Red Wings

by PropMaster

Chapter 3

        Thunder and lightning filled the twilit air of the Wastelands, as a stormfront moved through the desolate landscape. Sleet spilled from the clouds, covering the barren and ash filled wastes with cold slush. Creatures cowered in holes and coverings, sheltering from the fury of the storm. The only things unphased by the storm were the trolls, their gibbering cries filling the wastes as they hunted.
        
        There was only one other creature out in the storm. Up inside the clouds, an airship swerved through the sky, swaying erratically. Inside the bridge, Red scrambled to keep The Crimson Score from being torn apart as the winds blew the ship around. He cursed under his breath as the Score rocked—another incredible gust of wind shifting it off course—and pulled the control stick to the side, leveling out the ship.
        
        Red scowled at his own stupidity. He should have known better than to go out in a storm like this. Yes, the batteries needed charging, but that had been accomplished in his first push through the stormfront. The trouble had started when he’d actually decided to begin piloting the ship. Before, he’d only ever flown The Crimson Score up and down, pushing through the clouds and into the relatively calm air above the massive storm. Once Red began flying forward, though, he’d learned that it took a lot of focus and finesse to keep the ship on a steady course, and he’d accidentally began to lose altitude as he’d overcompensated.

Now, he was back down in the stormfront, and he was regretting ever choosing to build something as complex as a VTOL airship. The problem was not the ship, though, and Red knew it. He was inexperienced, and it was probably going to kill him if he didn’t get the Score under control.

Red cursed himself again as his airship fishtailed through the air when he pushed too much power into the rear rotors, sending the rear of the ship flinging around and sending the Score into a spin. He swallowed hard, focusing himself as the ship revolved in mid-air, and slowly decreased the power to the rear rotors. The ship finally eased out of the spin, and Red sighed with relief.

He was only given a brief respite though, as the next gust of wind hit the ship, pushing it sideways, and Red’s clumsy piloting sent the aircraft into a tilt. He gasped, shifting the thrust to the other side, and Red found himself tilting the opposite way just as fast. Growling, he did his best to keep his fear in check as he accelerated, shifting from forward momentum into a climb, hoping to break through the clouds once more. The wind carried the ship, and Red felt a chill run down his spine as the rear of the ship began to pitch upwards, threatening to push the ship’s tail up and flip the ship upside-down—which would be the end of him. Red boosted the power to the forward turbines, and the ship leveled out, but only just.

The viewports filled with grey clouds and were spotted with sleet and ash. Red could only see the bow of his ship, and no further. He pushed the engines again, and The Crimson Score began to rise, finally popping out of the top of the stormfront. Red sighed with relief, simply satisfied to stay above the clouds for the moment. He couldn’t see the end of the stormfront, but knew that if he waited, it would pass beneath him soon enough. He tried to calculate the distance he’d traveled; the mountains had been far in the distance when he’d taken off, but he had no indication of where he was now.

After taking a few minutes to collect himself and reorient to the east, Red decided to practice flying once more. He carefully pushed the throttles forward and the ship began to move horizontally. The prow of the airship began to dip, and Red increased the thrust to the forward engines. The ship began to level out, and soon Red was cruising above the clouds once more. Red smiled, as The Crimson Score rode atop the storm, its design no doubt looking like a odd boat atop a foggy ocean. The Crimson Score was illuminated from below by lightning, and Red could see cloud-to-cloud strikes crackle through the stormfront, casting an odd glow of erratic light.

Noticing that his course was drifting, Red adjusted the rear rotors. He yelped as his ship began to glide sideways, losing altitude once again and dipping him back into the grey miasma of the stormfront. Red was briefly dazzled by lightning as it flashed in front of the ship. He did his best, adjusting his course once more in an attempt to try and end the bizarre sideways slide.

Red growled with frustration as his untested paws skipped over the controls of the ship, and finally discovered that though he had managed to get his craft to fly straight, he was still losing altitude. The Crimson Score dropped beneath the stormfront, and Red peered into the wasteland, taking the opportunity to judge the distance he’d traveled. His crater home was long gone, far to the west, and the mountains had grown larger. Below, the Wastelands were filled with broken hills and cratered valleys, the countryside dotted with the occasional ruined structure and precious little else.

The Crimson Score’s engines roared as Red brought the uncontrolled descent to heel, bringing her slowly back into the clouds. Wind tore at his ship again, threatening to undo him, but Red persisted, eventually managing to pop back up out of the clouds once more, greeted by the top of the stormfront. He immediately noticed that he was not alone. To the east, was another large airship, floating above the storm on six balloons. The zeppelin was a mess of metal plates and stuck-together parts and colored an odd mold-green.

