Dust. A pony once said that 90% of all dust is skin,

If so, somepony had a bad time in here, the floor of the basement is covered at least an inch of dust. I strain my eyes in the darkness of the basement, surrounding me are metal crates that fill the space to to low ceiling, creating narrow passages, in the dim light on each of them is the logo of Ironshod Firearms.

My head starts to hurt from Peering into the darkness, and now that I have stopped, it all starts to catch up to me, Dull pain throbs in my head like a constant unrelenting pressure and my vision blurs, my hooves under me feel weak and broken, And my heart pounds inside of me as if I have run a marathon. my guts feel like they wish to rebel and I remember that I have not eaten in days, and every moment I put pressure upon my left front hoof, dull old pain throbs through me from my shoulder.

I need to rest, can't fight, not yet, have to find meds, healing potion, painkillers, anything.

Creeping forward I look down the corridors of steel and rust, at the end of the right passage is a door set into the concrete wall. I make my way over and push down upon the lever handle, Its too dark to see and after a moments search, I press down upon the light switch and a single bulb flashes to life, forcing me to blink away the sudden light. Inside is a small windowless room with shelves and tools, a small desk sits at the end,

Good enough.

I turn around a close the door as quietly as I can and listen.

Its silent, all I can hear is my own breathing and heart beating like thunder in my chest.

Gotta calm down.

My hooves collapse from under me and I lean against the desk and try to calm the storm inside of me. I spend some time In the dark basement, dust, sand and dried blood itching, and every second that passes, aware that my wounds are slowly taking their toll upon me. Parts of me still feel wrong and twisted, like they weren't meant to be fixed, wounds stitched together by unnatural magic, looking down at my chest I can just see the warped and stretched scar tissue crisscrossing my chest and neck underneath the grime and fur.

Celestia and Luna damned Zebras.

So tried, so sore.

.....

I think I'll rest a moment more.

Hoofsteps, one pony, muffled by the dust, metal upon concrete, armoured, slight gait, wounded in the front leg.

Raider.

My eyes shoot open and I look to the door, still closed, I am laying on the floor at this point, and as I listen, every hoofstep grows louder.

Need a weapon.

With as little sound as I can, I look around the cramped room,

Fan, desk, coffee cup, sparkle cola bottle, cigarettes, A stack of Nude magazines with posing mares on it, an Ironshod Firearms poster on the wall, and a crowbar wedged between the side of the desk and the wall

Scrambling to my hooves, I reach for the Crowbar, Its a long Red thing, A rubber grip sits midway down the handle, a Metal loop extends out of It to allow better control with hooves, and each end has been sharpened, It will have to do.

I've just picked it up in my mouth when the door opens, I spin around.

In the doorway Is a single raider mare, dark, dull red in colour with what was once a white mane shaved into a short messy spiked mohawk, looking at me with surprise, dirt cakes her torso and mane, a chipped and cracked horn extends from under her mane, Her legs covered with patchwork metal armour except for the front left leg, amputated half way up and fitted with a wide blade its point resting upon the ground.

I charge, using the surprise to my advantage, I hook the curved end of the crowbar around her neck and drag her into the room, causing her to crash hard into the desk, and kick the door shut behind me.

She reacts and recovers faster than I anticipate, a white glow appears around her horn and she hurls the fan at me with her magic,

I dodge it and she leaps at me, I swing wildly and catch her in the head with the blunt end of the crowbar, a sickening crack fills the room and she is sent colliding with the shelf before falling to the floor.

I move over to her as she rolls onto her back, blood seeping from a wound on her head and I swing the crowbar down at her.

White magic flare as she draws the pistol on her belt, a small rusted revolver.

As the crowbar collides with her head again, white hot pain lances through my head and I go blind and explosion rings out inside the room as the shot echos in the confined space and my hearing rings and my ears hurt and the left side of my head feels as if struck by lightning.

I keel over onto the floor against the door and lay still, my ears full with a high pitch ringing that doesn't go away and the vision in my left eye gone.

Fuck.

I press my hoof to my eye and it throbs in pain, and my hoof comes away wet and the crimson colour of blood.

Fuck.

The mare Isn't moving, yet the deep slow movement of her chest tells me that she is alive. A blood seeps from a head wound, but its not deep.

I should probably kill her, It would be wise. Otherwise she may live, wake up and come after me, raise the alarm, and do even more damage to me.

.....

I need to get this fixed

I can feel blood pouring down the side of my face and neck and struggle to my hooves. I feel dizzy, but manage to get to door open and stumble back into the dark basement. To the left the dust has been worn away by regular hoof prints. That's where she came from.

The path in the dust follows the concrete wall of the basement around to a doorway on the far side of the room leading to a hallway, a lamp deep into the hallway casts a soft orange light. Rubble and dirt cover the hallway and off to the left, a door

I stay peaking around the corner, with my good eye, waiting to see movement

.....

Nothing.

I stumble forward, gait unsteady towards the door, A sign on the right of the door says "Bathroom". bathrooms usually have healing pots. I try to door handle, but the lever stays in place.

Locked.

The door is thin, wooden, and cracked, hundreds of years has not been kind to it. I look around again, listening out for any noise. Its all quiet

No choice I guess, the left side of me is covered in blood and I feel dizzy still, the wound in my head needs to be fixed.

I take two steps back so my rump is pressed against the wall, hunch down and ram the door with my shoulder.

The door frame cracks and the door flings open, after the second attempt, and I stumble in after it, colliding hard against the bathtub with my legs. Steadying myself on the tub I look around the room

Its a small room, barely the size of a closet that the builders have crammed as much as the can into, the toilet sits pressed up against the rim of the bath that sits against the far wall, with barely enough room to clear the door. Behind the door I can glimpse a yellow box attached to the wall and a sink. I close the door with effort, squeezing my body against the bathtub to do so.

A mirror sits next to the case and through the grimy mirror I see my refection.

The bullet had grazed the left side of my head, catching my eye in the process, there was barely anything there anymore, the entire left side of me was drenched in the crimson red of blood, my long tan mane tangled and caked with dirt, and brown fur so covered in mud, sand and blood, that it could barely be seen. The only undamaged and clean part of me it my one remaining blue eye staring back at me.

The box is a small square case, faded yellow with a pink butterfly on it.

Finally, some good luck.

Inside are the objects of my search, two slightly faded healing potions and several bandages. I down the potions instantly and start to feel the wounds on my face, limbs and the bullet wounds begin to close, I avoid looking at the mirror.

Slowly my vision starts to blur as my eye is, urgh, rebuilt and the pain in my head is reduced to merely a dull roar, and after some time, I can see properly again.

I use the bandages to start to wipe the blood and muck off me as best as I can and soon the once white bandages are a dark brown colour, I try the tap on the sink and a foul smelling, slightly glowing liquid pours forth.

Guess not.

Looking back at the mirror, my eye and side of head are back to normal now, and I am only filthy instead of disgustingly filthy.

......

I should have been dead, a normal pony would have.

......

Sometimes I hate being alive like this.

Author's Note

Luck: 2