“I’ll uh, well, you know where to find me.” I mumbled before rising, earning a glower from Shell Shock.

“I said to so-”

“Yeah, yeah,” I cut him off with a dismissive wave of my hoof “It’s been awhile, I feel woozy, I’m just gonna get a lil pick me up and I’ll be back before you know it.” I tried to assure him, though all he did was mouth obscenities at me as I left.

My stomach smarted and knotted in revolt, I had become desensitized to it after years of maltreatment. Booze had substituted nearly every other nourishment in my life, if I needed some sleep, I drank, if I was hungry, I drank, if I was thirsty, you damn well bet I drank, and if I was lonely, I drank deep. It was justified really, I always thought it’s how people really live with themselves, we adopt a self destructive vice to atone. Though this slow decline into the grave seemed rather agreeable to me. It’s not that I have anything more to be guilty of than the average sinner out in the wastes. We’re all scum writhing in the same filth, my vice is just more… intensive, than the average degenerate’s.

Back in the dense fog of smoke that was the lower bar I tried slipping through the crowds, the staggering and stumbling vagabonds and peddlers making it daunting as I was knocked side to side on already unsteady hooves. Bastards. Ain’t nobody got some consideration for the little ponies. Even stunted genetically defunct guys like me like to feel respected from time to time. I don’t blame them though, the respectable are to be respected, esteem is earned, and hard earned at that, respect ain’t a right. Its what awaits the diligent and the talented after a long road paved with broken glass and barbed wire, but one has to look like they walked that road and came out better for it. Not like a haggard shambles of a pony, like me.

I found my little alcove again, nestled in a cozy corner with a fine view of my 'peers'. The word unscrupulous came to mind. They were scum, undoubtedly, but the morality of their occupations were debatable. The shifty looking mare at the booth opposite me for example, no older than nineteen by my estimations, slim build like most kids from around here, lithe and long legged unicorn, her tangled and mangy rose coloured mane telling of an unkempt and austere lifestyle, her fluffy cream coat bestowing upon her a bubbly aesthetic, however her indignant cerulean eyes made it evident she wasn't here to spectate brawls or yank a tipsy buck into the rest rooms. She surveyed the room, over and over, as dependably as a radar. Rapidly shaking her head as both stallions and mares took turns propositioning her. She looked misaligned, out of place, like she should be doing something upstanding and respectable, learner doctor or trainee technician. But no, every so often another patron would wander over to her table, and unlike the horny ones they'd brim an awaiting glass with caps and she'd reach under the table into her saddlebag and hoof over an opaque package, then she'd dump the glass into it and her surveying would resume.

Narcotics. Probably the cheap synthetic kind, the kind that one bad hit can cause you to gouge out your eyeballs and chew glass shards. All the same though, as wrong as a drug dealer that sweet and wholesome was, it was the better alternative. The youth here now only have prospects relating to the economic demands of war, firearms and explosives to wage it, ammo and meds to sustain it, booze and narcotics to alleviate it and good ol' flank to vent all that pent up anger. It was either sell herself or sell a couple hits. Sure, drug dealing may seem evil enough, but all her customers are already users, all willing and enthusiastic to buy, and with an abundance of suppliers. They want to have the product, with all that it entails, she isn't pushing anyone to a sale, or selling to impressionable first timers. She's just noticed there's a river of caps circulating about this place and decided to slurp from it. There isn't many opportunities for the kids raised here, I'm glad to see that she took the ones available to her.

A wise pony once said, "If you can't make money during a war, you can't make money at all."

My inward commendations for the young mare were halted by the appearing of one of the bartenders. Spit of a lad, about sixteen and sweating profusely, dampening his sandy coat a shade darker, his black mane slackened with sweat against his head. You can tell a lot about the place you're in based on the hygiene of the staff. He placed a tall bottle of clear spirits in front of me, accompanied by a glass, "Yuh- your usual mistah Rounds." He wheezed out, offering a polite bow before dashing deftly between the crowds back to his hectic station. The customers at his end of the counter rowdy and unruly even from a minute of absence.

Good kid.

His old buck owned this place, bastard is the definition of a family buck too. Morally upright and ethical in business. He let's these world class scumbags conduct their business here so long as the booze is paid for and the setting remains vaguely civil with a strict no kids in the lounge policy, with of course the exception being his own who help him run the place. Vice Grips was his name. I liked him, I tip well and he keeps me liquored like royalty. It was a nice feeling being the only buck in the room getting booze delivered to him, the illusion of importance was always a pleasant one.

