//note: sorry guys! College turned out to be a lot more occupying than I first thought. I even forgot I had chapter 2 more or less done, so here it is! Late as hell but all the same here, hope whoevers reading enjoys

Chapter 2: The Windfall

From the angle of Rusty Rounds.

The Windfall

A Windfall is defined as: an unexpected amount of money that you get as a gift, prize, etc. Or alternatively as an unexpected, unearned, or sudden gain or advantage.

My mind drifted back to those days, Rusty Rounds’ Greatest Hits. Ancient and unremembered history now, known only to those blessed few to have lasted as long as me in this noble profession.

The meeting had been adjourned several hours ago now, or perhaps more, the others filed out hurriedly to begin the several days of drinking and eating at the expense of our boss’ deep pockets.

On the surface it seemed like any other elitist soiree that those chosen few would throw to jam out the abject poverty around them for a few fleeting moments and feel truly clean as they tried strongly to forget they still squat down to shit like the rest of us. In actuality, it was a tad more nuanced, the muscles drank and partied, we wanted them to. When you work with self-proclaimed hard asses all the time, you learn it’s easier to get them to blab with booze thats on the house and a companion that charges by the hour on their hoof rather than a tall dark stranger looming over them with a pair of pliers and a bonesaw. It may seem a tad underhoofed, but it’s generally accepted, not one of us trusted each other completely.

I didn’t bother sending out grunts to do some intel gathering work this time around, I learned plenty at the Bi-quarterly a couple weeks back, enough to get me by at least. I squandered my time instead in the furthest corner of the dimly lit banquet hall, comfily cushioned in my familiar dark booth, away from the grating din of dozens of rowdy grunts, slamming booze above their pay grade and scoffing down food unfit for mongrels of war like them. Like us. My fellow associates were the calm anti-nodes of the disorderly mob, I spied the regal groomed and flowing green mane of Cutlass slip in beside her own posse, immediately silencing them. Her vibrant violet dress like a slave in a suit, out of place yet oddly warming.

The only other one I noticed was our youngest, Dizzy, the rambunctious sleazeball of a young mare, her curt and greasy blonde mane and garish unkempt royal purple suit stained with booze and powders, off on another wild bender as she excitedly dragged a waiter with a rather strained smile into the VIP bathrooms. VIP. As if a heavy mahogany door and clean porcelain sinks make us better ponies. I felt a tad bad for the buck she dragged off, no one dares say no to any of us these days, too many stories of mass graves and strung up skinless people to make even a pathetic sight like me seem approachable.

As my eyes meandered and mind swam I sipped casually on the bitter vodka on offer, rustling with the translucent cubes within it, my brain swinging between belligerent and outward deposition Rusty. And next to me the new wrench in my works. To my left, quietly sipping on a condensated bottle of cola was my own provisional protege, Rose Mixer. Her stiff presence mandated from on high by the HM personally. Her long dirty blond curls reminding me uncomfortably of Dizzy, one of those was enough, perhaps too much, for our organisation. Her meagre build and distant green eyes showed not a hint of resolve, her plain red coat wasn’t dishevelled in any way, however her puffy blue sweater was, frayed in some places. She wasn’t nobility, and I was fairly certain not of Prance either, her mother probably knitted it. Not a mare of means, but not destitute either. However the most interesting feature about her rested on her flank (and I feel I have to specify it was on her flank, not her flank) her cutie mark was two lenses, crossing over one another, not unlike how the cartridges on my flank did.

I didn’t mind silence, but as the drink took hold my attention towards her grew, questions came to mind a groggy sobered Rusty couldn’t dream up. Why her? There was a thousand budding entrepreneurs who’d sell their souls - again - to get a shot with us, to even have a tie as an affiliate to us. But she gets escorted into the Hero Maker’s Grand Majestic Gresham and brought before the Six surviving demons of the arms trade and to be introduced by the devil itself. A slew of possibilities raced through my head, she was related to the HM somehow, or scouted by the HM personally, or maybe not. Maybe she was a driving force in her hometown’s economy at a young age, deserved a bigger pond in which to swim. Perhaps this is about potential, potential that I didn’t see. She was inward, a little too inward to be peddling guns, you’d never know it if you just speak to me, but there does take a little salesmanship in this trade. Even if the things practically sell themselves.

Then, it happened, something that threw my racing mind against the wall.

