Once upon a time at the bar.
Author's Note
I really wanted that this short story could create a feeling, that you just witnessed a dialogue by the bar counter, maybe being one of the patrons yourself. I wanted that pieces of lore, tossed between the characters, left reader to think and imagine what would all this really be like, wanting to know more.
Although i have a feeling that i didn't mange this. Please, read and comment!
Once upon a time at the bar.
The air was stale. Natural ventilation fought a losing battle against the sheer number of visitors. The mechanical ventilation had failed years ago and never been repaired. Among the many aromas present, sweat, liquor and gunpowder particularly stood out.
The bartender, a monochromatic dark blue unicorn, finished wiping the rocks glass he held and glanced around the hall, just to notice some earth pony stallion, confidently trotting up to the bar.
The newcomer was dressed in worn leathers with metal plates, especially scuffed on the back, probably from a battle saddle. But at the moment, the only weapon he had on him was a revolver in a chest holster, next to a small pouch of caps.
“Hey there! Pour me something to chug on!” he demanded in a hoarse, rough voice that was tinged with some strange accent.
A bottle of apple whisky was enveloped in the bartender’s aura and gently tilted over into the glass he’d been cleaning. The patron nodded, took the glass between his front hooves, brought it to his mouth, tilted his head back until he’d emptied his glass, and slammed it back on the counter with a thud.
He chewed his lips, evaluating the quality of the swill he’d been served. “More!”
The bartender filled his customer’s glass again, the ghost of a smile on his face. After downing another, the visitor gave out satisfied grunt and returned the glass.
“Not from Appaloosa, are you?” The unicorn recognized neither the customer nor his accent; definitely not one of his regulars.
“You could say that. I’m from Vanhoover.” Whisky soaked into the earth pony’s throat and loosened his tongue a little.
The bartender whistled. “From the other end of the Wasteland! I take it you’re here on business?”
“No. I’m a simple mercenary. Signed as a train guard.”
“Oh, so you were with the last freight train, then? Well, safe arrival from so far away is worthy of drink!”
The Mercenary nodded and pushed the glass back to the bartender. The bottle again emitted its soft glug-glug-glug as its contents wound up in the glass.
“As far as I know,” the bartender began, “usually, the train security rotates crews quite often. Some are signing on for several stops, some for a half-trip. Although for all the way, the pay is higher, but the risk is much higher too, of course.” The Unicorn paused.
“I’ve always been considered a little crazy” The visitor laughed. “I just wanted to see for myself how things are going in other places. Curiosity can be quite a pain in the ass sometimes, you know.”
“I guess so.” The barpony nodded, smiling. “But as they say, East or West — home is best.”
“Without a revolver and a good eye, you won’t survive neither East nor West.“ The visitor grinned and nodded at the glass again.
“Came across any interesting things on your journey?” Bartender continued on the conversation while fulfilling the request.
“You can say that. For starters, order. In our neighbourhood, the Guild keeps track of it. Most daredevils or just plain lunatics are shot or shackled. Here, I’ve gathered that Red Eye’s been keeping things organized so far, more or less.”
“The Vanhoover area is densely populated?” The Bartender raised his eyebrow.
“Quite. Partially due to the descendants of those who hail from the Stables. But also there were enough surfarcers who survived The Last Day.”
“Hmm. I heard Vanhoover was a megapolis as well, so it was a priority target, wasn’t it?”
“Well, here’s what they told us in our three-year school: it seems that the balefire strikes went from East to West. We’re in the far West. When Manehattan, Hoofington and the others were already roasted, the missiles were only about to get us. It seems that those few extra minutes were enough for the Army and the Navy to deploy AA. Also, many more warheads couldn’t find their target and fell wherever they were, because the fucking pegasi closed the sky.
“At least some good came from them” bartender remarked.
The Mercenary smiled and out of habit looked up, checking for a threat in the clouds, currently invisible through the ceiling. After a second he realized this, coughed with embarrassment, and continued his spiel.
“I’ll tell you, mister! Going through the Unicorn Range is pretty much like crossing the sea: station-island, station-island, and all around them, empty wilderness. We had several shootouts with the raiders, but our locomotive is modified for this sort of crap. The boiler’s gone, it’s useless anyway. In the space it ordinarily occupies, we’ve got our draft team, under sloped armor plating. The raiders are armed with a stick and a dick, they had nothing to pierce it. Mutants were scarce on the road for some reason, probably spooked by the noise. Well, to Tartarus with them! There were also some savages. I guess not all of them were enslaved by the Guild yet.”