I uncorked the bottle and poured myself a not so healthy serving, the pungent odour only a fraction the strength of the actual drink, once the vodka levelled with the rim of the glass I upturned it inside my mouth, avariciously glugging it down, the familiar sear in my gullet and sting in my sinuses as welcome a sensation as a loving embrace. Dumping the glass down I could feel it leaking into my bloodstream, assuaging my mind, clearing it of the oppressive heavy fog that clouded it, alleviating the weight from around my neck, the groggy gears in my head beginning to be lubricated again, allowing my brain to operate at a speed that contrasted my exterior.

My eyes squeezed shut reactively from the experience, rubbing them with one hoof and pouring myself another round with the other. When I managed to open them the drug dealer across from me had upended her whiskey glass. She rose from her table and with strain slung her saddlepack up and over her back.

Amateur hour.

The packs were so chock full of caps they bulged at the bottom, overfed on funds, jingling invitingly with every slight motion, I could even see the ridges of the caps pushed against the leather. She was unarmed, dainty and worst of all young. I’d be astounded if she wasn’t mugged before long, business was booming, it’s only natural for leeches to want to suck the blood from an actual worker. Slamming my second glass I think the booze got the better of me, as she prepared to leave I rose to halt her. Righting my blazer and scruffy mane as well as I could I approached her, standing barely at chest level to her.

“Scuse me, miss? Out of a sense of duty I have to ask, are you crossing through the State’s side of town on your way home, or the Union?” I piped up, doing my best not to come across as sleazy in a den like this, even with my unkempt appearance and gravelly voice.

She jumped, so lost in her surveying that she failed to notice a runt sneak up on her, she looked down with startled eyes, unable to coherently formulate an answer, her voice was as mild and meek as I thought it’d be, made me grin.

“I uh, the um, yeah - State.” she answered after sufficient fumbling of her words. She really was new to this.

“Mmm, yeah that’s no good. The State are notorious for their anti-narcotics stance, not that the average grunt has that kinda zeal in his heart, they’re liable to confiscate those funds if they see you leave here, a shakedown wouldn’t be beyond them. It’s especially obvious seeing a kid like you slip into a bar with near empty bags and leaving with em bulging. Don’t ya think?” I asked, somewhere in my words slipping from amiable to scrutinizing.

She shook her head to clear it, looking down at me with a glower “Yeah, I’m sorry. Who are you?” she asked far less than excitedly. I had expected the reaction.

“Somebody here long enough to now you’re just starting, and experienced enough to know how to help you out. It takes bored guards only a few days to realise the obvious, so if you wanna keep your caps to yourself, I’d like to invite you to my table. Don’t worry either, I’m a taken buck.” I laughed somewhat stiltedly, I felt awkward and bashful but… it felt necessary to stick in, given the long list of much more substantial ponies she turned down minute to minute in this joint.

She surveyed the room once more, I was surprised she was even mulling it over, finally with a small sigh she shrugged “What have I to lose?” she asked rhetorically, moving in past me and strategically positioning herself with a view to the door, staring intently at it.

“Well, I saw ten whiskey glasses of caps go in, average volume of those is what? About one seventy five mils? Bottle cap’s diameter is about twenty five, and about five high, I’d say you get about twenty two caps there abouts a go. So, at least two hundred and twenty caps.” I answered for her, she lifted an eyebrow quizzically and I just grinned.

“Right, and how is it then uh,”

“Rusty.”

“Right, Rusty. How is it then you suppose I go through without being shaken down as you say I will be?” she asked, more of a challenge than a question.

“Well, uh-”

“Bandana.” she filled in.

“Bandana.” I nodded, extending a quickly wiped down hoof to her, she accepted it daintily and gave it a light shake “Well, Bandana my advice is for a start have a container inside your pack, something with rigid unassuming dimensions, ideally an opaque lunchbox, or flask. Line the inside with a rag and knot the caps up into a bundle so they don’t clatter around as much. The container should help muffle it too. Another good piece of advice is to cross where there’s a lot of traffic and few guards, if you’re an isolated target you’re easier to pick on. People don’t like people seeing their dirty business, and most importantly of all. Bribe em.” I pointedly concluded, waving a hoof at her.

