Mercenaries have always held their place within armed conflicts, ever since the first sapient beings marched against one-another to wage war. While many soldiers may be motivated to fight for a cause due to patriotism or for their loved ones, the mercenary has always been in it for more... profitable reasons.

The Great War, which eventually led to the destruction of both the Zebrican and Equestrian homelands, was no different when it came to those who sought fortune in the battles between the two global superpowers. Griffons, the hybridization of eagle and lion, saw opportunities in this conflict. With the aid of their predatory instincts, natural weapons, and keen sight were natural-born fighters, and fight they did. Serving both Equestria and the Zebra Empire in their war over resources, griffon mercenaries took to the skies and sliced, shot, and stabbed their way to fortune.

Unfortunately, those that survived long enough to cash in would not have as long to spend it as they would have likely wished. As the conflict between Equestria and the Zebra Empire intensified, so too did the violence, with new weapons and magic being field-tested regularly. From there it would only escalate further, with the advent of the megaspell adding a new layer of depth to the conflict. It wasn’t long before weapons capable of incinerating entire cities were developed, and the prospect of mutual annihilation was no longer looked at with a blind eye. When that fateful day came - the Last Day - it wasn’t just the ponies and zebras who suffered the consequences of the deployment of those feared megaspells, but their auxiliaries as well. Not only did these megaspells and balefire bombs ravage every area they detonated, but once their destructive activation was complete they soaked the resulting area in a magical radiation that would last for centuries.

Life finds a way though, and after the first few decades towns and trade-routes had appeared amongst the wreckage that their ancestors had created. With traders needing protection for the long trips between settlements and towns, mercenaries once again became a popular profession.

While not all griffons were born mercenaries, or in fact became them, many did pick up a gun and a contract and set out to make their fortunes out in the Equestrian Wasteland. Mercenary bands were formed during the years, and some of the most successful bands were those either consisting of or lead by griffons. Many griffons were the descendents of mercenaries fighting either against or for the ponies, and with the Great War long since over it mattered not which side their ancestors had fought on, all that mattered was putting food on the table.

*** *** ***

The soft, dulcet tones of a mare’s voice played through a set of tinny speakers, the only sound accompanying it being a backdrop of gentle music. The room was otherwise silent, save for the occasional flitter of cards being shuffled or brushed against one another. Indeed, the room was as dim as it was quiet, with only a ceiling-mounted lamp emitting a pool of harsh light onto a trio of card players sitting at a circular table.

One particular member of the group, a mahogany-coated and steel-grey feathered griffon, was gripping his cards tightly in his birdlike claws, staring at them with a blank expression as he planned his next move. Running a claw over the top of his skull to smooth out the crest feathers, he could sense the tension radiating off of the other two card players like heat from a stove. Knowing that he had few options, he was forced to come to a decision.

“Do you have any eights, Rosewing?” he asked seriously, finally looking up from his cards and toward one of the - a female - griffons opposite of him.

The female griffon’s coat was a slightly lighter shade of brown than his, the fur well taken care of in comparison to his own. Even when he looked to the new card he had picked up, the griffon’s rose-hued feathers caught his eye even from the periphery.

“Go fish, Razor-Quill. Looks like you’re losing your edge,” she said half-mockingly, her voice taking on a sensuous tone that threatened to distract him from the matter at claw.You win some, you lose some, he thought moodily, disappointed that he had not received a matching card.

“Yes, yes, I get it. I’m old. It’s a good thing all that jewelry you wear doesn’t weigh down that ego of yours.” His beak curled into a tight smile as he saw Rosewing turn her beak up at him, putting a protective claw over one of her most recent... acquisitions. “If you keep looking up you’re going to go blind. May I suggest you hurry up? Some of us actually want to win something, you know.”

Rosewing looked down from the ceiling and right at the older griffon, beak twisting into a smile, mischief in her hazel eyes. “And I was told that the older generations knew something about patience.”

Razor-Quill rolled his eyes, resisting the urge to reply with a witty retort and thus stalling the game even more.

“Just go!” Razor-Quill said dejectedly, gesturing with his a claw for her to hurry up, eager for the game to continue.

“It’s Statchel’s turn actually.”

“Ugh,” Razor-Quill groaned in disgust, resisting the urge to facewing. With a sigh, he waved for the third griffon to go on with his turn, lest the game drag on even further.

“Whatever tweaks your beak,” muttered the third member of the group, the deepness of his voice belying his age. Unlike the other two griffons at the table, Statchel’s body was squat and muscular, and both his fur and feathers were a ruddy brown with no difference in hue or coloration.

“Oh, hush now,” Rosewing said in retort, playfully slapping her tail against one of Statchel’s hindlegs beneath the table, causing him to flinch at the sudden touch.

Shooting the griffoness with what he probably thought as a menacing glare, he calmly looked over to Razor-Quill, who had been patiently suffering the other two griffon’s banter.

“Got any aces, boss?” Statchel asked, a light smile adorning his beak as Razor-Quill silently passed a card over to him. “Cool.”

