"Hey, guy who hit the only tree in maybe an entire five mile radius. Y'good?"

No, he wasn't.

In quite possibly the past couple of years of being labeled as a basket-case after the war and exiled from his own land he fought to protect, this was probably a more terrible feeling than the feeling of his entire country turning their back on him. It wasn't like he asked for this, he just somehow made his hoof a prime real estate target for a huge wa-bang of bullshit that catapulted his sorry ass across the entire Red Sea being the Badlands and into a tree, which so happened to be Jazz's SafeTree™ (not to be confused with the patented Safehouse™).

Tangents aside, Jaeger's head hurt like a bitch. It throbbed, with each wheezing cough he made and with each flap of his totally wrecked wings, it seemed that any cognitive command he sent towards his brain, it screamed no louder than a brownish-blackish colored creature being forced into a job interview after an entire life being a party animal. Heh. Animal.

Out-of-world racist jokes aside once more (not to be confused with the patented Tangents™), Jaeger had finally gained enough willpower to focus his vision on the breathing blob not too far off from him, tapping an obvious cane against the hardwood floor. Motel. Clearly a motel if he wasn't a great detective enough; if the decaying wallpaper, one window showcasing the beauty of greenish smoke being the industrial workhorse of the city outside, and the rotten desk with a barely-functioning chair that looked like it was ready to cave in under a foal's gentle weight, then they must clearly be in Bugwater's one of many motels that serve disappointment and shame for breakfast, lunch and five-star dinner.

Jazz sipped on his bottle of Yasemire, a pretty smooth liquor to go down the throat with to help assist his couple past rough patched days. Goldish liquid in the boxy glass cup, and it had a kind of a caramel taste going down. It was quite nice, to be frank. Blinking, he regained consciousness of the situation and promptly swished the remaining contents of the drink around in his cup, his pose one of studying. Studying his form, the way the wounded 'ling in his bed acted and how well he could possibly pull his weight in redemption for his oh-so glorious good samaritan deeds.

"Sup," Jazz said. Good one, Jazzy colt. You really showed him an astounding impression with your righteous dial-

"Whasgood, L?" Jaeger replied, having been sat up with some effort followed by the scratching of the back of his bandaged head.

Huh. Not a real proppy guy, this wounded guy, Jazz thought lazily.

"Name?" Jazz lifted an invisible brow, using a caneless hoof to prop up his bowler's hat a bit more to gain a more trusting look. It worked, because the bastard talked.

"Name's Jaeger. J-A-E-G-E-R," Jaeger said. "An' my game is dat I gotta whole new way o' life, man. Try'na get ta th'ponies, y'dig? I hear they gots good life compared t'ours."

Jazz nodded, not once believing that bullshit even if he wasn't blind. Plus, that accent this 'ling's got is awful. "I got you. Name's Jazz, not t'be confused with the genre." Follow it up with a click of your teeth, Jazz. Stay cool.

Silence reigned in co-operation with awkwardness.

"So, Jazzy guy, how'd we get here?" Jaeger glanced out the window, only catching the giant beam of a nearby factory vomit out smoke and green fog like it was it's last day of living. Not to say that it wasn't, but this damn place was a shithole to begin with. Crooks and even more crooks stay here as actual exiles with reasons of being exiles, while 'lings like Jaeger just get chipped over on a technicality and degenerate into the crook lifestyle. Not to say that he probably wasn't gonna go down that deep end, as anypony could use his skills as a markstallion.

If he advertised it..

"Well, I was gettin' my dick sucked. They charge more than a five-star restaurant in the capital cities for a damn meal, so I hit the legs on'em. Heard you, got your ass down, here we are." Jazz summarized, all the while downing his liquor. Turning around, he approached the rickety desk to refill while Jaeger talked.

"Sorry 'bout dat, dude. Th'pony city Dodge whatsamacallitnow flung my ass sky high afta I was try'na get in."

A gentle tap of glass on wood followed quickly after, prompting Jazz to pivot in directions to approach Jaeger's bedside. "Tell you what, kid-" He swished the cup of Yasemire around in his grasp, "-I can help ya in yer journey t'the big colt leagues up in Ponyland. If you can't even take a single step into pony territory wit'out bein' shot up sky high back to where ya came from, you'll need some hired 'lings t'help ya."