“Bribe em? But then won’t they I’m carrying caps?” she asked, scrunching her muzzle up at me. I was glad that was the only point of contention. She glanced worriedly at the succulently fat bags of capital.

“Not necessarily, if they see a mare leave the bar and she brings them a brew to numb the agonising boredom of standing around tensely all damn day, they tend to take a shining to her. It costs four caps here to buy a bottle, they even do a special on three for ten, it’s not technically bribing since you’re not paying them to overlook things they already know. You’ve probably at least heard about what they do to those caught selling and using drugs in the State, right?”

It was her turn to be bashful now, awkwardly pawing at her mane “Uh, yeah... they club them to death.” she answered in a mumble, I nodded along.

“Right, while this isn’t their precious state, they’ve been known to take liberties here in the past, though I don’t have to tell you that. And another thing, have several routes into this place. There’s a gangway under this bar along the river, they can’t see you from that angle, there’s also two smaller bridges you can cross, you don’t even need to bring them beers if they don’t see you enter and leave. But if you overuse them, it’ll draw attention.”

She furrowed her brow “So then, what do I do?”

I patted myself down, “Hey uh, grab me a napkin or a coaster or something.” I told her as I fumbled for a pen, a plain cardboard circlet placed before me as I eventually fetched my biro.

“Alright,” I began, rolling the pen around in my mouth, scribbling a pattern down, it went.

AAA
AAB
ABB
BBB
BBA
BAA
AAA

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” she asked incredulously.

“It’s a pattern. For your routes, A denotes crossing the main bridge, B denotes a side one, from the gangway or whatever route you choose as your secondary. C is going to be your variable, you’ll take B into the bar, but A out of it or vice versa. As long as the patterns are varied enough to never make it overly obvious that you have one it’s fine. Oh, and try and stick to linear paths with plenty of people, if there’s a solitary pony hanging out on the gangway, odds are they’re looking for trouble. This is your town, you should know which parts court danger.” I elaborated, glancing up I was a tad warmed to see she was studying it intently, as I spoke, nodding along and muttering to herself.

“Right, right… say,” she began, narrowing her eyes at me “How is it you’re so uh, methodical about this stuff? Are you uh, a ‘seller’ too?” she asked delicately, sure not to trod on my hooves.

“No, no. Well, kinda. Same basic gig different kinda product if you catch my drift.” I spoke, taking another gulp from my glass, topping it up I placed it on the coaster and slid both over to her “From me, to you.”

That got a grin out of her, taking the glass in her aura she took a small drink, grimacing as she gulped it down, her scrunched up pained look and accompanying hack coaxing a rumbling chuckle out of me.

“Oh. My. Goddesses! It’s like pure acid!” she exclaimed, wiping her mouth as she pushed the glass back to me, slipping the coaster into her saddlebags.

“You get used to it. The habits of running an illegitimate business I mean, that stuff never goes down any easier.” I snorted, taking a gulp for myself.

“And how the hell did you learn all this stuff? Is there a school for drug slingers where you come from or something?” she asked, her smile actually holding.

“Mmm, no, I started out selling flayed rat on a stick, and hairless spider on a stick both cooked over a barrel fire for six and four caps respectively.” I admitted with a small laugh, “I’ve been selling anything I could get my hooves on since I was eight. You learn as you go along, especially if you’re small time and in a bad neighbourhood.”

She let out an appreciative whistle “You’re uh, a strange guy Rusty. You uh, still peddling critters on sticks? Business must be good.” she asked coyly, jabbing the lapel of my flashy jacket.

She managed to pull a giggle from me, “No, no, I uhm… Travel around destabilized regions and sell firearms in bulk to the local warlords.” I told her with a chuckle, she joined in with a bombastic fit of guffaws.

“Get out~” she sang, waving me off.

“No, no, I’m serious. But I’m leaving tonight, my uh, ‘friends’ require me up north. So you won’t see this tired old buck around any time soon.” I explained, offering her a smile. “However, I am in the investing game these days, who knows? Maybe if I come back here sometime and you’re doing well, I’ll expand your business for a slice.”

She grinned a little wider “You’re just blowing smoke up my ass now, aren’t ya?”