“You know,” Rosewing began, stroking the tuft of light brown hair on the end of her tail, “I wonder how that pony is doing, she was pretty badly off when we found her.”

Statchel looked at her with a reproachful glare, eyes narrowed to slits. “What is this we business? You were busy looting that blue stallion for every bit of shininess he had! I’m pretty sure that we weren’t even done shooting yet before you were on his body!” He shook his head in annoyance, before continuing, “I was the one who found her, along with... ugh, the other creature.”

Razor-Quill began to slowly massage his temples, doing his best to ignore the bickering that was unfolding before him. His groans of annoyance went unnoticed by the squabbling griffons, and he idly wondered if splitting off from Gawd’s Talons to form his own group had been worth it.

As he began recalling the days before the Wasteland had been cleansed and purified, the grinding of claws scratching against wood brought him out of his reminiscing, his body inwardly cringing at the unpleasant and unexpected sound. Looking back up, he could definitely see that the two feather-brains were at it again.

“We shouldn’t just shoot the thing just because we don’t know what it is, we aren’t savages!” Statchel cried out, a look of shock and disgust crossing his features.

“Oh, bla bla bla,” Rosewing mouthed, the tips of her talons clicking together with every ‘bla’. “Why don’t you just shut the fuck up and leave the thinking to your betters.”

“That’s enough,” Razor-Quill finally said, having had enough from the both of them. “If anyone is going to be making any decisions here, it’s going to be me. Is that clear?” He gave them a stern look, making sure that his point was clear.

Rosewing turned to face him, giving him an approving smile, “Thank you.”

“I meant both of you, not just him,” he reiterated, turning his stern look into a glare.

After a moment of tense silence, both of the griffons gave each one another a cautious look before meekly slouching in their seats, their claws unconsciously going back to their cards.

“Now,” Razor-Quill began, pausing a bit to make his authority hit home, ”I know that the other survivor we found - the one that wasn’t the earth-pony - is pretty strange looking. I get that, I do.”

He looked over to the two griffons for any signs of inattentiveness and, finding none, continued. “What you both seem to be forgetting is that this isn’t the Republic, where you get to vote. This is Sabre Squad, and I’m your leader, and as of right now...” he grimaced in distaste at what he was about to admit, “...I don’t have a clue with what to do with the other survivor, but I have enough brain cells to know that we shouldn’t just put a slug in its head and be done with the matter, at least not before talking to it.”

“What!?” Rosewing squawked, the indignation in her voice apparent as she exploded from her seat. “You listen to him and not me?”

Statchel burrowed his head into the fur of his forelegs, muffling a groan at where the conversation was heading.

“I thought you were our leader, not some nervous grass-eater!” continued Rosewing, not quite through with her tirade. Her next words were spoken in a dangerously low tone, her voice dripping with scorn. “Are you going soft?”

Statchel lifted his head from the table, sidling up to Rosewing and settling a wing over her back in an effort to placate her. “Ease down on the throttle there, this is a friendly room, yeah?”

Rosewing immediately shrugged off the offending limb, perhaps feeling that - rightfully - her personal space was being violated. Before Razor-Quill get in a word edgewise, Rosewing’s wings flapped once, sending the playing cards on the table to the floor in a sudden gust of wind.

“Whatever,” was all Rosewing said as she got off of her stool and stormed toward the room’s exit, exposing the room briefly to the flickering candlelight of the hallway before slamming the door behind her.

With the room once more in the inky darkness, save for the central light of the ceiling lamp, the two male griffons were left alone with their thoughts, a tense silence hanging above them.

“Excitable, isn’t she?” Statchel said dryly after waiting for the cards to finally settle to the dusty floor. He began to rifle through some of Rosewing’s cards, which had been spared from her fury. “And a cheater, too! She said she had no princes!”

“I think we better call it a draw,” Razor-Quill said dejectedly, taking a moment to run his claws over his crest feathers again. He stepped out of the light, his eyes taking a moment to get accustomed to the darkness before being able to clearly see the doorway.

With his destination in sight, he made his way after the angry she-griffon, leaving Statchel alone in the room.

“Draw, my ass...” Statchel muttered quietly, leaning forward against the table and wrapping his forelegs around the stack of bottle caps.

*** *** ***

Absolute darkness was the first thing that graced Kiako’s sight when he finally managed to gather the willpower to open his eyes. He rubbed at the corners of his eyes to clear them of grime before blinking rapidly, making sure that his eyes were actually open and unblocked before panic began to creep up on him.

Taking several deep breaths to try and calm himself down, he attempted to sit up before being wracked with pain across the front of his body, forcing him to lay back down with a gasp. Still unable to see, and the newfound ache pulsating across his chest, stomach, and thighs, he resigned himself to laying down on what he guessed was a bed, though it was a bit small considering that his legs were hanging off the end.