She spoke first, having looked up for the first time since she sat silently next to me after the meeting adjourned, she lifted that thin hoof of hers and stuck it several inches from me nose, tilting her body just enough that she could boop me, her hoof smelling faintly of pomegranate perfume “Wouldn’t you love to know, Rusty?” she asked, her somewhat strained smile returning.

D-did she just…

Oh. I see.

I leaned backward, being polite enough to a little girl not to swat her hoof away, I could feel my eyes narrow, as I studied her harder, her coat was unblemished, no grime, no dirt, no nothing, the only marring on her body was a faint ridge of scars on her left ear, I noted how every so often it’d twitch as she offered that expectant look. Her teeth, speckled white at the bottoms, yellow closer to the gums, not a smoker, she breathed too evenly for it, and smelled too… pristine. Mild fluorine deficiency I think. She came from an area of poor sanitation. Though, the quality of her straw blonde mane counter acted that. Nothings to say she got a haircut on the way over. She was unfamiliar with hard, or dirty work, though wasn’t unfamiliar with austere living. That scar is several years old at best.

It was my turn to jab the hoof at her, “Seventeen years old, a trader undoubtedly, but not born into a merchant class, you had underlings, or ‘partners’, situations escalated sometimes, thus the scar, not a traditional peddler of contraband, you sold other things. Maybe immoral maybe not. My guess is on personal hygiene, you smell of perfume, that’s rare. Your teeth corroborate that I think. Your cutie mark was obtained early in life, younger than most. You knew your strong suits before others, and this gave you an edge. Allowing a mare as frail in body as you to climb, you’re not country. My guess is Maredrid or less likely, Bearlynn.” I finished, lowering my hoof and sinking back into my comfy cushions, slurping idly on the bitter spirit, holding my jaundice ridden eyes on her’s.

Eventually her gaze broke, averting it to the side with a sly smirk and coy shrug “Some accounts correct, and west of Maredrid actually. Though, I’m a liar if I said I didn’t spend a significant amount of time there, doing stuff. Stuff I’m sure I won’t be obliged to talk about.” she intoned with a snicker, her demeanour shifting entirely as soon as we began this little game… No, not a game, a tailored skill of the trade, that she was throwing around. I imagined it was my turn by the way she scrunched up her muzzle and scrutinized me with her eyes. It took only a moment, her tongue protruding from the corner of her mouth as she childishly focused, after all, that's what she was. A child.

She lifted her hoof, slowly bringing it down and tapping my shoulder “Alcoholic, life expectancy of maybe fifty, you look in your forties, but you’re actually uh, erm, uh,-” she took pause, vigorously tapping her chin “Thiiiirty- fiveee?” She unsurely speculated, about six months off the mark. Damn. She wasn’t finished there.

“A north-easterner by all accounts, Trottingham? You used to have an accent, you’re accustomed, or I’d say bound to hard living, self-loathing, maybe unwarranted, something happened you, I’m staring at um, a, ah, whats the word? Like a past remembrance of a stallion, one point you were fulfilled with this, right? But a tw-”

I had heard enough.

Damn.

I raised my hoof, and pushed it against her mouth gently to silence her, at first she looked startled at it as she reamed on about what she thought she knew, “You can hush up now, Rose, I ain’t got no reservations about killing you, fillies are par for the course in this line of work. Now peddling shampoo ain’t the same fucking game as wholesaling ethnic detergent to the nearest genocidal maniac. Your life is now a commodity, you stepped into this stupid game and now you gotta abide the rules. I’m gonna educate you, but by Celestia’s stiff nips you better watch your mouth, my left nut carries more weight than your entire being. Are we clear?” my haggard vocal chords pushed out, my back was tense just listening to her, and briefly I wondered if I sounded like her.

I felt her smile die behind my hoof, slowly I pulled it away and she nodded, her demeanour back the way I found it, introverted and timid. Kid was too… loud, for her own good. Didn’t make me feel like any less of a bully though.

“...But you were right, on some accounts… Wouldn’t you love to know?” I echoed. Casting a glance her way for but a moment, I saw a hint of that knowing, wily smile return.

We were silent for a long time after that. The clamorous party filled the void of noise between us, it took another several rounds of waiters coming and dropping off drinks before she’d speak again, her voice low as she again put forward that strained smile, shyly looking up to me. Our eyes met, her green eyes like a laser designator painting a drop point.