“No, no, I’m serious.” I re-iterated again “There’s so many fucking deadbeats around this town I’m delighted to see an enterprising young mare, and a local one too, you play smart and safe and you can go far. Even if narcotics ain’t my area, I’m sure with some experience you’ll be a leader in the field in no time.”

Fucking hell Rusty. You’re actively encouraging a drug dealer. Still… nostalgia was doing most the talking, she was a good kid, hopefully the caps wouldn’t get the better of her.

Before I slipped deeper into my own inner conflicts I noticed the burnt orange hue of light that pierced the windows, the amber glow like it’s own watch, telling of how long I sat jabbering to Bandana “Fuck me, it’s that late already. I won’t hold you any longer miss Bandana, grab two beers before you leave and run on home. It’s been a pleasure.” I nodded to her, she looked around her and let out a surprised yip “Bloody hell it really is late.” she murmured.

She shot upright, slinging her saddlebags over her once more, no longer and indignant and tense, but jaunty and enthused, a fresh zest in her cerulean eyes, this time, she was the one to offer her hoof “Till next time then, and thanks by the way.”

I waved her off, shaking the hoof firmly “Don’t mention it, or me to anyone else either, stay safe miss.”

Without further procrastination she pivoted and disappeared back into the crowd. I wished her the best of luck… sincerely.

Still. It was telling of the times that she had to resort to it in the first place. The way she surveyed that room, rigidly gazing at the entrances, she didn’t want someone to know she was there and doing what she was doing. Could of been a parent or a sibling, or even her friends, no one is ever proud of being a two-bit dealer, but meeting the psychoactive exigencies of cut throats and other lowly creatures was better than meeting their more carnal needs or sleeping on the pissed stained mattresses of the common house. A rumbling stomach is a hell of a lot louder than any conscience. Better to sell damaging things then to be reduced to a thing to be sold and damaged by the customers. Good call Bandana.

Who knows? Maybe one day she’ll build an entire network of dope, me and her might even trade some day as she’ll need to provide her own security for her world renowned goods. Everyone starts at the bottom, and talent and diligence determines how far people climb in this life.

Or maybe, she’ll wind up a floater down the Whinny River, so tainted by the toxic water she wouldn’t be fit to be called carrion, either way, only time will tell. You win this game by being the brightest mind, and snuffing out the lights of other people’s before they can do the same to you, some manage to escape it, others just accept it, some like me and my associates own it. The goal is always the same, start as a flickering flame in the breeze, and slowly become a great conflagration. We all get to choose the game Miss Bandana, but the rules are ironclad. You live and die by them. Whether you peter in the breeze, or engulf all those around you, you mustn't ever deviate from the game.

I slipped deeper into thought, no one caught me eye here like Bandana did so I resigned myself to the company of the bottle. As the hours ticked by I slipped from my acute senses back into the doldrums of drunkenness, the pleasant stupor sedating my forever churning mind enough to jam coherent thoughts, they way I liked it.

Letting my life become a blurred haze, losing focus on my surroundings and lapsing into my own peaceful bubble, away from it all, I was glad for awhile. Not sure how long it was, a couple of minutes, a couple of hours. It was joyous, all up until Shell Shock slung me over his back and marched me into the night. As my vision dimmed and the world receded to blackness my thoughts drifted back to the flayed rat on a stick and how sweeter it tasted than the poison I could not pry myself from.

***

I came to Celestia knows how many hours later. Slumped on red velvet cushions, my stomach wailing in agony from the bumpy carriage, the sound of wooden wheels rolling over gravel accompanied the static inside my head. I groaned as I groggily sat upright, dishevelled and disoriented, back in my default destitute state. It took my eyes awhile to adjust to the low light conditions of the carriage, but as it normalised I noticed a rosewood table before me, with a tall glass of ice water and accompanying pills. My face felt hot but numb, no sensation other than an uncomfortable heat.

“You were supposed to sober up.” The hard, embittered voice of Shell Shock stated. I wasn’t in the mood. “I had one of mine shave you while you slept you fucking disaster.” he bemusedly snorted. Pushing the pills and water closer. “You may be a mean motherfucker Rusty, but hell you can be worse than a colt when you put your mind to it.”

I clumsily clasped the glass and took the pills between my teeth, the icy, refreshing fluid revitalising my stultified frame, the pills the first solid I’d had for several days at this point. Dropping the vessel I laid back, settling my boney back into the snug cushions, stroking my clean shaven face and noting all the bumps and nicks. Tsking annoyedly.

