They were within a horde, hundreds of voices gave a loud hum to the crowds, and Steorra couldn’t pick out what a single one was saying. Big Macintosh parted the waves of ponies with his mere presence, whether it was due to acclaim or just sheer size, Steorra couldn’t tell. He felt important by proxy, and this left him grinning with egoism. He liked feeling important, he realised. Even if he was only loosely associated with somepony more so than him.

“Only way ponies are allowed on the locomote are to be rich, important, or by promising favours to ponies who’ll definitely cash in,” Big Macintosh explained, his expression in a grimace.

Steorra looked to his father, who glanced down at him with a half-smile before he turned to look at the brown stallion he walked beside. “Thanks again for this, Big Mac. You’re doin’ me and my colt a gre-”

“Yeah, yeah,” Big Mac interrupted, rolling his eyes. “You’re jus’ lucky those Vanhoovan are as empty on food as they are full o’ themselves. Far as the driver’s concerned, he’s carrying cargo first, and you second. As soon as it goes, you do too. He won’t take ya’ll any more North than Vanhoover.”

“Ay. We’ll make do,” Sunder replied, a nod accompanying his words.

“What’s Vanhoover?” Steorra asked his father, brow arched. He recalled it being mentioned once by one of the older ponies in passing whilst still at the farm.

“It’s a city far North, next to a massive stretch of desert called the salt plains,” his father answered, looking down sideways at the colt. “One of the only places left where it’s ruler called itself ‘king’ or ‘queen’.”

“Calls herself ‘the last unicorn’, too.” Big Mac chimed in, “completely cuckoo if you ask me. ‘Unicorn queen of the Salt Plains and Oreous Mountains.’”

“Is she really a unicorn?” Steorra asked, excited.

“I’d doubt that, but from what I hear, I don’t think she can even be considered a pony anymore. I hear she’s more an abomination,” Big Mac spoke, frowning. “If it were up ta me, we’d never send shipments up there anymore. But they gotta eat and drink, and we gotta get our coal and metal.”

Steorra found his further questions had dissipated in his thoughts, his attention suddenly snatched to something else entirely. He saw only saw the flicker of it between the necks of two passing stallions, but already it was unlike anything he had ever seen before. There was a trickle of white smoke from somewhere ahead, and he heard a sound, not unlike his father huffing out his nose. Steorra was anxious, pacing on his hooves as father and Big Mac sauntered ahead at their regular pace. They finally walked from the parted herd and out into the open, a considerable gap between them and what way ahead; leaving Steorra’s mouth agape as he stared ahead with abject fascination. To the front there was a large black metal beast of a machine, white smoke being exhaled from the top from a large black maw of a hole. He snapped to what was attached to it, connected behind by thick pieces of interconnected iron. Boxes, at least twenty. The ones closer to the front were pretty, with ponies inside clad in equally as pretty apparel, exuding wealth and exclusivity. However, as Big Mac began to lead them down the length of the locomotive, toward the rear end there was a jarring change in quality. The boxes toward the end were less sightly to the colt’s eyes. Splintered red hued wood, with ponies looking noticeably grumbled helping heft large cargo crates into the carts, heaving as they did so. Boxes into boxes, Steorra thought, smiling at his humorous musing.

Big Macintosh stopped at the very end car, raising his chin at one of the stallions who plodded down from the box, who then mimicked the gesture before walking off. “This here is where you’ll be stayin’ for the trip,” Big Mac informed, nodding toward the open door. “Best I could getcha.”

“Ride’s gonna be rough,” Sunder remarked, looking into the open door.

“Eeyup. Should only be half a day’s ride, so won’t be too sore on your flanks,” Big Mac grinned as Sunder climbed in, Steorra struggled to reach; Big Mac aided him up.

Steorra, often as he did, wandered around his new surrounding with his eyes. It wasn’t pleasant to the eye, and despite being exposed to the open air, the air somehow managed to be thick with dust. The box was stacked with at least a dozen crates twice his size, and the scent of their contents was carried on the air.

“Thanks again for this, Big Mac,” Sunder again showed his gratitude, and Steorra wondered why he kept doing so.

Big Mac gave a slight smile, before looking to the colt, nodding. “Stay safe.”

“He will be,” Sunder replied, and Steorra saw his legs stiffen.

Big Mac’s eyes lingered on Sunder for a while, not another utterance coming from out his mouth until he suddenly just took off; leaving Steorra confused on the unsubtle hostility he read. He wasn’t very perceptive on such social nuances, but Big Mac looked like he was trying to hold back a scowl.

It wasn’t too long after Big Macintosh’s departure that a shrill whistle sounded from the other side of the locomotive, prompting the colt to jump in surprise at the sudden noise. The chugging of the train’s engine was next to follow, and the colt nearly fell over as the cart jolted, being dragged behind the engine as it began to gain its momentum. The two settled beside the door to the adjoining car, Sunder himself acting as a pillow to the colt, whose eyes remained glued to the scenery as it passed by.

A couple of hours into the ride and the colt’s eyes began to droop, watching the passing dunes with half-hearted care as he readied to sleep. However, a sound emerged from the adjacent side of the box, a yawn and the popping of bones into their sockets. The smacking of lips was loud, and definitely on purpose. Steorra looked to Sunder, and him slumbering, the old stallion was always quick to be caught by sleep. Steorra chewed his lower lip, glancing to the dozing expression of his father, and ahead to the source of the noise.

Steeling himself, he rose to his hooves and began to take tentative steps forward. His ears flickered, trying to pick up any more noises from the other side, hearing only the rattling of the car as it sped along the track. He made his steps light, trying not to make a noise of his own as he neared the source. There was a spot at the very back that was empty of a crate, and coming out from it Steorra saw the hem of a dull yellow blanket.

He pressed his side to the apple stamped crate, and edged forward, prepping an eye to peek behind the corner.

“Hello!” exclaimed a voice from behind him, prompting to the colt to yelp himself into the air and turn to the face the stranger, hooves shaking.

“H-how did- but you- that doesn’t make any sense!” Steorra gushed, backing away from the brown coated stallion.

The stallion didn’t take another step, instead of seating himself in the spot he suddenly appeared. With his back to the light, the colt couldn’t make out much of the features of his face, only the sickly yellow jaundice of his eyes; his irises so stricken with cataphracts they appeared a solid red. The stallion chuckled, grinning a crooked smile at the colt. “And where is the fun in that?”

“W-what?” Steorra stuttered, pressing his back against the wall of the car.

“Making sense...”

Author's Note

Sorry for the delay and quality of this chapter. I had several things come up that prevented me from writing. As a result, I believe the quality of this chapter is a tad lower than the last few, and might also be a tad exposition-y. For that, I apologise. However, I promise the next chapter will not suffer the same fate. I also needed to kind of show I wasn't dead and that I was still writing. Also, apologies for the short chapter. The silver lining to this is that I finally figured out my number one cure for writer's block: Write something else and then come back to it later.