Wanting to examine his surroundings a bit - even in the darkness - he slowly spread his arms out, letting his hands and arms slide against the scratchy cloth that covered the bed. It took a few moments for it to occur to him that his arms were actually exposed to something other than the mesoprene fabric of his jumpsuit, and he felt naked without the flexible and bullet-resistant protection. As a matter of fact, he almost was. The only articles of clothing he was wearing was a t-shirt and a pair of boxer briefs.

He waited a bit before trying to get up again, letting his mind wander for a few minutes as he took a moment to try and remember where he was and, failing that, tried to remember what had happened to him. With a bit of effort, he recalled himself rising from the rubble after getting his hands on his pistol, only to find a bunch of technicolor mini-horses accosting his own mini-horse companion. From that point onward everything was a flurry of gunfire and movement, followed by agonizing pain, and then darkness once more.

Wanting to know where he was, he slowly rolled to the side of the bed so as not to upset the bruises on his stomach, which he imagined to be large, before swinging his legs over the surprisingly short bed. Cautiously standing up, he probed the dusty floor in front of him with his toes, making sure nothing was blocking his path before slowly reaching out with his hands to find something to touch.

The first thing that his fingertips touched was a large, flat surface in front of him, probably a wall. Small curls of what felt like paper were coming off the wall, and he assumed that it was some old wallpaper. He started moving, keeping one hand against the wallpaper while carefully scouting ahead of him with his feet to make sure he didn’t run into anything.

He stopped, his outstretched hand coming into contact with another wall, meaning that he was at corner of whatever room he was in. Reaching around, looking to see if there was perhaps a lamp nearby, he was surprised to find that his hand came into contact with ceiling, which was just a few centimeters higher than his head. Even in the darkness, the man’s face was still sullen, his perpetual frown deepening at the situation he was in.

He passed another corner before coming to a change in texture on the wall. Unlike the peeling wallpaper texture that he had felt before, this surface had the feel of wood grain beneath his fingertips. Continuing his tactile exploration, he found a handle at about the same height of his thigh, along with a pair of hinges along one side of the surface; a door.

Reaching down to the handle, he gave it a twist, trying to turn it. Unfortunately for him, it wouldn’t budge. Stepping back a few meters, he gave a half-hearted charge at the door, slamming into it with his shoulder. Aside from upsetting the bruises on his body, and maybe adding a new one to his shoulder, the door did not budge. Rubbing at his shoulder, he stared futilely in the darkness at where the door was.

Rather than trying to continue beat himself against the door, he continued to map out the boundaries of the room, once more coming back to the bed after passing another pair of corners. It appeared that the only pieces of furniture in the room were an annoyingly short nightstand,which was empty save for a canteen and an unlit candle, and the bed which he had first found himself on.

Licking his cracked lips, he realized that he was actually very thirsty, and the room’s dry and dusty atmosphere wasn’t doing much to help in that regard. Carefully sitting down on the knee-high bed, he reached over to the nightstand to grab the canteen, uncapping it and draining it for all it was worth before returning it to its original spot.

Whoever had put him in this room had also taken all of his equipment, and the only thing he could do was wait until his captors - perhaps rescuers - came for him. That said, while he may have temporarily lost his freedom, he could never lose his collar.

Laying down and curling up on the bed, he closed his eyes against the darkness, letting his body relax as he let his collar decipher scattered radio waves into a form more understandable to the human mind.

*** *** ***

Finders Keepers awoke the same way she always did when presented with the luxury of a soft bed beneath her: slowly.

Looking at her surroundings through half-lidded eyes, it took her muddled mind a few minutes to fully realize that she wasn’t still buried beneath a pile of rubble and surrounded by ponies that meant to do her harm. The realization didn’t have as calming an effect as one would expect, and she hastily worked herself up onto her hooves, the springiness of the mattress making her wobble enough that she nearly fell back onto the bed.

With the practiced movements of someone who felt as though they had been sleeping for years and yet were still tired, she hopped off the bed. Unfortunately for her, her muddled mind failed to grasp that the blanket that had at some point been draped over her was still partially wrapped around her body, and the resulting landing was about as graceful as a one-winged pegasus.

She spent the next several minutes curled up on the floor, the tangle of linen still wrapped around her as though to mock her clumsiness. Forehooves wrapped around her muzzle, she quietly moaned as she endured the world of pain that was her bruised muzzle.

Still, she couldn’t lay on the floor forever, as much as she wanted to. When she felt that the pain had subsided enough that she wouldn’t be a moaning-mare no more, she got up onto her hooves again, furiously kicking the damnable blanket away first though.

Ears twitching and turning about the room, she closed her eyes as she listened for the sound of approaching hooves, a sure sign that somepony had probably heard her. After about a minute of listening, the only thumps that she could discern were the ones beating in her chest. Body sagging with relief, she let out a quiet sigh as she raised her head to the ceiling, silently praising the Princesses for small favors.

Her little ritual complete, she was now fully awake, and looked about the room with inquisitive eyes. While there may have been a bed behind her, she was certain that the four walls that surrounded her were no longer meant to house a bedroom.

