Dodge Junction
Tuesday
7:48 AM

There's something to be said about the duality of Tuesday. A day oh-so perfectly balanced between Monday and Wednesday, the two, in my own opinion, worst days of any given week. A typical Tuesday would usually consist of daily day-to-day wasteland life. Nothing unexpected or over-the-top horrible. Absolutely nothing that would purge the dopamine from your system faster than you could cry about it. The average Tuesday, in my experience, was and is perhaps the best day of the week.

However, there is just a teeny, tiny drawback.

Every now and then- and really, this is just a small, inconvenient thing -a Tuesday so horribly FUBAR rolls around and stains the sacred name of Tuesday for years to come. Or, if you're me, just the rest of the week.

My first one began with a caffeine overdose and a headache.

To say I was looking at myself in a mirror would have been glossing it over. Realistically, my forehead was bumping into it over and over until I finally brought myself to stare into my own eyes. My bright, vibrant, almost glowing reddish-pink eyes. Centered between the two nicest parts of me was a slim, raven-like beak, black as night and starkly contrasting the dirty, pale-white feathers of my head. And everywhere else, really. Albinism tends to do that to one's appearance, 'specially to gryphons (griffins, griffons? Whatever works).

Keeping an orange packet of Rad-away nearby, I flicked the tap in the sink on, the warm, dirty, and slightly radioactive water trickling out the spout. I splashed some into my face, shaking myself about all the while. Honestly, I needed to stop drinking so much before bed.

Coffee, I mean. I had a bit of an addiction to the caffeinated beverage. Still do. Made for a great campfire drink, and I drank at a lot of campfires. And bars. And inns. You get the idea.

Slugging down the orange-ish juice and feeling my insides become just a little less unpleasant, I bonked my forehead against the gritty glass one last time before leaving the tiny bathroom. Dodge Junction, backwater as it was, had plumbing that worked occasionally. That in and of itself was far more than most of post-war Equestria could claim.

Making my way out of the bathroom and into the room I had been residing in, I was promptly hit in the face with a pillow. Several pillows, in fact. In rapid succession. Followed by a sheet.

"Lucent! I'm changing! Get out!" cried a scratchy, baritone voice.

Tile- earth pony stallion, proud powerarmor wearer, and a spectacularly self conscious friend of mine - had bucked everything but the bed at me at that point.

"Actually, just don't move," he said shortly after. Hydraulic hisses and metallic clicking signaled his re-embarking as he donned his steel suit once more. I didn't understand why he always wore it around, even casually. Not yet anyway. I'd only ever seen his face on occasion. Usually while we were out in the wilds, resting in some hidey-hole in between delivery runs.

It was hard to tell how old he was, for more than one reason. Firstly, his velvety-red mane grew in a rather wolfish manner, hanging low over his face, almost poofing around his neck and effectively obscuring most of his visage. His coat, hard to see behind his veil of a 'do, was a deep purple, almost black. I had yet to see his eyes.

Then there was his voice. Sounded like an odd blend of a middle-aged stallion and a prepubescent Hellhound. That doesn't really describe it in full, but it's hard to remember exactly what he actually sounded like. 'Specially since he was always wearing that chartreuse armor of his. Helmet had a voice synth installed to the speaker, made everything he said deeper and more authoritative. To further push that little detail, the helmet was deigned with an EVA look to it. Reminded me of a helmet I saw a DJ wearing way over in Hoofington a few years before, only Tile's had functionality AND vanity going for it.

The "visor" consisted of a two thick glass covers over a dark sheet of metal and tech. Small cameras and LEDs studded the outside layer of the metal, displaying the world to Tile on the inside and gracing everyone else with a series of shifting red dots in a hexagonal pattern. Why it did any of that, I still don't know. Tile mentioned something about "improving punchy effectiveness" when I first asked him about it, and every other time anyone brought it up.

Post-apocalypse Equestria still had need for a mail service, and damn if it didn't pay well. That's what we thought. "We" being Tile, another friend of ours, and myself. Said friend was likely already downstairs at the bar, looking for clients.

"You can shuck all that off y'know," came Tile's mechanized voice, intentionally stating the obvious. Grinning, I sat back on my haunches and crossed my forelimbs, my talons tucked cozily into the fluff resting just above my elbows.

"I know."

I didn't say a word after that, sitting there and staring, presumably, where he was standing. Presumably, he was staring back at me, pondering whether or not he would cave or stand stubborn. We were like that for thirty minutes before we heard the door slam open. The only reason we didn't immediately attack our subtle newcomer? We expected her.

I used to think eggheads were on the less intimidating side of things. Smaller-ish, dorky, smart, more brain than brawn, non-violent and generally meek. That sort of stereotype. Aphelion took that idea I had, magically nuked it with her forehead, and pounded the metaphorical ashes into the metaphorical ground with four lanky hooves. The gal knew her science, knew how to manipulate the world around her with that knowledge, and had the power available to do so. Only thing about her old life that she ever shared was that she was from a Stable. Never told any of us which one, or where it was, or why she left. If I were to guess why, I wouldn't.