The bartender stared at him, shifting his ears. The remark about the sea got his attention for some reason.
“I wonder.” He poured another glass of whiskey. “Vanhoover is on the coast, right? Not like Manehattan, deep into the bay, but right on the shore of the ocean?”
“Well, yes, it is.” The mercenary seemed puzzled.
“So, what’s it like, living next to the open sea?”
The visitor again knocked the bottom of the glass on the counter and mused a bit.
“Huh, I don’t even know where to start.” He paused. “It’s very humid, I guess. Because of this, even a slight breeze or a little heat wave is more acutely felt. Also, it rains a lot. Thankfully, most of the rainfall is pretty clean.”
“But doesn’t the wind still pick up dust from the contaminated areas and mix with the rain?”
“There is often a strong breeze from the sea, it partially prevents fallout from the mainland from reaching the city. " He paused to collect thoughts some more. "Also, we have a lot of salt, but you know that already. We trade it after all. By the way, gimme some!”
The bartender laid out a saucer with a grayish-white matte cube. Mercenary gave it some healthy licks, eyes closed in pleasure.
“Just what i needed! Oh, if only you had a chance to try our salted fish! That stuff’s delicious! But, export is prohibited, sadly. There aren’t enough fish near our coast for industrial-scale fishing.”
“Wait, so the ocean’s clean?” asked flabbergasted bartender.
“You probably heard things about Manehattan, but ours is pretty clean. As the old folks are fond of saying - the ocean is big, it devours even Zebrican shit.”
The bartender did not even conceal his interest by this point. He leaned towards the counter, eyes shining with curiosity.
“And have you yourself, as they say, ever went to sea?”
The mercenary gave saltcube another lick.
The mercenary gave the salt cube another lick. “Well, yeah. As a foal though, while grandfather was still alive. He worked with the fishing artel and took me on the longboat, to check the net.”
“Longboat?” The bartender stared blankly at him.
“Large boat with the sail. So, we went early in the morning, because then wind still blows to the sea. Later, the wind changes and then we return... Well, so in the morning it was. At first it was the cloud shield above us, as always. But then, on the horizon, appeared this, you know, blue streak. I was just a foal, my first time at sea. I didn’t know what it was. Meanwhile it was growing, and growing! And it became like this: on the one side you had the clouds, like a wall, but on the other — it was like the sea, only above, in the sky. I was speechless. My grandfather smiled and said: ‘It’s the open sky. As it was centuries ago. As it should be.’ I’ll never forget it…”
The bartender bowed his head, contemplating what he heard, and then started from a sudden thought. “The Sun? Have you seen the Sun?!” he exclaimed.
“No, it was in the morning, and we are to the West after all. The sun is on the East side in the morning. But in the evenings, when there is no haze, you can see how the horizon flares with this crimson flame. As we say in Vanhoover: ‘Celestia rinses her flanks.’” The mercenary laughed.
Meanwhile, through the noise and clamor in the hall, the merc, the bartender and everyone else gathered there did not even hear, but rather felt someone’s heavy, deep steps. They ominously vibrated through the furniture, walls, forced the glassware on the tables and shelves to clink, the sensation fit to send chills down one’s spine. The conversations quieted down. Even the loudest of drunkards went silent.
In the depths of the pub, the VIP area doors swung open, enveloped in a pale green aura. From there, alone, came a huge malachite colored mare. Dim lights gleamed on her sharp, long horn and smooth, perfectly groomed coat. Her luxurious mane fluttered by itself, running, as if it were a river, down her muscular back and folded wings .
Her face, as beautiful as a portrait of the Princess, would have pulled all the gazes, if the ponies had not hidden their faces, fearing to look into her terrible, motionless yellow eyes. Even when she sneered contemptuously, looking at the frozen drunks, her eyes still remained blank, as if they were strangers on her face.
She went through the hall, to the door, her form tall and wide-set, but, despite her size, unearthly graceful. With each step, her muscles flexed, worthy of the envy of any bodybuilder.
The front door opened, letting the majestic figure pass and then quietly closing behind.
It took at least a minute before the hubbub in the hall gradually recovered.
“W-what was that?” the shocked mercenary asked, his ears lying flat from fear.
“Unity’s Emissary,“ responded the bartender in a half-whisper. “She selects appropriate unicorn-slaves for the Mistress of Maripony.”
“But… she’s an alicorn?!”
The bartender nodded.