Lining the flowery wallpaper were numerous crates coming in various shapes and sizes, their yellow exteriors having faded from time and whatever elements they had been exposed to. No two crates were the same shade of yellow anymore, and if one ignored the scratches, dents, and peeled paint it could almost be seen as some sort of weird art piece. If the room had a window, it wasn’t anywhere Finders Keepers could see it, and it was only thanks to the fluorescent lantern hanging from the center of the room’s cracked ceiling that she wasn’t in inky blackness.

The fact that directly below said lantern was what could only be a surgical table - thankfully clean and not covered in rusty tools - made her feel very uncomfortable, and she did her level-best to suppress a shudder. Deciding that she wanted to leave as soon as possible, she looked over to exit and walked to the door, her hoofbeats the only sound in the room other than the gentle hum of the lantern. Unsurprisingly, the wall that the door was set into was also lined with more crates, leaving only just enough space for the door to swing inward to let somepony in.

Before even getting her hoof onto the handle, her ears picked up on the audible click coming from the door’s lock, and without wasting any time she hurriedly got of sight of the doorway, her side pressed firmly against the stack of crates.

“I know you’re awake,” came the sudden - and very male - voice from the doorway, causing her to flinch in surprise. That flinch soon turned into a surprised whinny as a beaked face peeked out from behind the corner, golden eyes locked with her own.

Finders Keepers stumbled backwards, her hip and shoulder catching along the varying surfaces of the crate-wall, nudging several of the containers loose and onto the floor with a clatter of metal and plastic.

“You about done?” the griffon head asked, nonplussed at her reaction. The rest of him soon came into view, revealing a stocky body covered with a light-brown shade of fur and feathers.

“Y-yes, I’m fine now,” she stuttered, her ears swiveling nervously of their own accord, and she hoped he didn’t notice. “You just startled me is all.”

“Right,” he said, his tone unreadable. His wing flapped out in a single quick motion, pointing toward the bed she had been earlier. “Can you please sit down on the bed for a moment while I clean up?”

She stared at him for a moment, standing stock still as he began to put the crates back where they had been, allowing her to examine him more closely for any signs of... something. Her eyes drifted over to the curved wooden handle that poked out from a holster hanging off of the griffon’s right shoulder, which was covered by dull grey plates connecting to a larger section of barding that covered most of his torso save for some space for his wings to slip through. On his chest was the white shape of a slightly curved sword, a pair of words encircling it: “Sabre Squad”.

Looking over to the bed for a moment, its blanket trailing onto the floor where she had fallen earlier, she trotted on over, leaving the griffon behind to clean up the mess that she had made in her surprise. Hopping onto the bed, she turned around and sat down, considering the griffon across the room.

The griffon wasn’t part of the group that had attacked her, that much was obvious. The uniform and the way he carried himself was a dead giveaway to that, and add in the fact that he wasn’t filthy only cemented the position that she was at least in good hooves, at least for the moment.

“...Or claws,” Finders Keepers muttered to herself, drawing a look from the griffon.

“What?” he asked curiously, already done with stacking crates and currently walking towards her.

Slightly annoyed that she had been caught talking to herself, the mare simply blinked her eyes and shook her head at the griffon. “Nothing.”

“Right.” He didn’t sound convinced, but not pushing the issue. Instead, he raised a talon in front of her. “Follow my talon without moving your head, please.”

The pony did as he asked, her large, pink eyes giving the moving appendage their full attention as it moved from left to right in front of her face.

“So tell me,” Finders Keepers asked conversationally, her eyes still following the talon. “What are mercenaries doing in Haybale? I’ve never heard of Sabre Squad before.”

The griffon was silent for a moment, his eyes tracking her own as he did his work. After a few more seconds of this he lowered his claw, reaching inside the pocket of his barding to remove a small flashlight. “We were hired to scout out this town to see if it anyone would want to resettle it. You know how it is these days, what with all of this new land that’s been opened up.” He let out a small chuckle, which helped somewhat to ease her tension.

“This place any good, then?” she asked, curious to know if the town had more to it than... unfriendly inhabitants. The griffon’s response to her question made her flinch, causing her to blink rapidly in the face of the bright light beaming into each of her eyes, one after the other.

“Looks like you’re fine” he said, turning the light off and tucking it away.

“What in Tartarus was that for?” she asked, angry at the sudden test of her vision but also understanding that it was what doctors did at times. She fluttered her eyes for a moment, trying to get rid of the spots that danced in her vision.

“The sedative we used tends to mess with the mind and body, making folks clumsy and a bit loopy, for a little bit anyhow.” Finders Keepers’ ears perked forward at the word ‘sedative’, and the griffon seemed to notice this, as he went on to explain.

“We didn’t want either of you waking up on the way over here, so we gave you some sedatives to work as a muscle relaxant, and to... well, knock you out.” He gave her a sheepish smile, his beak curling slightly.

With a groan, Finders Keepers rubbed at her muzzle, which still had a gentle-but-ignorable ache. The sedatives explain my ‘performance’ earlier, then.