“So,” she began “how does this whole ‘gun-selling’ jazz work?”

Finally.

***

From the angle of Bunker Buster.

Bad to worse to fucked in under seventy two hours.

Y’know breaks are a lot like herpes, overall you’re unlikely to get em, but if ya do you’ve probably been up to some dirty work. Sadly, I’m rarely up to some dirty work. It’d be dishonest to say it was a wholly bad thing, being taken off every other investigation and duty for the sake of unravelling a triple homicide, and to be assured the reward would be substantial. I’ll take it back a few pegs, a summit was being held in that obelisk to elitism that was known as the Grand Majestic Gresham, the clubhouse to a bunch of upper echelon gun runners, one of which I technically work for.

Y’see, every freakin’ establishment in Prance is tethered to either the aristocrats, or the Hero Maker, from book stores to brothels, they’ve got claws in everything. Especially the Ardvare family, whom almost exclusively bankroll us, The Upholders, formed from the slave drivers who lacked marketable skills beyond quelling the passive aggressive grumbling of the oppressed masses with bats enveloped in barbed wire. I wasn’t a slaver myself, but, I’m intimately familiar with the industry.

My name is Bunker Buster, the Upholder head of Ward 6 and the resident interrogator for my district, and in one meeting with Shard Ardvare, the hubby of the next matriarch of all Prance, my life was about to come uncomfortably close to the notoriously cutthroat association. For an illiterate, city sanctioned torturer that’s quite the position to be thrust in.

I pushed my way through the rowdy crowds swamping the Grand Majestic’s opulent reception, the loutish subordinates and grunt cogs in the Wasteland-wide already half-cut on the ample stocks of fine booze on offer in this nexus of culture in the wastes, staggering and stumbling, unsteadily backpedalling and forever knocking me off course as I fought to avoid the numerous splashes of pungent booze staining both my mane and matching black waistcoat and shirt, my only uniform. The dimly lit den of festivities was offensive in it’s booming noise, each drunkard eager to shout over the next in a feedback loop of ever increasing volume.

Eventually I managed to shimmy through the densely packed reception and into the seated dance hall, the collective heat of a hundred or so employees making even steely old me break into an uncomfortable sweat, the air was hot and damp, thick to suck in and heavy when exhaled, smoke pooled around the ceiling as more than a dozen plumes wafted upwards from my fellow smokers, the mixture of musky smokes from a variety of different brands, qualities and compositions made my eyes water as I advanced, lurching painfully slowly through the bulky armoured employees who waddled around in pursuit of refills, or relieving in the bathrooms. Which by now undoubtedly had devolved into shallow piss puddles and carnal grunting from pairs inside the classy albeit cramped stalls.

I made my way into the secluded hallway at the other side of the room that lead to staff offices, after a quick word with a very grumpy and disgruntled guard I was allowed in, the heavy security door swung shut behind me, thankfully blotting out the grating clamours of the party outside. The cushiony navy carpet I stepped on to a glad relief from the sticky patched and alcohol slicked hardwood floor outside.

The hallway was lit only by the seeping of yellow light from the cracks of the half a dozen or so doors lining the walls, the sounds contained within each room constricted and muffled, reminding me of my own work place. My destination was at the bottom of the hall. I knocked on the laminated rosewood several times, the unsettlingly quiet hallway feeling apart from the world. It didn’t sit well with me, it felt more like a sterile white tile room with a single chair in the centre than a luxurious passageway.

After a paranoid moment in the dimly lit corridor the door creaked open, basking me in pure white light from a lamp within, standing before me was the cowbuck turned kingpin, and technically my boss. He was like someone bought a desperado doll from a toy shop and gave it to their little filly to makeover, his well maintained purple coat and slicked back black mane with hints of gray visible without his usual brown stetson. I looked like a colour swap of him, my own cream coat and slicked back two tone red and green mane making us eerily similar. The marginally shorter and leaner buck stepped aside with a smile and gestured me in with a flick of his head “C’mon ahead, Buster, can a’get ya a drink a’ sometin?” he drawled out in that weirdly charming voice of his.

I gave a small smile in return, stepping inside. The room was surprisingly barren, the confined white walls contained only a desk with a notepad and a bottle of whiskey, a lamp beside it, and a cork board mounted to the wall with an array of pictures, scrawlings, graphs and other smart pony jazz that was way above my pay grade.