Red worked to correct his ship’s slight drift. Balancing the power between the main turbines and the rear rotors was more of a trick than he’d imagined. His ship finally held steady, hovering, as the zeppelin lurched closer. Red scowled to himself. Yes, he’d definitely been spotted. Red pressed a button, sending power to an electronic broadcast system, and pulled the receiver close. He reached forward and pushed a clasp on the forward viewport, and the glass window opened with a small pop and a rush of air. Pressing another button, he broadcast his voice out a set of covered speakers mounted on the prow of the ship. “Attention, unknown zeppelin. This is The Crimson Score. State your intent for approaching. I can defend myself.”

Red hoped the nervous tension he felt didn’t show in his voice, and he reached a paw down to his satchel, patting the steam pistol in his bag.

The Zeppelin’s motors sputtered and slowed, and it floated near The Crimson Score. After a few moments, over the noise of the stormfront below, a thickly-accented voice was broadcast over a loudspeaker on the zeppelin. “Greetings and salutations! This iz Brucie, friendly neighborhood flying squirrel. I have never seen ship such as yours in Vasteland before! Vhere does comrade Crimson Score hail from?”

Red was briefly put off by the bizarre accent, his brain taking a moment to sort out the foreign pronunciation, but eventually he managed a reply. “I’m flying in from the west.”

The voice of the flying squirrel responded with a raspy chuckle, “Ahh, from the vest! Brucie only knows two things that come from vest. Griffons, and Dirigible Dogs! Tell Brucie, Crimson Score, you are Griffon ship, da? You look like Griffon ship.”

Red briefly considered bluffing and going along with “Brucie”s assumption, but decided against it. “Well—”

“If yes, Brucie already paid Golden Gang one thousand silver strips for so-called ‘protection’, and Brucie will not be paying any more!”

Red scowled. “No, I—”

“Nyet, not one more strip!”

Red frowned, getting more frustrated. “I never said—”

“Zero!”

“But—”

Bruce’s heavily accented voice let out a sudden and dramatic sob. “Brucie has many children back in St. Petersbrittle! Many mouths to feed, da? Brucie can hear them now!”—his voice took on a falsetto quality—”Papa, vhy have you brought no nuts for us to eat?”—Brucie’s voice returned to a tearful rendition of his normal accent—”Because, dear rhebyohnuhk, Brucie had to give avay all silver strips to Griffons!”

Before Bruce’s voice could break into a ridiculous falsetto tone once more, Red broadcast over the top of him. “For Gaia’s sake, I’m not a Griffon! I’m a Diamond Dog!”

There was a brief pause in the broadcast from the zeppelin, then Bruce’s voice carried over the stormfront once more,”Vhy didn’t you say so! Crimson Score had Brucie all vorked up! Brucie was about to start heartfelt rendition of St. Petersbrittle national anthem. It brings tears to every eye in vasteland, da?”

Red shook his head. “You been up at high altitudes for a while, Brucie? I’ve met a few pilots that haven’t had enough oxygen. They get funny in the head.”

Jovial laughter, punctuated by the occasional hacking cough, broadcast from the zeppelin. “Oh, Brucie likes you! Brucie thinks Crimson Score will do good business, da?”

Red frowned. “Business?”

Bruce’s voice became fast-paced, and Red was barely able to follow the squirrel’s words. “Bruce is best salesrodent in entire Vastelands! You vant it, Bruce got it! Ammo for guns, belts for pants, fuel for ship! Strange objects, ramcraft metals, collectible items, and one-of-kind moose antlers.”

Red’s head nearly spun. “...Moose antlers?”

Bruce’s grin was audible. “Da, moose antlers! Brucie thinks they vould look very dashing on front of Crimson Score! Strike fear into hearts of Vastelanders, hmm? Da, Brucie think so.”

“I... don’t think I’m interested in moose antlers.”

Bruce’s voice muttered quietly. “Brucie vill never sell moose antlers...”

Red pondered for a moment. “Do you have much in the way of survival equipment? I could probably use a few things.”

“Ah ha! Brucie knew Crimson Score would be good customer! Brucie will bring his ship around to your bow, and we will meet face-on, eh?”

Red inwardly shrugged. He might as well. He could at least talk to Bruce, get some information, perhaps learn about the Wastelands. “Very well. Come around to my bow, Bruce.”

The zeppelin maneuvered closer, slowly coming into alignment with the front deck of The Crimson Score. Red set the engines, making certain the ship would not drift, and then moved down to the hangar area. He opened the hangar doors from the inside and drew his steam pistol, carrying it openly as he walked onto the front of the ship. A rusted hatch on the Zeppelin aligned to the front of the ship, and a metal gangway extended from the bottom of the zeppelin, creating a thin walkway up to the hatch. After a moment, the rusted door was pulled open, a thick haze of smoke escaping, and revealing... nothing.