“So I was put out so that your ‘secret base’ wouldn’t be discovered in case I woke up from that mess out at that apartment?” she asked, looking back up in annoyance.

“Got it in one!” the griffon said, shooting her a sly look. He gestured with a claw over to the crate-lined walls. “Look how much stuff we found in this town alone. Took us days to get what you see here into this room, and we’re sure as hell not going to give this stuff up free.”

Finders Keepers tilted her head quizzically at him. “Why would you tell me all that then if you wanted to keep this secret? And why leave me alone in a room full of drugs and potions?”

The griffon’s beak curled wide at her question, which frankly looked a little strange.

“Becaaaause,” he began, his grin getting even wider, much to her discomfort, “judging from the big thump I heard earlier, you’re in no condition to be unlatching crates and jamming yourself up with Med-X and other intravenous goodies!”

The mare’s ears drooped at that. She knew that something was off the moment she had woke up. With a resigned sigh, she knew that he was right. She let herself collapse onto her side, her head flopping against the pillow with an audible pomf.

“So now what?” she asked, her voice taking on a slightly depressed tone.

“There there,” the griffon said in a faux-paternal voice, a claw gently patting her on the head, causing her to flinch reflexively. “Doctor Statchel assures you that the side-effects of the treatment are only temporary. In fact, how about you and I get some lunch?”

Finders Keepers was about to say that she wasn’t at all interested in food, but her stomach had its own opinion about that.

“I’ll take that as a yes, then?” the griffon now known as Statchel asked, looking down at a suddenly sheepish Finders Keepers.

“It’s probably for the best,” she muttered.

Her stomach rumbled again in agreement.

*** *** ***

The grunts and moans of pleasure drifted amongst the inky blackness of the room, the occasional squeal of metal springs jostling beneath the intertwined couple, the sound of metal steadily joining in on the crescendo of shared pleasure. This continued for some time, until eventually both partners reached their breaking point, and with a final gasp and a grunt, it was over.

Both partners lay beside each other, the steady rhythm of panting matching the quickness beating within their chests. Going on for several minutes, one of them finally recovered enough to reach over for the nightstand lantern, tugging on the chord to illuminate the room.

Bathed in white light, the room was no different from most of the others in the building, save for the aesthetics that had been added by its new residents. Stapled and pinned haphazardly to the walls were faded posters and flyers depicting various Pre-War settings, mostly peaceful.

Set against the wall across from the room’s entryway was a large princess-sized bed, where a pair of griffons lay relaxing across its tangled and blanket strewn surface.

Rosewing turned to the other griffon in the bed, letting out a soft trill as she teased him with her tail. “Mmmmm.... you definitely know how to show a hen a good time, Quill.”

The other griffon responded to his nickname by draping a wing over his partner, embracing her in his steel-grey plumage. “Oh, I like to think that I know how to treat a lady right.”

“Pfft,” Rosewing snorted amusement, reaching and partially climbing over Razor-Quill to pick a cigarette from the carton sitting atop the nightstand. “I don’t think I could be considered a lady after what we just did. Nah, that was done the way it was supposed to. Rough.”

The older griffon laughed at that, grabbing the lighter off of the nightstand before his partner could reach it, and lit her cigarette for her before lighting one for himself. Both lay silent, simply basking in the afterglow and each other’s company, puffs of smoke drifting toward the ceiling in a cloud of ash. It went on like this for several minutes, until one of them finally broke the silence.

“You know,” Razor-Quill began, blowing a puff of smoke from his beak before taking another drag, “we’re actually going to need to do something about that creature we found.” He shot her a pointed look. “Something responsible.”

Rosewing took a drag on her cigarette, feigning disinterest in the subject being broached. The facade continued even as the cigarette burned down to the skin of her claw, threatening to burn her.

Razor-Quill let out a sigh. It seemed to him that every race had its own problems with females, and griffons were no exception. Stubbing his cigarette out into the ashtray, he continued looking at Rosewing.

“What is this really about, Rosey?” he asked, using the private nickname that he used only when he was alone with her. When he got no response, he pressed on, concerned. “Is this about me taking Statchel’s side over yours?”

Rosewing tossed what little was left of the cigarette at the nightstand, aiming for the ashtray. Taking a moment to brush away the ash that had fallen on Razor-Quills wing - which was still draped over her- she finally looked at him.

“We’re not being paid to rescue people stupid enough to get caught by traps and raiders, so why do we have to take care of them?” she asked, honestly seeming puzzled.

Razor-Quill blinked, surprised at the callousness behind the other griffon’s words.

“Damn, Rose, that’s pretty cold,” he said, shaking his head. “You’re right that we don’t need to help them right now, but killing those raiders just so happened to fall under the specifications of our contract, and saving a pair of idiots just happened to be the icing on the cupcake.”

Rosewing still didn’t seem thoroughly convinced by his reasoning, and taking a moment to think, he knew something that would cheer her up.

“Just think of it this way,” Razor-Quill began, shooting her a smile, “in the end, you got this pretty thing, didn’t you?”