“Uh, nah, I don’t drink.” I answered, pawing awkwardly at the back of my mane as I stood in the centre of the room. Shard closed the door and turned the lock, letting out a loud snicker as he sat himself at his table, gesturing for me to sit opposite of him “Y’can always trus’ a stallion who pries ‘imself from booze, means he likes t’ keep his wits ‘bout ‘im.” he commented, I didn’t respond.

“C’mon, don’t be shy, seat yerself son.” he drawled again, offering that somewhat oblivious smile, righting the glimmering watch on his fetlock as I sat opposite him, his demeanour shifting slightly as he poured himself a healthy serving of the golden spirit, staring down into his glass of rich whiskey that my entire wage weekly wage packet could afford maybe three servings of.

“So uh, y’probably heard by now son, yer ward is relieved of all duties and is gonna pursue t’killer o’ miss Shrapnel till otherwise told so.” he explained, rubbing the back of his mane with a soft sigh.

“Yeah, that one travelled down the line well enough… hey, did they move the bodies yet? And why did they think at first it was a murder-suicide?” it nagged me, I knew a little about Pearl, her bodyguard, none of it particularly nice, Shard’s expression softened, he extended a small sad smile to me and shrugged “Y’ll see soon nuff, Upholder Clinch was charged wit’ the job ‘fore ya, head on or’r.” he slapped me on the shoulder, exuding that strange fatherly warmth he extended to all those in his employ.

I nodded in response, “Alright, sir, I’ll give the place a once over… I gotta ask though, I get these are more or less professional meetings, but, why me? There’s two dozen other chumps you could of brought in, what’s wrong with Clinch is a smart mare, y’know I heard candidly that she-”

“Yer doin’ it again son.” he halted me with a strained smile “Ah dun invite ya to ramble boy, save it fer yer uh, I dunno, victims is a dirty word.” he pawed at the back of his mane, it was easy to mistake his warmth for an invitation to socialise. Needless to say, I forced a smile as my cheeks reddened from embarrassment. I was often told I talk too much.

“Right sir, sorry sir.”

Shard smirked faintly, out of obligation really and took another sip from his stiff drink “Go on, git. Ahs got fahve more meetin’s ‘fore ah can crawl up with t’ misses an’ ah quite like my mare, Buster. ‘Ave yer boys send a report at t’ end o’ the week er somethin’.” he dismissed me with a wave and a grin, with this level of abruptness it was a wonder he even asked me to seat myself. Dutifully, I nodded and rose, returning from where I came.

---

For a borderline genocidal arms dealer Shrapnel Shade had some pretty ramshackle abode. It took little over an hour for me to haul myself to the far side of Prance over to the apartment she operated out of. The rain failed to let up, each bead that cascaded from the blanket of clouds above pricked my coat, I was several shades darker before I climbed the creaking stairs of the old refurbished tenement building. I plateau’d on the third floor, at the end of the hallway stood the familiar Clinch, the stout mare who I’ve seen brutalise several thugs simultaneously with a gleam in her eye and a snarl on her face. She was short and stocky, garbed in the same fitted black shirt and matching waistcoat as me. The only difference being she wore a shoulder holster housing a nasty bit of work, an eight inch barrel protruding from the end, a matte black finish, a .454 Casull chambering. A hoofcannon liable to break teeth if fired incorrectly from the mouth.

She leaned lazily against the wall, a small mound of crushed cigarette butts at her hoof as she idly sucked on a fresh one, her domineering demeanour made her very good at her job. From what little I knew of her she used to be a slaver, family trade, she wanted to be a doctor - her old stallion beat her into beating others. Now she’s making a living with the only marketable skills she had, and as such she was embittered by it.

Her rich yellow coat and complimenting caramel coloured mane were not nearly as doused as mine, her cropped and trim mane not carrying a bead of moisture as she acknowledged me with a nod.

“Buster.” the somewhat hoarse voice addressed me.

“Clinch. Can I bum a smoke?”

With a soft groan she pushed herself from the wall and produced a crumpled pack of cigs. Extending the cork coloured cotton filter toward me which I gratefully accepted, a second later she had a zippo sparked up for me, a rush of embers and disintegrating paper later I was suckling on it like a pup would on it’s mother. The fizzing alertness in my head as comforting to me as I imagine a blanket would be to the frostbitten.