Jazz stepped backwards after his quick sales pitch, dumping the rest of the alcohol down his throat which he finished with a guttural grunt. Grabbing his cane which was leaning on the desk to the side, he twisted the white handle, a small pop being audible to Jaeger as Jazz the crazy bastard slid a full functioning sword out, the crystalline ball the hilt. "I'm a blind guy, yeah, but I can hear. Like just how I just heard your ear flap, or how I just heard your left foreleg move two centimeters up and how just about now you jus' looked at it as if you were goin' crazy. Did I get it right, sweetheart?"

Just as he described it in a mocking and otherwise advertising tone, Jaeger was doing it. Damn, he needed this dude.

"How much're yer rates, Jazzy Bazzy?"

Jazz smiled, a smile of greed and deviousness. Full fanged toothy grin, his eyes slightly narrowed as he slid the sword back into the cane sheath. "You help me take down anything I deem truly and utterly necessary t'my own adventure. Oh, and about every other week I want to get my dick wet. Hell, I'll take every day if you got th'hookers an' broads for it."

"Done deal. I ain't got nothin', but we can drop by some tit joints if y'want."

Just like that, the two bumped hooves and Jazz assisted Jaeger up, their agreements accountable and their intentions muddy. "Got any gum?" Jaeger grunted, "I feel like I'm hittin' rock bottom with this fuckin' bad breath."

"We're losing this war, sir."

Where did it all go so, so wrong?

Thorax heavily sighed, heavy bags giving evidence to his stress-filled days of being prime real estate fuck-up of the month. Even his war room had seen better days, with papers scattered about, rogue tables smashed in halves and thrown into the corner to be replaced by a table to take hold in the center of the room. Each map that was torn, each war piece that was used for strategical means, each damned inch of land lost to the Tyrant was another reminder of Thorax's lack of militaristic prowess.

Leaning on his hooves, his mind could only race like special olympics racers to a new alternative. Perhaps asking the Pony in the Cleansed Lands, or the Griffon in the Avian Valleys... No. That wouldn't work. His people would see him as a weak link, a fraud. A terrible being incapable of dealing with detrimental errors with a head of steam. This is not going to work.

"Creator that is all that is benevolent.. help us."

And that's just when a pop occurred. Immediately, it seemed that the battered 395th Shock Soldiers of Thorax's Shields of the Combs were getting ready for replenishing and awards to improve morale. They needed their leader to appear courageous and just, not defeated and battered; just like they were.

His chair creaked as he pulled himself away from his sorrow corner, shaking off any residue of jitters and sadness as he glanced over towards the door. Just next to it was a coat rack fit for a King, a King he shouldn't be. No! Thorax, you cumguzzler; stop thinking that!

Sliding his royal adornments on, being hoof guards, a jagged crown dented on one chevron on the front indicating his near-fatal one battle participation that scared him from ever helping the front lines again, and a silky blue and white cape that draped his entire back and to his legs. Carrying himself proudly, he erupted from his quarters and eyed the area.

Tents and improvised buildings lined the area in an organized fashion, with uniformed changelings to and fro buzzing about to get to where they needed to be. Many royal guards of their own right had formed a scattered line on either side of Thorax's path towards an elevated hill looking out towards the plains of the Badlands, where Chrysalis would be marching statistically speaking in about ten hours if the depleted 888th and 402nd Defense armies do not stop her.

Taking a step with faux pride, Thorax started his amazingly glut-pounding straight march towards the hill, and any stray changelings snapped their salute to him and some even bowed before resuming their activities. It tore his heart apart when he was brave enough to stop looking ahead to spot their tired and overworked glances, most of them not having enough love left in them to even walk properly, and rather walked sluggishly or like paraplegics.

Taking his spot at the top, he overlooked the plains that held such a larger and more fierce force nearly four years ago. They weren't even a tenth of what remained or what was replaced. With the ranks being settled by rank, then experience and then by age, it seemed like a laughing stock of a physical statistic.

The 394th Imperial Guards. Known as Thorax's Shields. There was about 200 left, not even numerically possible to be called a proper battalion, but it was still what it was. From each split off platoons and whatnot within it, it seemed that most platoons had no veterans in them, or had little or even a small chunk; it was organized from how many veterans were in what group. From left to right, the further he looked right (which wasn't a long look mind you,) the more the ragged veterans disappeared.

Clearing his throat, unbeknownst to the battalion he was nervously fidgeting, he raised a foreleg and curled his hoof towards himself. Immediately royal scholars and analysts ran out with boxes. They ran to the front of each still group, quickly opening the boxes and setting out the medallions and ribbons in columns atop the box for each 'ling marked to be given it.