He reached for the nightstand, pulling open the drawer to remove a steel chain, which was followed by a golden medallion that was layered with a multi-colored lattice of gems.

Rosewing’s beak lit up in a smile. “Yeah, that’s true. I guess saving those dweebs paid off in the end after all, didn’t it?”

“Sometimes being the hero isn’t so bad,” Razor-Quill chuckled, handing the medallion back to its owner. The female griffon shook her head, pushing the jewelry back toward him.

“Who said we were done?” Rosewing asked, her beak lighting up in a smile that sent a chill through Razor-Quill’s body.

“Now hold on a second, these old bones can only take so much!” the male griffon protested, his feathers quivering in mock-fear.

“Break’s over; get back back in the game, old timer!” Rosewing said, rolling atop the other griffon just before turning off the room’s only source of light.

*** *** ***

Statchel closed the door behind him once the beige earth-pony was out of the way. He gestured for her to continue down the hallways as he locked the door.

Said hallway was lined with doors on both sides, small brass plaques denoting the number of each room. The only light in the hallway came from the flickering of candles that were set along the walls at certain intervals, providing just enough light to prevent someone from bumping into the wood paneled walls.

“Is this supposed to be a motel, or something?” drifted the voice of the mare, who was already far down the hallway. “Because if the entire point of putting me to sleep is to keep this place a secret, why let me go around without a blindfold or something?”

Statchel turned around, an amused smile on his beak as he headed down the hall to meet up with the mare, who was peaking around the corner at a staircase leading down to the first floor.

“You’re right that this is a motel, but we removed the sign in front of the building a while ago.” He stopped beside a candle that had melted into a stump of melted wax, and lit the backup candle beside it, once more illuminating a small section of the hallway. He continued forward again, putting the lighter back into one of his many pockets.

“Couldn’t I just look through a window, or something?” the pony replied wryly, one of her eyebrows raised.

Statchel let out a barking laugh. “Good luck with that, what few windows there were in this place we boarded up.” He extended a claw down the stairs, gesturing for her to continue down.

Shrugging at that, the mare went downstairs, hugging the wall cautiously. Statchel followed close behind, keeping an eye on the earth-pony’s movements to see if she was about to stumble. Fortunately, in the brief time that it took them to get to the first floor, there were no problems with the pony’s movements that he could see, and he felt that whatever clumsiness that had plagued her had finally run its course.

“What’s down there?” the beige mare asked, stopping at the bottom step as she pointed down a hallway that was nearly the mirror image of the one above them, with doors and candles running along the walls. The only true difference, aside from minor variations like the old paintings that dotted the walls, was that at the end of the hallway there was a set of barricaded double-doors.

“The lobby,” Statchel answered matter-of-factly, not going into further details. The less the pony knew, the better.

To the mare’s credit, she didn’t pry for more information, and instead simply followed him to the far end of the hallway, coming to the door of the closest room to the lobby barricade. Digging into one of the side pockets of his barding, Statchel pulled out a small chain that jangled with numerous keys. Glancing back to the door, he saw that there was a streak of blue paint along the handle, and he selected the right key accordingly.

“Just a second,” Statchel muttered, taking a moment to wriggle the key into the door’s lock before finally opening the door, waving her through with a wing. “After you.”

The earth-pony looked between him and the dark room for a few seconds, her hesitation obvious. After another few seconds of awkward silence, she walked into the room, her hooves clicking against the hardwood floor.

Entering the doorway after her, he reached upwards and tugged on a string, activating the spark battery lamp that had been wonderglued upside down to the plaster ceiling. Unlike the candles flickering outside in the hallway, the light that fought back the darkness was of the fluorescent variety - just like in the medical room.

Like most of the other motel rooms, this one had a floral pattern wallpaper that was starting to peel in places. Unlike most of the other rooms, Sabre Squad had actually bothered to empty it to get the proper furniture for what would eventually become both a pantry and kitchen, going so far as to scavenge some shelves from a nearby grocery store.

Those sames shelves were now set against the walls of the room, food ready to be grabbed and eaten at the table in the middle of the room.

“Anything to your fancy?” Statchel asked, seeing that the mare was having trouble picking out from the assorted mix of scavenged Pre-War foods that had been collected from various parts of the town.

An ear twitched in his direction, telling him that she had at least heard him. She turned around, her ears rigid in uncertainty. “I don’t mean to be ‘that mare’, but do you have anything more... ah... fresh?”

Statchel rolled his eyes. “I’m sure that, as a scavenger, you’ve eaten worse than some old junk food. No fine dining here, pony, unless you’d care to try some pickled rat?”

He couldn’t help but laugh at the look of revulsion crossing her muzzle as he produced a jar of the aforementioned food. Well, if she doesn’t want any, I’ll just have to eat it myself.

Rearing up onto his hind legs and spreading his wings to balance himself, he firmly gripped the jar in his claws and unscrewed the lid, helping himself to nice and plump rat, the harsh scent of cider vinegar wafting from it’s wrinkled flesh. In less time than it took to open the jar, his beak snapped up the rat from his talons and he gulped it down.