“Huh, It’s not like the folks were lying then… Say, have you seen her in action at all? I’ve heard things…”
“Personally, I haven’t. But I heard about a group of slavers who once decided to set her up. She didn’t go to the chief of the city. She went directly to their office, in the suburbs. Alone. There were about fifty ponies. All armed, some even with energy weapons. Guess what? She killed them all in less than three minutes.
I also heard the way she conducts an interrogation, from the guard who was there. He said she’s a telepath, that she can turn one’s soul inside out. He turned grey, watching her ‘questioning’ her captives. The poor guy was then transferred somewhere else probably, I haven’t seen him since.”
The mercenary silently pushed the glass. The bartender poured. Then, after a moment’s thought, picked up another glass from under the counter and poured some whiskey for himself. For some time, both remained silent.
“Become a train guard, they said! See the Wasteland, they said!” The mercenary grumbled.
The bartender looked at him, hesitation on his face. “Have you ever thought about what’s beyond it?”
The mercenary lifted his gaze from the cube of salt. “Well, I think it’s pretty simple, ain’t it? Griffins, from the mountains, were fucked over by the pegasi. They’re all down here now, those who survived. Local striped bastards are the descendants of those who were already in Equestria at the beginning of the war. North of us is actually, uh, Frozen North. It’s an icy desert. I remember foal tales, that there once was a Kingdom, but it disappeared in ancient times. What’s in the South I don’t remember, though.”
“To the South are the Badlands,” corrected the bartender. “Also desert, only hot instead of cold. I read that millenia ago our dear Solar Princess fought there with some ancient deity and blew up the whole area in the process. But that’s not the point.” He paused. “I saw an old map of the world once…”
The mercenary started. “That’s right!” he exclaimed. “Beyond the ocean! There should be land!”
“Have Vanhooverians ever met a pony on the beach?” the bartender asked hopefully. “Somepony not from here? Boats at sea? Ships?”
“No, I never heard of it. And Manhattanites, what do they say?” The mercenary also became interested, his ears perked up. “Have they met somepony from their side?”
“There was Zebrica from their side.” The bartender chuckled.
The Mercenary, a little overwhelmed by the scale of unfolding picture of the world scratched his head.
“That may be so, but...” he inhaled sharply, “I was thinking — balefire missiles were Zebrican. But we, did we have something to return the favour? By Celestia’s gleaming marehood! So you mean to tell me that those striped pieces of manure are currently just basking in the sun, laughing at us?!” He raised his voice, agitated. Some visitors shifted their gazes and ears in his direction.
“We certainly had!” the bartender replied with conviction and slight pressure. “It was just top secret and all, I think. I’m sure they got their fair share from us.”
“Yeah. I guess so.” The mercenary backed off, looking around. It was a bad idea to start ruckus in the unfamiliar pub. “Otherwise, for two hundred years they would have already sailed here to finish us.”
The bartender filled his glass again.
“Well, quite a topic we stirred up, haven’t we? The more I think, the more interesting it becomes!” The Mercenary downed his drink and indulged in a lick of salt. “The pegasi made a cloud layer only above our country, right? So on the other continents, there is, like, sky… I wish we could sail there…” He stopped, his expression became dreamy. Surely, he remembered that innocent, foalish sense of wonder that he experienced when he first saw the clear blue sky.
“And green grass...” whispered the bartender, probably remembering something that was dear personally to him.
Suddenly, a large stage not far from the counter lit up like a Hearth’s Warming tree. Arcano-mechanical piano music began to play. The stagehands pulled away the dusty, heavy curtain. A coal-black unicorn mare with a white-yellow-red mane cautiously walked onto the stage. Those sitting at the tables to her side could clearly see her cutie mark — a singing nightingale. The unicorn approached the edge of the stage and finally gave the audience a forced smile. Then, she picked up a magic microphone, worn from centuries of use and missing flecks of chrome finish, and began to sing.
Her voice, clear and strong, produced an effect similar to what a cool, clean shower has on an earth pony, tired on a hot day in the field, but instead of that worthy recipient, it was delivered to a hall full of soldiers, guards, workers, thugs and slave traders.
“Who’s that?” the mercenary asked in a whisper.
“Oh, that’s our new singer! Velvet Remedy seems to be her name. In the day she helps the doctor, as a nurse. In the evening she sings. The boss is quite protective of her.”
The mercenary looked at the mare, lifting up his ears, catching every note of her enchanting singing.
“No wonder! What a beauty...” he whispered.
The old, prewar song was pouring under the roof of a stuffy bar. The whole motley crowd grew silent, no different than when facing an alicorn.
