The nameless pony looked around while trotting down the dusty road, slowly smoking a short and black cigarrette and blowing puffs of smoke onto the morning air while he followed the caravan of smugglers. His coat was of dark crimson and his mane, long and ruffled, was of a pale steel grey. His face, marked by a scar on the muzzle, showed a constant expression of indifference and boredom, but there was something in his black eyes that warned you against him. No, he couldn’t be trusted. A blood-chilling aura filled the air whenever he walked close, and his squint could make a weathered Raider look around for cover.

Nopony knew about his past, since he wasn’t the telling kind, but one could deduce that it hadn’t been pleasant. Something in his way of behaving let the observer know that he had been forced to fight in order to endure. There were no signs of Stable origin in the pony, or at least, he hid them properly. No trace of a PipBuck, not now nor before; nothing on him could imply that he had lived any time underground. He could have been a Raider before, maybe a slaver, who knew? The only thing that one could make of the pony was that he meant trouble.

“I dun’ like this fella.” The leader of the caravan grunted. “He’s been with us since yesterday, but he hasn’t still said a word.”

“Boyo, we’re all like that in the Wasteland.” A small stallion replied from the front. “Talking too much isn’t a good idea, especially when you can let your guns do the job.”

“Don’t call me Boyo!” The leader groaned.

“Fine, boss. Where is this buck going to, anyway?”

“He said…”

“He said? I thought you had mentioned that he hadn’t spoken a single word.”

“Nailgun, stop trying to play smart.” The leader spat and gave Nailgun, the small pony on the front, a chilling glare. “He said that he wanted to go to Plate River.”

“Plate River?” A mare clad in scrap armor coughed. “Who wants to go to Plate River anyway?”

“Beats me, Ginger. He paid in good caps, so he sticks along all the way.”

The mare called Ginger huffed and looked at the silent stranger that walked with them. He seemed pretty calm and even handsome, she thought. The silent kind were the best, when they weren’t psychos. This fellow could turn out to be a nice catch… if she made the right choices. Ginger was like that, always looking for a new stallion to share her tent with.

“Hello, sweetheart.” Ginger slowed her pace to walk beside the nameless pony, seductively swaying her flanks to the sides. Her pink and white tail flopped oscillating in a mesmerizing way. “What’s your name?”

“Sorry.” He replied.

“Sorry? You’re called Sorry?” Ginger blinked.

“No, I am not called Sorry.” The nameless pony’s voice was harsh and deep, like the wind in the Wastes. “I said I was sorry because I am not telling you my name.”

“My, my, why do you have to be so mean?” Ginger whined. “I am Ginger, honey, and we can be close friends…” She moved towards the stranger until their bodies touched. “Very close.”

“Hrmph.” The nameless pony groaned.

“What?” Ginger winced. “You refuse me?”

“Don’t get me wrong, darling. In any other situation, I would be already all over you. I don’t have any time to waste now.”

“Does it have anything to do with Plate River?” Ginger whispered to his ear.

“Yes.”

“Care to elaborate?”

“No.”

“You’re always so secretive?”

“Yes.”

“Can’t you just tell me what you go to Plate River for?”

“Business.”

“What sort of business?”

“The sort of business that only works with your muzzle shut.” The nameless pony made his point clear without losing patience. Ginger, on the other hoof, was starting to cringe.

“That’s enough. I give up.”

Ginger stomped on the dusty floor and walked away from the nameless pony. Meanwhile, the mysterious stranger looked around, and thought about what a place that could have been before the War. The tall husks of charred trees stood like black nails threatening to puncture the cloud cover, while tiny strands of hard grass struggled to live in the dry and decaying soil.

In the horizon, the ground began to slope downwards towards the basin in which the ruins of Plate River were standing, or even floating in some areas. The city had been built on the bank of the Sea of Argent, a very broad firth of clear waters in which many ships fared for trade or pleasure. With the Apocalypse, the level of the river grew and engulfed large parts of the city, forcing the few survivors to move away or live in the higher levels of the standing buildings.

Even with the flooded areas, the dangerous wildlife and the radiated winds that shook the city every now and then, it could have been a good place to live, if fine ponies had been those who had reinhabited the husked buildings of Plate River. However, the city had become a nest of Raiders and criminals, and rumours spoke of a Chapter of Steel Rangers occupying some of the higher districts. Nothing was really clear, though, as the tales that came from the ruins were contradictory and odd.

Some spoke of a King of Raiders ruling from the top of the highest building, others told that the City was at war between armored ponies and non-armored ones; the most absurd ones dared to say that Plate River was a town of ghosts who would destroy the pony brave or careless enough to walk into it. The only thing in common between all the stories that the Wasteland had heard regarding the location was that it was extremely dangerous, a hellhole that should be left to its own devices, with the hope that it could collapse from its own inner quarrels.

No doubt that sensible ponies didn’t dare to venture into the ruins. However, the nameless pony had a contract with Tenpony Tower and a name in his mind: Careless Garden. One thing was certain, the nameless pony had never broken a deal; and that would not be the first.