spike had some big-boy stuff to do.
He jumps into the chair from the side, falling hard onto the seat, somewhat uncomfortably squeezing his tail. The mug of coffee he left half finished in his captain's chair cup holder seems to stare back at him, the milk and coffee separated and inky. With a disgusted face he tosses the liquid out into his trash dispenser and throws the cup somewhere behind him. With a soft thud he knows he's landed it on the shag rug.
"Prep for flight, coordinates to follow," he says plainly to the compute, tired eyes scanning over the night's reports. Ship got smacked by a small asteroid, but it didn't get past the shields.
"I'm sorry Overlord Dominator Best Dragon Spike-kun, I did not understand that."
Spike cringes. Was I drunk when I set that name? Spike rolls his eyes and rubs his temples and mutters, "Equestrians master space flight but can't get good voice recognition technology."
"Shiri, please call me 'Spike'."
"Are you sure?" the computer asks.
Why did I pay three hundred bits for this piece of junk software?
"Yes, Shiri," the frustration bubbling in his voice.
"Okay, I'll start calling you 'Spike'."
Spike flicks off the voice recognition from a control panel and manual warms the engines to get ready for a Discjump. With his engine it would take about two hours to get to his destination: a space port in the Equuis sector. That's decently fast, but the Horrible Dream isn't winning any races.
Spike carefully navigates the ship through the jump, trusting the auto-pilot only in the safest areas. Discordian Jumps are the norm for travel, but occasionally if you're not paying attention sometimes half your ship turns into cotton candy and you get sucked into the fucking void of space to die a near-instant death due to decompression.
Tiring journey over, Spike slips back out of the jump and lets the computer glide him the last few minutes to the space port. From the view port it looks intimidating, a tilted rod lined with protrusions like iron fillings on a magnet, floating near a red, barren planetoid. A wretched hive of scum and villainy, and the home of Spike's bounty.
What would Twilight think of me now, floating around lawless areas, 'apprehending' outlaws.
Horrible Dream settled into a dock as Spike prepared his gear. He's older now, and larger. As such he dresses himself loosely, and owns few articles of clothes. A red checkered shemagh tied around his neck covers the knife strapped to the upper part of his shoulder holster, below it a more obvious plasma pistol — anybody sizing him up will see this first, and is likely to miss the concealed melee weapon. Useful set up in a pinch, more than once Spike's found himself in a close encounter where he couldn't draw his gun, or had lost it and that knife has saved him.
Armed, feeling good, and ready to get paid, Spike departs from his ship to the docking bay. A sprawling mess of metal platforms, refueling depots, workmen and space travelers unwind before him. With a cursory glance over his shoulder he sees the ripple of the energy protector, keeping the atmosphere in and the cold emptiness out.
Ponies, griffons, zebras and even a minotaur or two all dabble about doing their thing. Normally there would have been stares and maybe the request for an autograph or a scale. Dragons and other odd sorts are common here though, even the rare human could be spotted once on a blue moon.
Spike carries himself with purpose, weaving past stalls attempting to sell off their wares to unsuspecting port-goers. Crowded walkways and footpaths of scuffed metal are relatively easy to barge through when you're nearly double the size of the pedestrians around you. Down a back path and a couple bits into a certain pony's hoof and Spike finds himself in a dreary, dimly lit bar.
A flickering rotation of cyan and periwinkle illuminated the bar. Tiled panels for flooring, stuffed booths and rounded tables, an older aesthetic but it checks out. A DJ-Pon3 track bumps in the back, the bass steady and low. Spike eyes the bar goers quickly, but is sure not to linger in the door and make himself apparent. Like any other customer he slots himself in a booth and rings a bell for service.
There, in the opposite corner, is the target. Iron "5 point" Will and all 5 of the scars on his massive chest. Bullets or bolts of plasma that irreparably damaged his skin, leaving jagged pink marks in his stomach and pectorals. His shaggy chest hair covers most of the wounds, but every now and again when the light is right you can see the maimed pink flesh. It's hard to see the entire table, seeing as there is a pillar in the middle of the room. With some not so subtle maneuvering though, Spike gets a read on all of them.
Around him, two stallions and a mare. "Double D" Daisy, the only girl and the only unicorn. A Pegasus who fits the profile of Thunderlane, and his cohort Sun Savior, an Earth pony. Iron Will and his three top workers, quite the catch. Iron Will and Thunderlane had their backs to Spike, with Sun and Daisy facing him. Quite the challenge, four v. one isn't the best match up.
The four amigos laugh and drink, Iron Will naturally the center of the conversation. He gropes a passing serving girl, who gracious accepts his pawing but gags when he isn't looking. Savior's light creme coat and yellow hair looking suave. Thunderlane huddles over his drink, hardly visible in the dark of the club.
Eventually the pretty mare makes her way around to Spike, a shortly cut purple mane just out of her eyes. Her white coat catches what little light there is in the room perfectly, making her easy to see. Reminds me of someone I know.