“Soooo - whadda we got?” I asked, Clinch tsked and rolled her eyes in response.

“Those dicks in Ward Four chalked this down to suicide, and sadly for us the coroner disagrees, c’mon in.” she gestured for me to follow, and I did.

The door was unblemished on it’s hinges, no sign of forced entry. The windows were covered with blinds, and reinforced with bracing on the walls from the inside, on the rotted wood floor there was a couple of shards of plates and glasses, as well as the familiar black sticky patch that was blood allowed to set in, someone upturned an ashtray in it, perhaps in the struggle, it was hard to say. The only blood was on the floor and on the ceiling from when Pearl supposedly blew his brains out.

The couch, the kitchen, the bathroom, all undisturbed, the only thing nearly abnormal was the bedsheets inside her bedroom were tussled. The room naturally was covered in dossiers and photos and graphs and documents, neatly arranged, nothing looked stolen, or out of place. And if it was, it’d be impossible to know from the sheer volume of them.

“And this place hasn’t been touched?”

“Fuck, Buster. I ain’t no amateur, what you see is what you got, barely any signs of trouble, they had the drop on them, capped Pearl immediately, cleanly, and then Mozambique Drill’d Shrapnel. We recovered four forty-five casings and that’s that. It was clean, efficient, and to the point.”

Troubling.

“So, they opened the door?”

“Pearl did, judging from the way his body was - I say as soon as the latch released he was charged, staggered backward and had his head ventilated, shocked and confused, Shrapnel didn’t even think to grab a piece from the cupboard or nothing.” she surmised, and I was inclined to agree.

“So, it was someone they knew, or at the very least trusted to let in - these arms dealing sorts are not fabled for being forthcoming.”

“Exactly.” Clinch nodded along, scanning the room and imagining the scene play out before herself over and over “And they have a very good reason why it was chalked up as suicide.” she added.

“I think I know where you’re going, but go on.” I spoke cautiously, she used to be a slaver, but Pearl Jam - Shrapnel’s enforcer used to be a very, very, very problematic slave. Fought in the private clubs to entertain the elites of the town with some bloodsport as they ate their dinners and sipped their fine brews. And I used to be of the opinion violence did the opposite of whetting your appetite.

“I looked around the room, inside we find a strap-on, a big box of rubbers, some lube and some other random kink shit, and a lot of Pearl’s personal possessions. They’ve been fucking, however, I’ve been around a hell of a lot longer than the average idiot and I know for a fact, Pearl is one of the most notorious colt cuddlers in Prance. What really confirms this is the fact there’s a little box of blue pills in the bathroom that give ya a hard on stiff and long enough to play pool with.” she grunted, chuffing a plume of smoke from her nostrils. “Pearl was a prideful son of a bitch, he took beatings in his stride, the only thing he knew he could count on was his hooves, he was well fed and even fawned over as a champion prize fighter, he was fucking savage enough to make it a show every time, and as such he and his two little sisters lived pretty decently. Then, lo and behold, slavery is outlawed. Along with bloodsports, since there was too few fighters willing to participate to make it enjoyable. Pearl was out on his ass with two hungry fillies cowering behind him.” she snorted, casting a glance back to me.

“So we got a serial rapist who took him in as muscle in exchange for caps and looking after his family I’m guessing, she eventually shifts from making him pummel people and intimidation to what? Being pegged and forcing a hard on to stick in her?”

“Bingo Buster, and I get called a bitch.” she blew a raspberry and knicked her smoke against the wall, “However, icing himself doesn’t solve the big ol fucking connundrum of his little sisters, the Hero Maker probably would’ve killed them with him, so I think he didn’t do it. And the HM doesn’t think he did it either it seemed, those fillies are still attending school, I shadowed them to make sure.

Without even realising it my own smoke had gathered a stack of ash leading right to the butt, almost burnt out entirely, I flicked it into the sticky puddle of blood along with the rest of the ash from the upturned tray.

“Yeah… shame, ain’t it?” I asked her, getting a curious hum in response “The guy goes from being king of the hill, stomping idiots into dirt, even if he’s a slave doing it, he enjoys the act. Then he becomes free and all of a sudden his reliance on it becomes more obvious, and he starts hating it, from feared and respected to… well, it weren’t a well kept secret what she was doing, her status as a ‘pillar of the economy’ just stopped anyone from doing anything.”