Jaeger stared forward, an old and dirty bandage that was wrapped around his entire jaw with three holes for his nostril and mouth to breathe and communicate through, remained there despite his jaw having already been reattached to his skull weeks ago.

Cauli's pink eyes settled over Jaeger as her wounded form had accepted the position of one of the practical "scholars" which was basically decommissioned warriors for reasons unspecified, and immediately she frowned. She hadn't seen combat for a year and already Jaeger was deteriorated to a shell of himself.

"Commence." Thorax announced.

The scholars and analysts alike began grabbing the medallions and ribbons to award to replacements and veterans alike, with one distinguishing badge amongst each changeling as they quickly awarded them. A brass badge with a circular edge with a Badlands Rose diagonally stretched across in a universal sign of denial. It looked just like any rose, exception of the circular petals that created an LSD swirl with a spike-like stem. Thick at the base, nimble just at the petals.

Cauli approached Jaeger after branding the stallion to his right with medallions and ribbons, only to see that she only had one: the Badlands Rose Badge. Inhaling through her nostrils, she stood tall and proud in front of the glass eyed wall staring Jaeger who blinked without autonomy. He truly had lost it, Cauli sorrowfully thought, piercing his uniform with the needle of the badge and securing it tightly on.

"Your mother misses you, Jae." Cauli said, prompting Jaeger to blink in recognition before bitterly replying, "Sweet."

She trekked on without looking back, quickly rewarding the next stallion and to move onto the next one. As this all occurred, Thorax's voice boomed.

"SOLDIERS! WE ARE AT A CRISIS IN THE WAR, AND IT SEEMS NO LING CAN STOP IT! THEY ARE INCORRECT, FOR YOU ARE THE CRISIS SAVIORS, YOU ARE THE WALL, MY SHIELDS!"

Thorax sharply turned right, his head still facing the militia-sized army as he paced back and forth confidently and reassuringly.

"THIS WRETCHED TYRANT THINKS SHE CAN STOMP US REBELS WITHOUT A THOUGHT TO BE GIVEN! SHE THINKS WE ARE NOTHING BUT PESTS AND SUB-LING BUGS THAT SHOULD BE CRUSHED AND ERASED FROM THIS WORLD'S HISTORY! WE ARE THE HEROES TO THE DEFENSELESS OF THESE UNFORGIVING LANDS, THE CURSE MAY BURN IN EVERY LING AS A REMINDER TO OUR BURDEN - OR OF AN STD - BUT IT DOES NOT MATTER!"

Lifting a hoof, which had acquired a sword out of nowhere, had shimmered brilliantly in the sunlight.

"YOU ARE MY ROSES! AND AS MY ROSES, I DEMAND YOU TO GROW IN THE STONE OF THIS BADLANDS DIRT! YOUR PEOPLE AWAIT OUR VICTORY! I STAND WITH YOU ALL AS A MERE CHANGELING LOOKING TO MAKE A DIFFERENCE! YOU ARE THE REBELLION'S ROSES, THE BEAUTY THAT DEFENDS US FROM THE UGLINESS OF THAT BEASTLY WHORSE!"

The small crowd was getting antsy, agreeing either with shouts or with uncertainty in their tones as they shouted acknowledgements.

"SHOUT THE BATTLE CRY! THE BATTLE CRY OF FREEDOM!"

Cauli stared at Jaeger with growing worry as Jaeger glanced up towards Thorax, even as the 'lings around him cheered now with certainty and confidence, and only wondered with lack of energy and passion...

Wonder if I left the right dicksucker at that ranch...

"Original C- I mean, Fresh Meat, sir. There's no sign of this 'Jazz' changeling you've heard of. Th'lings 'round ere don't know o'him." A swapling, being a biologically sharp-looking changeling with midnight black skin rather than obsidian like their changeling counterparts, said nervously to Fresh Meat, whom was wearing his usual gear of a fedora and trench coat. They were both basically black with red trims and bands to match their wearer's appearance.

"I've had too much money pinned on that Jazz fucker. You can't find a blind 'ling with a terrible sense of fashion? These bugs gotta have some sort o' money on 'im t'hide his ass like that," Fresh muttered, tapping his chin. His eyes snapped to the swapling, who flinched, "Ten bit warrant on him. Get the entire slums in on this. If Jazz wants to hide, he'll want to in the slums."