In addition to her lethal smarts, she was tall. Not quite as tall as the occasional pseudo-alicorn, but tall enough to give her the advantage in any staredown. Her name was heavily dependant on her appearance, seeing as her lil' scheme was primarily dark colors.

I never understood why ponies wound up being so many colors. Still don't. Probably never will.

Anyway, with that tangent out of the way, her coat was coal black with a bit of a sheen to it. Maybe they were just bright silver streaks. Hard to remember. Her mane was an ashen grey, kept short and slicked back down her neck. Unlike Tile, she couldn't stand it in her face all the time. Broke her concentration, she would say. At first glance, it looked like her eyes were pure white. It'd be scary as hell when she'd start casting spells. Much to the dismay of my interest, that wasn't the case. As it was, each visible part of her eye was a tone of white. Other than her iris, which took to a more silvery color. One would only perceive any of this while staring directly into her eyes at a close distance.

Right then, here eyes were darting back and forth between Tile and I. Being the "mage" of our trio, her clothing usually consisted of light clothing and magically imbued trinkets. She had likely been about to say something before seeing the two of us in our presumed staring contest, presumably staring at each other. Now, we were presumably staring at her, as if she'd interrupted something important. She really hadn't.

She was quick to her point, likely seeing that if she didn't get out now, she'd be stuck there a while, basking in the awkward presence of two idiots.

"We've got a job. Small package to Mountainpass. Client's paying well. Chop chop, you two."

And with that out of the way, she promptly flicked her hood back up and trotted back down into the bar on the first level. Ah, she had the voice of a disappointed mother. Reminded me of my own, back when she was still around. I was glad she hadn't yelled. The last time she yelled while I had a headache, it took shoving my face into a snowdrift to get it down to a manageable throb.

The creaking stomps of Tile's armored hooves clunking on out the door was a good wake-up call. Had to get dressed, had to eat, had to prep. A delivery to Mountainpass meant a trek up north to the eastern side of the Yaket Mountain range, generally. Paranoia and the occasional avalanche meant that the mountain town would be in a different place every year. From what I've heard, they just kinda push everything somewhere safe. Can't explain how it works.

Sadly for us "couriers", the only recognizable landmark around Dodge Junction was the single rail line leading away from the town's old train station. From there, we'd follow it east until we reached Manehatten, stop by the markets in Tenpony Tower, and promptly haul ass north. From there? It'd likely be guesswork, unless Aphelion worked out where Mountainpass was.

Now. My stuff. I considered myself to be a bird of simple tastes- still do, mind you -so none of my belongings were particularly interesting or consistent, other than my guns. My usual attire consisted of drab, hole-ridden dusters, joint padding, a grey scarf my pa gave me before he stopped coming back from deliveries- don't ask, I'll explain later -at least two belts with utility pouches for the holding of small inventory, and a knapsack that had to be replaced or stitched up after every trip. Loot plus firefights equals lots of wear-and-tear.

After dragging Tile's bedstuff back to his bed, I flexed my wings, gave 'em a flap, and flopped over onto my own disheveled bedding. I lied there for a good minute, facedown and limp as a ramen noodle, before rolling off and landing in front of a long, short box placed just next to the rickety old bed and against the wall. I flipped it open with my digits and began suiting up for something I was ultimately unprepared for.

The In-between
Tuesday
9:27 AM

If you've ever had to travel from any given point A to a point B that's miles away, and you had to travel at a walking pace, then the concept of The In-between isn't hard to grasp. Our lovely In-between usually consisted of mud, dead grass, and an ominous drizzle. Today, however, it was the first two things and a downpour. In addition to the extra wetness? The mud was muddier and the dead grass deadier. Er...deader? More-dead? You get the point. Wet, dead, and muddy as far as the eye could see.

If the rain hadn't been slugging down like hell, I would've been in the front of the group, flying and keeping an eye out for trouble. As things were, Aphelion had taken point and Tile and I were keeping pace with one another. We stayed close to each other along the rail line, mindfully avoiding the deep muck on either side of the tracks. I had heard rather nasty stories about ignorant travelers wading into pits of especially fluid mud and never surfacing, usually from traveling merchants or caravaners. If Tile were to take an unexpected dunk, he'd drop to the bottom like a rock and eventually suffocate. Me? I'd sink all the same, but I'd be drowning in it.

Listening to the constant splats and splashes of the rain was actually kinda soothing! It would have lulled me to sleep had I not been moving, soaking wet, and in mild pain from caffeine withdrawal. The first two couldn't be helped, but the last little problem was something I was set on correcting. It took a few days for the immediate withdrawal effects to subside, and it hadn't been more than one since they started. At least my headache was dying down a smidge. Kudos to the terrible weather for actually doing something nice for once by making me feel slightly less terrible in the head.