She shrugged apathetically “I dunno Buster, he was a psychopath, she was a bigger psychopath, I don’t feel pity for the wealthy, or the deranged, I just need to pay the fucking bills, pal. The fillies seem to be getting along well enough, if no one gets off their asses I’ll bring them to some home or something, they’re just caught in the crossfire.”

I let out a contemplative hum. These fucking guys. They strut about like they’re tycoons from the old days, got where they did on wits and guile and all that bullshit, when in reality they had a crate of guns and a couple of people desperate enough to pay marked up for it. And if anything they didn’t like occured, they’d smash it with a claw hammer, beat it and beat it till it was 2D on the ground.

“...It’s possible he hired someone to kill her, and then him. A guy like this? He was probably flushed with caps, death wouldn’t faze him too much, from what I know of him at least. And what’s to say this killer isn’t fifty miles south of here by now?”

“First part of what you said is interesting, the second part, not so much. We have an identical killing on the other side of town, body is unmoved so you’re in luck. Two days ago, same M.O, different target - but the target in question is affiliated with the HM and the rest of those shits. No one knew about the M.O besides us and the Hero Maker, meaning it’s highly likely it’s the same shooter.”

“Right… right.” I nodded along “And I guess that’s where we’re headed next?”

She let out a bemused chortle and grinned incredulously at me “We? Please - I got taken off this, remember? You and Hexer and whoever else is still in your Ward can handle it, I’m out.”

“Huh, got anything else for me?” I asked, pulling the best pleading smile I could, truthfully stumped as to what to do besides wander over to the next spot and then dictate a report back to someone who can write.

“Well, the killer evidently has some skill, a well executed Mozambique Drill with adrenaline pumping like that ain’t easy, experience with firearms also, and to knock Pearl - a hoof to hoof fighter to the ground? Probably not a ex-slave, more than likely Slaver, big one too. Desperate too, no one who’s not in immediate peril would turn on the HM like that. They know they’d have an X on their temple for the rest of their lives. Now go on, someone will probably meet you down on Ilium Way, that’s where your next stop is.”

“It’s gonna be a long night, isn’t it Clinch?”

“Ooooh yes.” she purred with a trace of a sneer, she let out a snide laugh and patted my shoulder as she passed “Glad to have you wiping this shit in my stead Buster!” she called back as she departed into the rainy afternoon, probably right to the bar.

I heaved a sigh, the only people who knew her were those in the inner-circle of the Arms Dealers, and getting a hold of them was not so easily done. Murders were thankfully few and far between in Prance itself, and whenever there was one it’s fairly easy to pin the jaded party following some recent drama. This however, this would take all the sodium pentathol in my possession, and then some to crawl even an inch in this case.

-----

From a neutral party.

-----

Rusty Rounds was well regarded as an unscrupulous arms dealer in the region, his name was known and echoed along the width and breadth of many ravaged lands as a shrewd amoral financier of warfare. Mostly dealing with whoever bid highest, irrespective of how subjectively evil the party was, as such, many folks who often unwittingly benefited from his services and products had quite a sinister preconceived image of him in their heads.

Many thought him to be a looming, lanky and monstrous figure, charismatic and compelling in speech, and possessing the aires and guile of a great leader. With the strategic cunning of a grandmaster of chess and the clandestine senses of an old war-time spy in a espionage novel. He was as if a revenant, spoken of but never known, something ponies would rumour of quietly in bars, or warn their children of. And of all these accounts, sadly, not one is true.

The reality of Rusty Rounds, was much more meagre than many would like to think. The rumours spread of him were part fabrication for his own benefit, or were once truths, that like all other truths take on a hint more misinformed every time they’re passed on.

What many thought of him, were wrong, he was neither looming, nor lanky or even remotely monstrous. His mannerisms to those who knew him were hardly charismatic, and his sunken, introverted aires made him poor at commanding respect, or, anything else really. In truth he was surprised every time a waiter actually returned with something when he ordered it. He was mediocre at chess at best, and only when the situation called for it could he call forth some cunning. However, even if the rumours of the stallion’s appearance weren’t true, his actions were.