"What can I getcha?" she asks with an accent totally foreign to Spike, but with hints of Manehattan and Fillypelphian.
"Water."
She gives him an odd look, and when he doesn't reply again she walks away. Spike scratches his head, taps the table and then runs a hand through his head scales. Could pop a few shots off, maybe go for nonlethal hits to disable? He chuckles to himself slightly, turning his head to the wall so no one sees. Wouldn't want to give him new scars to show off in jail.
He draws his gun as secretly as possible under the table, favoring instinct and his tried and tested skill over planning out variable. This isn't a chess game, it's a bounty. Then, suddenly, the door is thrown open, and another set of pawns enter the board.
"IRON WILL," one declares proudly, an Earth pony by the looks of it. He looks up from his wide brimmed head, "I'm takin' you in."
Spike rolls his eyes. The bar goes quite, the loud conversation coming from Iron Will halted, and the mummers from the few others quieted down. Two loud cracks, the streak of hazy purple magic, and the would-be cowboy is down on his ass, a blackened hole straight through his neck. His face seizes up in a mask of fear, and he goes still. Double D breaks into a laugh, her horn still smoking.
Iron Will swings his arm over the booth's back to look at the carnage.
Spike takes aim and fires a single shot, but Iron Will's got the reflexes of a cat. The wall hisses and bubbles as the streak of hot plasma melts a hole in it. Savior scarcely has the time to snarl before another shot plucks off most of his mane and half of his face. Thunder bursts from the booth, pushing his dead friend to the ground to take cover behind the pillar.
Spike, having stayed to take the second follow up shot, finds himself unable to dodge the bolt of magic streaking for him. Searing pain erupts in his shoulder. His scales absorb most of the blow, but he still crumbles onto the floor from the pain. Iron Will jumps out of the booth, not for cover however. Spike, sideways on the ground, is saved by Iron Will's bravado.
Just as Double D is readying another charge, Iron Will steps in the way and runs for the dragon. With a swift kick to the stomach, Spike is rocked against the booth's bottom. Will grabs him up with one hand, squeezing the neck tight, and with the other hand he wrestles for control of the gun.
Spike unhands his pistol and lets it clatter to the floor. With his free hand, he makes the smart move and grabs for the knife under his shemagh, and in drawing it slices down across the arm of Iron Will. The minotaur yelps and lets go of Spike's wrist to grasp for his wound. The dragon kicks him in the chest, and drives the knife into the guy's bicep.
Iron Will drives a solid punch with his uninjured arm right into Spike's jaw and lets him fly across the room, tumbling and landing hard on the dead earth pony. The serving mare and another customer trample him and they run screaming. Dazed and desperately trying to get his footing back, Spike notices the others escaping out the back.
5 Point struggles to remove the knife from his own arm, and Spike spots Daisy trying to get a shot on him from around her boss, so he dives low for a booth, leaning against the pillar. Just as he thinks he has a second a hoof knocks against his face hard as all hell, Thunderlane and all his Pegesian strength.
Spike catches the next blow, shoulder aching and nearly giving out as he tries to get Thunderlane down to the floor with him behind cover. He spins the black stallion around and catches one wing under his arm, the other flapping and sending feathers flying. There is a zap and a crack as a chunk of the booth is blown away just over Thunder's head.
The Pegasus screams as Spike tugs and snaps with all his strength, shattering the bones of his wing. He knocks the stallion hard in the jaw and throws him down to mewl on the floor just as Double D skids across the tile to greet him. Spike pounces to attention, delivering a swift but light blow to her charging horn, dazing her.
Spike coughs and sputters, readying up that secret weapon, but a fierce grip snatches him from behind. He feels something jab against his back, his own knife! It pierces slightly, but catches wrong on a scale and slides off relatively harmlessly. Daisy charges up again, malicious grin creeping across her face as her horn radiates with magic power.
Spike sucks in air best he can, and like a bellow, releases a spurt of greenish fire, roasting the unicorn immediately. Her screams of pain ring out roughly in his ears as he does his best to kick off the pillar to land on the bar's counter on his other side. The shemagh rips easily under the slice of his claws, and Will is left holding a rag while Spike catches his breath, poised and crouching low on the counter, a spilled drink's contents tickling his foot.
Will breaths raggedly for a moment, Daisy spinning in pain in the corner, desperately trying to conjure a spell to douse herself. Thunder nurses his wing best he can, biting his lip in pain. Blood gushes from Will's wounds, "holy hell, kid," he manages.
The sound of hooves stomping hard against the metal and guns flicking on becomes very noticeable in this pause, and after a half-second more of scanning the environment for the source both Spike and Iron Will find it. A least a dozen heavily armored police of all types, pony, griffon and perhaps even zebra, file into the bar and take up positions. Spike inches toward the back exit only to realize they have that capped off as well.
"Hooves, hands and claws up!" one of them bellows, the red eyes of his face mask glowing eerily, leaving a slight trail in the air as he nods his head.
"Fuck."