“That’s gross.” The mare commented, a look of disgust twisting her muzzle into an expression that he didn’t much care for.

Suppressing a sigh, Statchel decided to tone down the “avian carnivore” act and, with the edge taken off of his own hunger, decided to help her pick something from one of the shelves. Stepping across the room to stand beside her, he moved aside several boxes of frankly unappetizing looking oven-ready meals to retrieve a small tin container, before turning around and setting it on the table.

“What’s that?” the pony asked, looking over his shoulder at the item.

Statchel tapped a talon against the metal with a metallic plink, drawing the mare’s eyes to the words that had been scraped into the metal: canned corn.

“Any clue if it’s still fresh?” she asked, a dubious look on her face as she stared down at the container.

“Well, that’s up to you to find out,” Statchel replied, not quite sure himself. “Tell you what, let’s make this a team effort - I’ll pull off the lid, and you decide if it’s worth eating. Sound fair?”

The mare simply shrugged, her response not containing much in the way of team spirit. “Go for it.”

Flashing her a smile, Statchel pulled at the metal tab of the pony-made container, revealing a mass of wet, yellow kernels within. Setting the curled up piece of metal aside, he slid the food toward the delighted mare. As she took a tentative sniff of the food, Statchel decided that then was a good time to ask a question of his own for once.

“So, I think now’s a good time for you to tell me your name,” he said.

Letting out a disappointed sigh, the pony looked up to address the griffon’s question. “Fair’s fair, I guess. My name is Finders Keepers; I’m a scavenger.”

Statchel nodded, glad that he at least knew the pony’s name. That didn’t mean that he was done yet, though. “Well, I’ve already introduced myself, and I think by now it’s time you answer a few of my questions. Fair’s fair, after all.”

Finders Keepers shifted on her hooves uneasily, her body tensing up slightly. Nonetheless, she nodded her head.

“Right then,” Statchel started, looking directly at the mare. “After we cleared out the raiders” - Finders Keepers’ knotted tail clamped down as he said the word, but her face remained neutral - “and made sure the area was clear, we found you and... someone else.”

He gave her a pointed look, dipping his head slightly. “I’m sure you know who I’m talking about.”

Finders Keepers turned her head for a moment, letting out a soft sigh as if to compose herself. Turning back to face him, she spoke warily. “I only met it the day before the attack, so I don’t know too much.”

“That’s fine, just tell me what you know,” Statchel said soothingly, wanting the pony to be at ease with him. “This isn’t an interrogation.”

Finders Keepers’ body loosened up a little, apparently satisfied with what he had said. Wetting her lips, she began to speak. “It isn’t from around here, that much I can tell you. It...” - she hesitated a moment before picking up again - “...he doesn’t speak Equish, and to be honest he’s sort of a jerk.”

“Why burden yourself with him, then?” Statchel asked, curious as to what her motives were for being with the creature.

Finders Keepers sighed, as though regretting something. “Well, he wanted to tag along. I’m not one to say no to someone who’s lost, no matter how weird they are.”

Statchel nodded his head in approval, forced to admire the pony’s willingness to help a stranger in need, despite how dangerous and idiotic such an action may have been.

“How bad is he?” Finders Keepers asked, catching him slightly by surprise. “He was pretty close to the mine when it went off.”

Statchel stared at her, his expression growing hard as he prepared to deliver the unfortunate news. “I’m afraid that... You’re not quite rid of him yet.”

At first Finders Keepers lowered her head in disappointment, her ears drooping to the sides as muttered a prayer, before suddenly stopping herself and looking up, a look of confusion crossing her features as she did a double-take.

Statchel drank in the pony’s confused expression for a several moments, before breaking out into a cheery smile. “He had some burst eardrums and some buckshot in his leg, but with the magic of medicine he’ll be completely fine - maybe a little sore, though.”

Finders Keepers’ face twisted into a disbelieving stare, her mouth opening as though to say something before closing.

Statchel was still smiling, impressed that he had managed to actually stupefy the pony. “Gotcha, didn’t I?”

Finders Keepers only shook her head at him, her disbelief apparently so profound that she was rendered speechless. So it came as a surprise to Statchel when she suddenly swiped the corn off of the table, sending the food to the floor.

“Really?” the earth-pony scowled, shaking her head again in disbelief before slamming her forehooves down onto the table. “Did you really have to make me think that raiders had taken another life, just to make me look like an idiot?!”

“Hey, I didn’t think that you were going to take this th- hey, stop.” Statchel took several nervous steps back away from the irate mare who was steadily approaching him.

He grunted softly as the pony repeatedly poked him in the chest, pushing him back further and further as she continued. Attempting to plead his case only fell on deaf ears, and he didn’t feel as though he was in enough danger to warrant fighting back; still, enough was enough. Statchel grabbed the offending limb with a set of claws, preventing the mare from causing causing further annoyance, at least with that limb. The pony gasped in surprise, her eyes going wide.