However, it would be unfair to call him a revenant. What little mister Rounds was closer to, was in fact, a malignant tumor. Small, not well liked, or anything else. But an exceptionally corrosive force. Even if he really never intended to be.

-

Rose Mixer and her temporary tutor Rusty Rounds had moved from the clamorous banquet hall as the evening settled in. The festivities in the lavish monolithic stronghold were coming to a crescendo, the spirits of the rowdy congregation higher than the ornately painted and engraved ceiling above. By now the clouds of smoke had become so thick it was like gazing into an charcoal grey sea above, as the wisps ebbed and flowed like ethereal liquid.

Their conversation had continued well after they abandoned the party and now sat inside what was once the third floor of the hotel. Most of the rooms and the walls between them had knocked down, leaving a massive open space where the guests would’ve stayed. Admittedly, the bare grey cement walls and dusty raw concrete floors were much less colourful, they were a lot more useful to Rusty. The corner apartments were left be however, for lodgings sake. The large windows were boarded and bolted shut, to keep it secretive, and the wide, open and largely uninspiring room was illuminated by a web of insulated wires sprawling across the low ceiling and suspending light bulbs from them. Around each stout and sturdy pillar supporting the ceiling sat padded crates and cases for a plethora of Rusty’s business apparatus. Ranging from cases of cartridges stacked as high as the roof, wooden crates padded with shredded paper and housing grenades.

Though there was other things as well, apart from stock, such as cork boards with pinned company mottos and inspiring quotes, graphs and morale reports, even lists of every employee’s birthday, and books for wages and taxation purposes. As well as that of course there sat empty bottles of vodka and uneaten dishes of food forgotten about.

The only sound in the whole, almost creepily empty room was the buzz of the multitude of lights, it wasn’t until you reached the very far end that there were people, just two. Rusty and Mixer, under a light at a round wooden table drinking and speaking subduedly, as if they were afraid to disturb the choir of lights above.

Rose sat shyly in her comfy lounge chair, an untouched glass of vodka at her side, the meek framed mare absorbed by the cushy cushion she lay upon, contently fuzzy in her knitted sweater as she spoke casually with a strange little buck she understood to be a lot more of a deal than even he let on. Rose was gladdened to make it out of the stuffy, packed confined of the banquet hall, preferring the moderate chill and deeply rooted silence here to the humid and thick air of that place below. She yawned wearily and let her heavy eyelids sag a tad, keeping her quite alive emerald eyes on Rusty’s as the day’s travels took their toll on her.

“And how’d you all get this darn big?” she asked the stallion opposite her, his obstinate attitude lessened with the effect of each cup of liquor. She was aware of the group, everyone was, however their roots were as buried and hidden as that of an ancient oak tree.

Rusty looked over the rim of his glass to her, holding eye contact with his own dark, restless eyes, “The whole hotel thing is fairly new actually. As well as the union in it’s current state, in fact, our existence was more myth than material until about two years ago. Power came in the form of aris-”

“No, no, no, gosh,” she tsked, halting him with dismissive sways of her forehoof, “I mean, big as in, like - uh - off the streets? I guess, from moving a piece at a time to a crate at a time.” she clarified, Rusty nodded and grunted, stroking his uneven stubbly jawline as he cast his faulty memory backward.

“Well, first off, you gotta understand the reasons folks need guns in the first place, or, a surplus of them, people who need to defend themselves, like small settlements usually already have an armoury that doesn’t need expansion or restocking often, so, they’re not big clients of mine. The kind of folks I deal with are expansionist, y’know some of the greatest empires of old Equestria started as nothing more than one town at some point full of ponies high on ambition. So first, you gotta find folk with ambition, or a need to grow, or a lust, once a pony doesn’t need to focus so hard on immediate survival, and their basic needs are tended to, they uh, have other ideas come to the forefront of their minds. I ain’t condoning it, but, sometimes it’s peaceful, like the establishing of a trade route, or outpost, other times, it’s for a raiding band to sequester resources from weaker tribes or neighbouring towns. Me and Shock, we had limited stock, so we had to get clever.”

“Clever?” she questioned, cocking an eyebrow.