"THIS RAIN FUCKING SUCKS." boomed a certain, vocally enhanced, mech-suit user right next to my head. My headache went from a smidge lower to many smidges higher. The upper front part of my skull felt like it was slowly pushing outward, primed and ready to burst. To top it all off, the throb from earlier was back, and I didn't have a mirror to headbutt. With my face contorting into a pained grimace, eyes all squinty-like and everything, I shot Tile a dirty look. He stared back, his visor lights just...blinking at me. I may not have had a mirror, but I did have Tile's face.

All in all, maybe smacking my head against a rock-hard chunk of reinforced glass wasn't such a good idea. It wasn't like I could have known such an action would provoke a reaction. Definitely not. There was no way I could have known Tile would return the blunt action with the celerity of a thick-skulled god and promptly render me unconscious. Truth be told: I wasn't expecting to be knocked out cold. Much the opposite, in fact! A nice, gentle bonk to my head might've woken me up a bit more, maybe.

I groaned as I came-to, getting the immediate impression that I was lying on something hard, flat, and cold. The air was still, too. A little dank (though, considering it's always raining, that wasn't much of a surprise.)

"You're an idiot, Lucent!" Aphelion snapped at me from somewhere to my left. Swift to follow the sound of her voice was the sound of the rain, pattering mildly against some tinny-sounding roof. "Honest to Luna, I know you have thin bones, but you're so thickheaded sometimes." She sounded tired, punctuating her brief chastisement with a sigh. "You snore when you're asleep. You aren't snoring now. You're fine, so get up. I know we allow for delays on this stretch of the trip, but we've been here for hours and the rain's let up." Thunder boomed nearby, the shack we were in rattling. "A little." Groaning, I rolled over onto my stomach and proceeded to stretch in a feline manner, fully intending to whine about this later.

I sat up and rubbed my eyes, taking a brief look around the tiny shack we were in. Four metal sheet walls, a slanted roof made of the same material, and a door that looked like someone simply cut the thin metal sheet with a combat knife. Surprisingly enough, the ground wasn't mud nor dirt. I seemed to have "napped" on concrete. Sitting in the corner of the shack, Tile stared at me. I looked over to where Aphelion was standing with her back to the two of us. She was peering out of what looked like a bullet hole or two, checking the area without putting herself in the open doorway.

"I've already been chewed out, hotshot," Tile said, answering an unspoken question that they both knew I was going to ask. With how often this happened, which was at least three other times, I wasn't surprised he answered so quickly. "But, for what it's worth, sorry for yellin' earlier. Mud was gettin' on my suit and all." I took a few seconds to both process what he said and to measure my words.

"Understandable. I'm not angry, but I'm still feeling pissy. Headache an' all." I tapped my forehead with a single claw to emphasize my words, wincing at the tender pain I was still feeling. While I wasn't upset with Tile, I still felt bitter, like someone took my insides and made everything 42% more grouchy. Mental note: don't headbutt Tile anymore. At least, not while lacking coffee. The concussions were starting to outweigh the satisfaction. It was the best I could do. I thonked his face. He whammed mine in return. There was nothing to be said there, as far as either of us were concerned.

With that out of the way, I quietly shuffled over next to Aphelion, standing a few heads shorter than her. Looking up at the side of her hooded face, I asked a really, really dumb question. "So, what's it look like out there?"

She peered for a moment longer, eyes squinting slightly. Without moving her eyes from the hole, she answered, her tone dead serious despite the heavily implied sarcasm.

"Sunshine and rainbows. The sky is blue and the grass is green. Quite wonderful, really."

"C'mon, you know what I mean."

"Indeed. It's raining, as usual. Despite the earlier lightning, it hasn't grown any worse. There was movement along the rail earlier, but it was unclear if it was trouble, or just a small band of travelers."

"Nothing but trouble travels in this kinda weather, Aphs."

"WE travel in 'this kinda weather'."

Tile chose then to step over and interject.

"Implying we aren't trouble?" he asked, sounding like he was smiling under his helmet.

"Implying we don't want any," she curtly replied. "We have a package to deliver and getting caught in gunfights takes valuable time."

"If we don't have time for words," I started, "Then I'll keep Laconic readied. If there're any last words to be had, I'd prefer it be theirs and not ours." The others didn't get my joke, but agreed with me anyway. I sat back on my haunches, unstrapping the holsters on my left side and right hip, swapping them. The two revolvers I carried everywhere had significant differences and roles. While the purpose of each was to rend targets to bloody chunks, the means of doing so differed. The previously mentioned gun, Laconic, was a bull-barreled hunk of a canon suited to fire eight staggeringly large rifle rounds per cylinder. Adding to the absurdity of the gun, it was custom made to fire fastest by fanning the hammer lightly. The grip, textured and weighted just so, dramatically decreased its recoil. My other revolver, one I had yet to name, fired ten .38 rounds per cylinder. I used it more than Laconic, mostly because its ammo cost less.

We were off on the 'road' again soon after I had finished prepping Laconic for a quick draw, the sky rumbling above us as the rain continued its hissing descent.

Author's Note

Hello hello, welcome to my mess of a story! Hopefully this goes well.