“Remember who pays who here, Shelly. And Luna alive, couldn’t they have not flayed me?” I stopped my pawing, only serving to reopen the irksome incisions.

“Shockingly, you’re not that well liked among the soldiers, brother. They must be zealously jealous of your dashing good looks and fierce, irrepressible charms.” he verbosely intoned.

“I regret getting you that stupid fucking thesaurus. I liked you better when you came across as a feral that had a grasp of maybe a dozen words. Hearing ‘irrepressible’ from a guy who’s idea of fun eight years ago was a toolbox and a tied up mare with a few bumps of whatever drugs on hoof, you sure use some fancy fucking words.” I joshed, however it was his turn not to find it funny.

“Ah, fuck you Russ. You’ll understand when you have kids one day, if your prick can still stand without the aid of a splint that is.” he shot back, snorting at his own joke.

“You’re the only prick I need, Shock. How long till we arrive?” I asked, rubbing the sleep out of my eyes, the artificial dozing of a ethanol induced sleep only rested you a fraction as well as an actual sleep.

“We’re about six hours out, the meeting is slated for noon, we’ll arrive with time to spare, it’s first light now.” he answered, only now did I realise he ragged and weary he looked.

“Why aren’t you asleep?” I asked after a moment’s studying.

“Heard a few cracks in the distance, spooked me, the girls are just in the carriage behind us after all… Call it paranoia.” he answered distractedly, staring into the dim white light of dawn from between the satin drapes in the carriage.

“Right… try and get some sleep at least, imagine what they’ll all say seeing us look as shitty as we do.”

“Fuck em.”

I nodded, looking back down at my hooves “Hey… remember the flayed rats on sticks?” I asked hesitantly.

“I don’t care to.”

I nodded again, the past wasn’t a happy topic between us anyway, our shared history wasn’t a sweet one.

“Hey, I’m gonna catch some Zs, wake me when we’re there.” I told him, he wasn’t feeling sociable and when I thought about it, neither was I. He nodded and spoke no more, I laid down and waited for the painkillers to take effect, numbing me enough to allow me to drift back into the peace only a dumbed down mind could savour. It was undoubtedly going to be a long day tomorrow.

***

Prance.

A city revived by several old aristocratic families that spent the apocalypse selectively inbreeding in Stables by the old favoured method of building civilizations, slavery. In sixty years the city was stripped and rebuilt along the Central boulevard and outlying suburbs by an army of viciously suppressed and guarded slaves. In no time at all free folks flocked here looking to start anew in an actual society, whether farmers, grunts, traders or anything else. And for every citizen, there was at least two slaves. So popular slavery became they replaced the justice system with an indentured service system, if you stole you’d be made to work back your debt to society. If you committed a more serious crime such as rape or murder, you’d be sold into slavery entirely. At one point, the Ardvarè family had an army of nearly two hundred slavers, in a town that’s official population was only two thousand. The buying and selling of equine life became the norm of Prance, only recently has it ended in an official capacity. Thanks to the advances of the Matricians and Patricians in the senate has it been made that every resident within the confines of the city is a free one. The economic growth and wealth had attracted enough skilled ponies for the city to be sustainable, and as such, free dreg labour wasn’t necessary anymore.

Now if you want a slave, you have to buy from outside the city and sign a contract for a maximum of five years work, and then you’re expected to provide suitable nutrition and working conditions for said indentured worker. And at the end of the term, you have to offer them a job with a minimum wage of five caps an hour for a full year. However it’s not worked out for the ex-slaves, they’re the new underclass, the dependable low skill, low pay bedrock most societies depend dearly upon. And the slavers? Most went on to become construction foremen, or ‘employee procurement specialists’, or to make up the new police force under the direct control of the Ardvarè family. Placing them snugly as the new middle class. The penal system hasn’t changed however, murderers and rapists are sold to parties outside the city and the profits are reinvested into the educational system. There were now 3 schools in Prance, two elementary one high. With a fully implemented taxing system every kid got to do at least six years schooling, if you had the capital you could send em on to study science, but most ended up either in work, or as apprentices.