The swapling nodded, "Yes, sir."

With the swapling gone, Fresh Meat relaxed only slightly. "These fuckin' stupid bugs're gettin' t'me."

"Nice racism."

Fresh Meat immediately tensed and pivoted in his stance, lowering himself to a defensive stance as the random voice made itself clear. "Crime boss Fresh Meat of the second-worst gang that exists in the Badlands. Stockers. Your reign of tyranny ends here, criminal."

The being dropped down, revealing a changeling in some garb. A spandex suit covered his entire form, with a thin layer of steel over it. It was plated, each edge of the steel plates serrated as on the chest piece it revealed a 'P' outlined in glistening gold and filled with a dull white. The helmet covered the changeling's entire head, exception of the eyes which were only revealed at literally only the eyes. The rest of it was covered by a sharpened helmet of same quality as his body armor, with a sixteen-barred respirator over his muzzle. He held numerous gadgets on his form.

"Paladin," Fresh Meat dryly remarked. "You and your league of vigilantes are a bunch of amateurs. This ain't the comic book reel, kid."

"It may not be the comic book realm, but we are mutants in our right, but you are just a freak."

"Bite me, faggot."

A white trail of vapor escaped Paladin's respirator, "So be it." He flicked his left foreleg as he lunged towards Fresh Meat. A white blade slid through one of the plates and made itself as an extended, sharp leg as Fresh leant backwards to avoid a lethal swipe at his neck.

With such intense force put behind that swipe, Paladin swung his body with the attack and used his unextended arm as a placement to kick his back legs out in a killer buck to Fresh's muzzle, which was blocked by a raised forehoof that swung it aside. Paladin immediately dug his blade into the concrete as sparks flew in liberal fashion as he spun back to face Fresh, who blocked his eyes from the sparks produced.

Lowering his forehoof, he let out a curt grunt as Paladin's unweaponized hoof found his face. Paladin used his daze to press the attack, and extended his body even more despite it being unevenly set and slugged his blade towards Fresh's sternum. Fresh threw his other forehoof forward, and Paladin expected a satisfying squelch of flesh and a scream; only to receive nothing.

"I ain't the only one with fancy gadgets, faggot." Fresh taunted, flicking his trench coat off as Paladin jumped back to gain space from Fresh. His entire hoof used to block that sternum shot was covered in metal and it seemed to pulsate a sickening green substance that oozed through some of the cracks in the metal.

"Fourth generation test subject. You ain't as special as me, second generation." Fresh grunted. "Your generation only focused on senses, mine focused on body composition. Who's the freak, now?"

"Still you."

"You ain't gonna be thinkin' that after I'm through with you, cunt."

The two bodies rushed forward at each other, and what followed for the next forty-seven seconds was intense hoof-to-hoof combat that held no victor as they either tanked the quick hits or parried each other's strikes. However, Fresh Meat's suckerpunch managed to break through Paladin's near flawless acrobatic defense and it struck his respirator, caving it inwards. He gasped and fell backwards, eyes wide as he found himself difficult to breathe the air properly.

Realization dawned on Fresh Meat's features. This wasn't the usual run-of-the-mill faggot trying to play hero. He slowly talked, choosing his words carefully and with an edge of fear to it. "No.. you ain't second generation. You're first. They fucked with yer body too much and threw you out. Can't breathe regular air, can ya?"

Paladin was too busy choking, his forehead protection breaking in half as his jagged horn made itself known, glowing ferociously even as Paladin gargled on unpolluted air. The glowing soon began to spread through his entire skull, then his neck, and eventually it spread like a plague throughout his body.

"Chrysalis's scientists fucked with you too much." Fresh Meat sympathetically commented, beginning to back away instinctively as Paladin began to let out a gargled roar, which prompted Fresh Meat's cue to GTFO.

All that happened next was Fresh Meat jumping out of the alley and into a piece of white fabric while the entire alley way exploded into a white and green mess that spread to the walls, and even into the main street.

"Jazz, I got a lead."

"Yeah, Jaeger? What is it?"

"Word 'round d'camp fire is th'boys in criminal blue're on their way 'ere."

"Is it Fresh Meat's lackeys?"

"Yeah, boss stallion."

"Sweet. Bar fight time."

"Bar fight time."

Author's Note

it's more than an adventure now..

it's some sort of.. mutant place... the Badlands isn't what it's cracked up to be....