Though Statchel did have to admit, the sheepish look the pony now had on her face was a bit out of place, compared to her apparent anger just moments ago...

“So I see that one of your patients is out and about. That’s good.”

Statchel’s hackles rose at the sudden presence of the gruffer voice that had come from just behind him. Feeling like a cub who had just been caught reading a dirty magazine, he turned his head, already knowing who the voice belonged to.

“What did you do this time, Statchel?” Razor-Quill asked, not looking at all amused with what he had apparently walked into.

If Statchel could, he would would have been sweating bullets right about then as he tried to come up with a believable excuse, anything to not make himself look like more of an idiot in the eyes of his superior.

“Oh, hey boss, how’s Rosewing?” Smooth.

“She’s fine,” the older griffon answered, fully aware of what Statchel was trying to do. “She can take care of herself, though the same apparently can’t be said for you. You have two seconds to do the smart thing before I peck you.”

Statchel gulped at the not-at-all concealed threat, knowing full well that the other griffon would be true to his words. Giving in to the idea that there was no good way out of this, he opened his beak to speak.

“We were arguing about corn prices!” Finders Keepers shouted awkwardly, ripping her hoof from Statchel’s claws to go over to stomp on some soggy corn kernels. “Look how squishy this is! I wouldn’t pay two bits for this!

Razor-Quill and Statchel exchanged awkward looks, both knowing full well what the unconvincing mare was trying to do. The older griffon looked over to the earth-pony, grimacing in apparent distaste.

“Not impressed. Work on your lying a bit more before trying to do it.” He turned back to Statchel, his expression still the same. “This happens again and you’re going to wish your marefriend didn’t come to back you up.”

“Woah, woah, boss, it isn’t like that!” Statchel retorted, shuddering at the mere thought of such an unnatural and twisted relationship. “Besides, even if we could, what would the kid look like?”

“Can we not go down this road? It’s getting creepy,” interjected the room’s only female occupant.

“You need to learn when to keep your beak shut, Statchel.” Razor-Quill looked over to the mess on the floor, and then to the beige mare. “Clean that up, we’re going to have guests soon.”

“Guests?” Statchel asked quizzically.

“Well, more like guest,” Razor-Quill corrected. “Rosewing is bringing the biped down, so kiss and make up. I trust you two can behave yourselves?”

Statchel began to rapidly nod his head, hoping that Finders Keepers was doing the same. All he wanted was for the older griffon to leave the room so that no further embarrassment could happen, for anyone. Razor-Quill gave them both a hard look for several seconds, as though daring them to cause anymore trouble. Apparently satisfied, he gave a curt nod and left the room, closing the door behind him with a paw. The remaining occupants of the room waited a tense minute for any sign that the older griffon was coming back before letting out twin sighs of relief, both glad that the his reign of terror was over, at least for the moment.

Statchel looked back over to Finders Keepers, his body shaking slightly. “Sorry about messing with you earlier, and sorry about my boss. He’s scary like that sometimes.”

The pony shook her head. “No, I’m sorry that I freaked out at you like that... and for freaking out about ‘corn prices.’”

“Well,” Statchel began, looking gloomily at all of the corn that was on the floor, “we better clean this up.”

Finders Keepers let out a disappointed sigh as she looked at the tainted food. “Turn around while I clean this up. You don’t want to watch this.”

*** *** ***

There had been no luck with getting any useful information from the radio waves, and Kiako Lalene had relegated himself to the floor so that he could at least lay all the way flat.

That didn’t mean that it had all been a waste, though, as he had at least found some interesting foreign, though disturbingly familiar music to help pass the time. The singer of one particular song had enraptured him with her rich, smooth voice. It had upset him that he didn’t understand any of the lyrics, though not as much as the fact that he was probably listening to a singing horse-thing. After listening to a few songs - some of them featuring that same voice - he decided that he’d rather just lay in silence, alone with his thoughts, and he willed the collar to stop tuning in to that particular frequency. It was disappointing that he hadn’t heard any English, but he supposed that he was lucky to even manage getting that one frequency through all of the static.

He sat up, rolling his neck to remove the stiffness that had built up. Hard floors were no substitute for beds, but when those same beds were made for quadrupedal mutants, well, sometimes the floor could be preferable.

A click from the other end of the room drew his attention, and despite not being able to see anything, his eyes instinctively went toward the door, just in time to see a soft, flickering stream of light filtering in from the hallway. Wincing slightly at the first light he had seen in hours, he waited for his captor to show himself, fervently hoping against hope that it could be someone that he could talk to.

When the door swung swung open, he was met with the dark silhouette of something that was definitely not human. It simply stared at him, some sort of weapon held in its claws.

“Get up, freak. It’s time for supper.” The words were in clear, understandable English, the creature’s feminine voice filled with disdain.

Kiako Lalene blinked.

Author's Note

Thanks again to Adam Novagen for editing and being a supportive chap.

Also, as of the time of this writing, Kkat has put up to chapter 20 of the story that started it all, Fallout: Equestria, on fimfiction.