As a result, Prance became a service hub like none other, you could go to an office, an actual office and speak to an ‘Armament Consultant’ and have a box of firearms within a week. You could go see a ‘Recreational Facilitator’ and get a night slathered in high class sluts for an evening, hell, if you were an artsy sort you could take a trip down to the Publications Office and get your article decrying the stringent immigration and land laws published in the Bi-weekly newspaper if you so pleased. Prance’s prestige may be built on the broken backs of the downtrodden and oppressed. But they were stacked so high that it elevated the town into something unique on this side of Equestria. An actual civilised society. Everyone ultimately shits on the little guy, but at least this town achieved something by doing it. And hell, even the descendants of the slaves don’t mind enough to rebel, even though they make up two thirds of the population.

It don’t wash away no blood though.

We trundled between the towering apartment blocks and renovated monolithic hotels. Our carriage encountering traffic for the first time in since I left this cesspool of elitists and high minded snobs. Shell hadn’t slept a wink, still gazing out the window at the various bright store fronts and places of work. Whatever buildings yet unused being cocooned in scaffolding and healed back into their beautiful classical architecture from before the bombs and the decay. Ponies from all walks marched up and down the wide streets, young foals running errands or playing, bourgeoise shoppers being chased around by their ‘indentured servants’. Stallions and mares in suits taking their two hour long lunch hours from whatever ultimately ill-reputed firm they worked for. Food joints with their protruding fronts for customers to seat themselves outside under the sheltering parasols and people watch as they grazed. Each building coated in a colourful paint, to keep the city vibrant and vivid. High walls of sheet metal and concrete cordoned the settled parts of town from the dilapidated outskirts, keeping the stretch of civilization in it’s own merry bubble of normalcy. Away from whatever woe and desolation lay beyond.

Eventually we rolled to our destination, several other carriages waited out front as we were lost in the shadows of the Big Four as they known. The towering granite structures that were once the most prolific high class hotels in Prance. Their decayed upper floors and crumbled walls making them ideal hardpoints. Now instead of ornate window frames and tinted glass the vista was to be viewed through the sights of a heavy machine gun mounted on sandbags. Or through a sniper’s lense or a pair of binos. From the sky splitting heights one could see all of Prance and the plains that surrounded it. And at the very peak of each building resided a mortar pit.

Each served as a fortress for the respective aristocratic clans. There was the Lodge Ardvarè the largest of them, the Belvue Deluxe - the only one opened to the public for it’s casino, and Hotel Fauxe, more of a gentleponies club and business den on the lower floors than a fort. And finally, our own little clubhouse, The Grand Majestic Gresham Hotel. Owned by our own little union and purchased for a relative song. The clans were all so busy refurbishing their own respective castles and lining their pockets they lacked the time and resources to squabble over it. So we took it off their hooves for the modest sum of two and a half thousand caps each and fortified the hell out of it. Unlike the others ours was far from palatial, floors three to ten was cordoned off for each associate and their subordinates, the rest was ruinous at worst or entrenched at best. All in all thirty permanent staff broken into six teams of five for security. On top of whoever we require in our own retinues.

Our employer kept the old name, but most knew it as the HM’s GM. Hero Maker’s Grand Majestic.

I rose and dusted myself off, running my hooves across my head to help straighten out the messy mop of red hair “You uh, go ahead on up to the suite with the fillies, I’ll head to the meeting.” I informed the distant Shell Shock, he nodded and heaved a sigh, rising as well as I slipped the carriage door open and stepped out onto the cobblestone street beneath. The air here was a lot more amicable towards me then the dead heat of Marizona, a breeze always ran through the air here and it was never unwelcome in my books.

Outside a dozen or so mercs loitered, all from different detachments of different associates, dressed wildly different and all extravagantly armed. The Nomads with their long dark coats and boonie hats, the First Cohort, zebras garbed in thick scavenged battle armour and plates, ornately decorated with trophies from their kills. Even the Havoc Preachers were out socialising with their ink caked bodies detailing their triumphs and defeats.

I recognised a couple, exchanging acknowledging nods and such as I climbed the marble steps into the awaiting atrium. The reception of the hotel a din of associates and subordinates clamouring over one another as they excitedly caught up with old friends. The two bars cramming a plethora of thirsty travellers on stools. I spotted a few friendly faces but was too bedraggled and groggy to engage them.

Instead I spared myself the equine interaction and pushed through the heavy single door labelled ‘Staff Only’, leading into a narrow carpeted hallway, the door swinging shut behind me blocking out the tumultuous prattling outside.