“Yeah, clever. Guns are scarce, difficult to maintain, and there’s scarce few places in all the damn world that can machine a lower receiver for your rifle, or a rifled barrel, and there are practically zero that can do it as elegantly as the ponies of yesteryear could. As such, stock is worth it’s weight in caps, in a lot of cases, more than it’s weight. Sure, some areas are saturated, but, we tend to avoid those. The idea is, like water, we circulated as to not stagnate, or worse, evaporate.” he pointedly concluded, tipping his glass upward and draining it’s contents. Releasing a gravelly refreshed breath as it glugged down his gullet.

“Brush wars, or, skirmishing, is what most ‘wars’ constitute, small scale engagements between amateurs who fancy themselves badasses. I read whatever I can about this little craft, in that sense, I’m sorta unique among the HM crowd, I actually am fascinated by what we do, the art of it beyond the bottom line in my balance books. See, these engagements don’t really produce a victor, it’s mostly scared idiots breaking from cover every so often to squeeze off a couple of panicked shots and then hide again. It’s wasteful, stupid, and often they leave their dead in fear as soon as they think defeat is a potential outcome. We scavenged what we could, of course, like any good wastelanders. What we did was simple, we sold at high mark up to those small little feuding factions, and when the inevitable truce is brokered, they need some way to heal from a wasteful and fruitless war, so they sell it back at a reduced rate. Flog the surplus weapons they don’t even have enough people to give and we move on to the next heating up warzone. Then, we move on, and by the time we sell the next batch, there’s another pacified region to buy in bulk from. Though, the real, real, mogul-making event of my career, and in fact at least two other associates’ careers was what we call - The Windfall.” he continued, pouring himself another drink as he finished.

Rose Mixer’s ears perked in curiosity “Windfall, eh?” she grunted out sleepily, though still intently absorbing what he had to say.
Rusty let out a bemused snort and nodded, settling back down into his chair , “No, not a ‘Windfall’, the Windfall. You were probably too young, or too far away from the flames to have caught wind of it, but it was happy hour, every hour, for five months for every goddamn gat peddler from Maredrid to Manehatten, a lot of small time outfits turned into powerhouses practically overnight, ten times that number were absorbed or whacked in what was the most graphic display of ruthless capitalism and entrepreneurial spirit I ever saw in my life. I went from moving ten rifles a week to ten crates a week, and from five dependable ponies to platoon strength, legends were born and snuffed in those few scant weeks.”

His mind was called back to those old dog days, it seems romantic now, like his zenith, the HM’s gold rush. In reality it was just days on end without sleep, laying low and moving fast, raking caps and flogging what they could. He could see the fantasy of it, the legend of it in the back of her head behind her eyes, the only thing nearing it in terms of covert chaos being the Fire Sale.

Rose spoke up “And I assume in the wake of all this, you uh” she cracked a smirk, waving her hoof in a loose circle, gesturing to the thick bare concrete walls around “It’s what brought all this together?”

Rusty shook his head sharply “Nuh-uh, that was more so in the aftermath of a much lesser known event, we called it the… well, this is all just internal politics of our one lil clique.” he waved it off, relenting with the screwing up of his face, his indulgence in the cheap booze taking its toll upon him, his head developing the familiar welcome state of haziness. “Listen, rest up. I’m not going to waste time with you, it’s gonna be two days before we leave, and where we’re going isn’t nice.”

“And where is that?”

“Little town, off from the Straight, deep Marizona, rim of new Pheonix, since the Old one is still a hellzone locked down hard. The whole area is like trotting on a hot plate, they say riots are more common in summer when the blood’s warmest. So it’s no wonder the whole area is a shitshow year around. No go on. You got a cot in the other room.” he nodded to the far concrete protrusion with the security door.

Rose nodded, a tad disheartened by his sudden shift to brusqueness, though she figured a day as long as this one warranted some sleep. She rose wordlessly and trot off to her ‘room’, Rusty awaiting the heavy click of the lock releasing the the thump of its closing before releasing his sigh. The slight framed buck sinking deeper into his chair with a sigh deeper than the bottle he drank from, settling in for his nightly sedation that placed him somewhere between sleep and sentience. All this discussion of the old days would make his thoughts weigh on him, and his sleep troubled. It was better this way. Though, one thought permeated the haze in his skull. The fate of his late colleague. Shrapnel Shade. He felt distinctly apathetic towards her fate. She may have been an acquaintance, but not a good person. Equine sanitation, clearing out the garbage he felt was what it was. Though, he was not so far apart from the ghastly mare himself either.