I looked around the familiar walls and heaved a short sigh of content.

Finally. Peace.

I’d have a whole hour to myself before the proceedings began, trotting leisurely on the svelte carpet I arrived at our cozy conference room, slipping inside there awaited a bland room, devoid of features and illuminated solely by a white fluorescent light bulb. The only notable detail of the room being the long table in the very centre. One table on each rectangular end with three chairs flanking either side. At the opposite end where the far chair was sat a small ham radio. The mouth of my employer. It’d begin broadcasting at exactly noon, and finish when it pleased. No one would interrupt it, no one would speak against it. We would merely listen and then discuss.

I took my seat to the left side of the radio like a prince at a court and sat docilely, the silence so refined the only thing I could hear was the sound of my own shallow breathing. It was therapeutic to say the least, I just rested my head against the leather lounge chair and let minutes tick by with an emptied skull.

I pushed away every thought that came to the forefront of my mind, whether it was the reasons for this summons, the buck Safety Pin, the unfortunate Rattler, or the enterprising but naive Bandana. I really did hate Marizona. The whole place was sinking fast and the entire crew were arguing about who’s fault the leaks in the hull are instead of plugging them.

My peace was short lived. The minutes flew fast when you wanted them to crawl, on cue my five surviving business partners entered the room in single file, still chatting idly with each other as they slipped in and took their respective seats. Across from me was seated the impish mare, Cutlass. An astoundingly gorgeous unicorn with all the characteristics and panel of buttons to send bucks wild. With her thick, lush and bouncy green locks and smooth, regal alabaster coat and curvaceous body she oft got what she wanted. Dressed to impress in an elegant red gown, she chirped up at me in her melodic, honeyed voice “Rusty! It’s been quite the while, ay dearest? I hear we may be sharing a market down in sunny ol’ Marizona, keeping well I hope?”

I gave her a shrug in rebuttal “Same old, drinking myself to within inches of the grave and keeping undertakers in the black, hopefully they’ll find it in their hearts to give me a discount when I do drop. You?”

“Oh, splendid in a word dearest, been a large influx of long range rifles lately, apparently some ranger outfit up north are liquidating their assets, and selling by the kilo! I know it’s not my usual but I hear they’re quite popular in Marizona at the moment, and so your sweet Cutlass follows the flow of caps like a feather caught in an updraft.” she finished with a soft coo, beaming coyly as ever with her immaculate set of teeth.

“Well for some, right Rounds?” drawled the buck to my side. The only partner here longer than me, Shard. The only pony to ever address me by ‘Rounds’. “Us fellas are stuck with the ol’ circulated scrap it seems, nobody seems to wanna disarm no more, iss all jus’ a mad dash t’ stockpile for somethin’ that ain’t ever coming.” A rustic stallion, about my age, a purple coated earth pony with an oiled back mane that often sported a stetson outdoors. His three piece silky suit something to be marvelled at, with his burgundy three button blazer, black satin waist coat and white undershirt. You’d never have guessed he heralded from some backwater ranch in the ass end of nowhere. He married well, right into Ardvarè family. He started as a humble gun runner when he ran into a live wire mare in some tavern and hit it off. Little did he know he fell for the heir of the most powerful dynasty in Prance and her father made sure he lived up to the name, placing him in control of procuring and selling weapons. And he was damn good at it, with all his old contacts and being well travelled his straightforwardness and honesty made him a respected trader in no time. We spent a lot of hectic nights together in the old days, drinking and plotting, getting our grand expansionist campaign in order and steamrolling problems as they arose. I liked him and his wife greatly, I don’t think the guy to lie if he tried.

“It’ll all come to a head, no one ever sits on a mountain of ammo for long, everyone’s too eager to spend it.” I answered, following up with “How’s the wife?”

“Preggers, a’gain.” he grinned to me, giving me a small nudge “Sappy found out last week in fact, callin’ it now, a filly.”

I tilted my head at him, “You already have three of those. I don’t know jack about biology but I’ll put twenty caps on it being a colt. At the moment she’s hitting seventy five percent fillies, I don’t think any vagina’s that reliable.”

He nodded along with me, humming and narrowing his eyes, “Deal.” he stated, offering his hoof. “I’ll even name him Rounds r’ something if yer right.”

As if one of me wasn’t enough.

“Sappy would never allow it. But still, I’ll take the action.” we shook on it, his same firm and dependable shake spoke volumes about the buck.

One of the HM’s GM’s guards entered the room silently and closed it behind herself, standing by. A cue for the conversation at the table to die off as we all nervously awaited the broadcast.

With a weak crackle and whine the speaker sparked to life, and the electrically garbled voice of our employer flowed through, gender indistinguishable.

“Welcome, friends and treasured associates. I’m heartened to hear from you all again, and apologise profusely for the hasty summons, however we have a mild situation on our hooves. As you are all aware, our late friend Shrapnel Shade was brutally slaughtered in her home just over a week and a half ago following our bi-quarterly summit. Both her and her enforcer were found dead. What at first we thought was a killing of the associate by her enforcer before he turned the gun on himself has become some a tad more concerning. It was discovered that Pearl Jam had bruises on his body inflicted by hooves that do not correspond to Shrapnel’s. What we take this to mean is the killer executed Enforcer Pearl with his own weapon before using it to turn on miss Shrapnel. Even more worryingly there have been a string of killings since, all following the same M.O of the killer, two forty five caliber rounds to the sternum and a subsequent round through the skull with the casings recovered. It’s no coincidence they were all Mozambique Drilled with the same weapon and all in some sense affiliated with our enterprise. While it is unclear if the killer or killers as the case may be is acting independently or not at this moment is questionable. However it’s clear we are not without our enemies. Our own Shard is a non- blueblood married into the Ardvarè family, earning him both the ire of the former slave folk of Prance and the other families for corrupting their lineages and stealing what was supposed to be a very valuable marriage prospect from their youths. Our dear friend Rusty Rounds has befouled both the Trottingham syndicate and the remnants of the Marizona Rangers, both potent foes with an abundance of homicidal talent. Sweet miss Cutlass it goes without saying, both the Oaken Crest and Storm Walker clans are vicious enemies of her’s, the Coltic lands are off limits for herself. And through the combined efforts of sweet miss Dizzy and our beloved Prince, Corsair the Germane separatists and Coastal tribes are no friends of ours. And Vita. Well. I don’t think I have to go into that.” the garbled voice broke into what I assumed was masked laughter.

“All in all, we’re not short of enemies, and we’ll have to remedy that. However, I think we can all agree the largest threat for our organisation lays within our organisation. Not to insult anyone. But we’re all where we are now through ruthless capitalism, cunning maneuvering and manipulation of the markets, and our end goals will never be realised if we deviate from our tactics. Every one of you gathered here craves the lion’s share, even as we all sit as equals. Even your humble employer takes only what I am owed to keep our union afloat. As I detailed in your letters, associate Shard shall have the police force heading the investigations into the murders and once some findings are found we shall present the case as we see it. Hopefully, the matter shall be resolved swiftly and painlessly. And, on the topic of our late Shrapnel, I’m positive you all have questions regarding to her successor. I’m happy to announce that she will be succeeded by our first ever apprentice, fillies and gentlecolts I’ll ask you to greet your new junior colleague Rose Mixer.”

As if mandated above all of us swivelled our heads around to the door expectantly. Cutlass was visible repulsed at the notion, and I couldn’t say I felt much better. An apprentice. This trade was a crucible, you learned through hard grafting and the universal principle of once bitten twice shy. It takes years to work up a modicum of influence in your own backyard let alone the network each of us individually weaved. Busting our flanks day after day, dodging bullets and taking whatever we could get.

The guard swung open the door and in stepped…

Exactly how I imagined it would look.

She entered the room, as meek looking as a sickly pup, a red coated unicorn filly, dressed in a fluffy blue sweater with curly blonde locks, even shorter than me. Her anxious smile growing strained as she received a unanimously cold welcome to the room, well, almost unanimous, Shard waved jauntily to her.

“Everyone, please offer to her both your friendship and your experience, she’ll do time with every one of you as she learns basic book handling, in which I will help her along personally. She’ll do two months with each of you and we’ll decide at the next bi-quarterly summit who receives her next. For starters our own veteran, Rusty Rounds shall mentor our newest bright spark. In the meantime please all stay safe and liaise with each other on market information, trader knowledge and every other aid we can give one another. This is the Hero Maker signing off.”

…

Fuck.

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