Red frowned. “Huh.”

A light tap on his shoulder interrupted any investigation Red could have begun, and he spun around, grip tightening on the steam pistol. Hanging upside-down from the hangar door was a fuzzy, goggled face with huge incisors. “Hello!”

“Gah!” Red stumbled back, tripping and landing on his tail with a grunt.

Bruce dropped from the ceiling, turning in a quick somersault in midair and landing on his paws before Red with a smirk, “Vhy is it dat Diamond Dogs alvays bark vhen they see squirrel?”

Red stood up, frowning at his lack of decorum. “Sorry, must be a habit.” Red looked over the squirrel, taking in the strange creature’s appearance.

Bruce was a small flying squirrel, barely half a meter tall, and carried a thick cigar in his incisors. A fuzzy hat sat atop his head, and his eyes were covered by a pair of slightly oversized goggles. Removing the cigar from his mouth, Bruce gave Red a flourishing bow and roguish grin. “Vell, it is not often that Brucie meets Dirigible Dog vith such good manners.”

Red smirked. “I still haven’t met a Dirigible Dog with much in the way of manners. I’m a Diamond Dog.”

The diminutive squirrel looked up at Red, goggles reflecting the dim twilight as he looked the dog up and down slowly. “Brucie sees no difference.”

Chuckling, Red shrugged. “The Diamond Dogs don’t fly. Well, not until me, anyway.”

“So, vhat makes Diamond Dog different now?”

Red paused, caught by his own explanation. “...Nothing, I guess?”

Bruce laughed. “Ha! Then Crimson Score pilot is Dirigible Dog to Brucie!”

“Fair enough. And my name is Red.” Red offered a paw to Bruce, who shook it.

“Brucie is glad to meet Red. Come, come aboard, look around, see vhat Brucie has for flying dog Red!”

Red moved to follow Bruce inside, but Bruce held up a paw, gesturing with his cigar towards the gun in Red’s paw. “Brucie humbly request Red’s weapon is holstered, da? It makes Brucie nervous.”

Red frowned, but tucked away the pistol in his satchel, before following Bruce into the bizarre zeppelin.

Red coughed slightly as he entered the interior of the zeppelin, a haze of cigar smoke filled the whole of the ship. Bruce himself scampered ahead, climbing along the walls and occasionally even the ceiling on all fours, flipping on interior lights that dimly illuminated shelves and stacks of equipment. Red gaped at the sheer volume of stuff that filled the zeppelin. “No wonder you have six balloons keeping this thing afloat.”

Bruce chuckled, blowing some smoke into the air. “Is full-time job, being scavenger.”

Running his paws along the shelving, he wandered through the stacks of equipment. He stopped in front of a large display of weaponry. Knives, Guns, and other implements of war hung along a wall and filled an entire section of shelving. Red pulled out his steam pistol, showing it to Bruce. “Got any ammunition and steam cells for this?”

Bruce looked over the steam pistol before snickering, and blew a few rings of smoke into the air, the glow from his cigar reflecting red in the goggles on the squirrel’s face. “Da, Brucie has ammunition and steam cells. Is this only veapon dat dog Red has?”

Unable to help but notice the subtle derision in Bruce’s voice, Red asked the merchant, “Why? Do you think it isn’t enough?”

Bruce laughed, “Friend, there is no such thing as ‘too much gun’ in Vastelands. Help Brucie help Red, hm? Does dog have experience vith other veapons?”

“Not really, beyond this pistol.”

The diminutive squirrel scrambled around the shelves, hefting weapons and dropping them into Red’s paws, all the while chattering away. “No experience means Red does not vant something dat is too precise, da? Brucie think so, yes...”

Red found himself holding four or five different weapons, while Bruce continued to drape weapons by straps and holsters onto the Diamond Dog. “Hmm, shotgun is good, da? Double-barrel, single-barrel. Point and shoot, yes? No need to aim vell. Blunderbuss also good. Never runs out of ammo! Or perhaps dog vould like machine gun? Loud noises, very fast, much bullets! Oho! Grenade launcher also good. Vhy need to aim, vhen could just pull trigger, and... boom! No more problem, eh?”

Red staggered as Bruce threw a belt of grenades over his shoulder, and added a few more heavy weapons to the pile. Red finally called out, hoping to focus Bruce some. “Brucie, I’d rather use weapons that are steam-powered, like my pistol. That way I can save on ammunition.”

Bruce halted, dropping a few weapons onto a shelf and placing his hands on his hips. “Steam is good, da, and savings are better! Hmm, Brucie may have something...”

Bruce scampered off, leaving Red to consider all the firearms he’d been loaded down with. He carefully set down the armload of equipment and set aside the shotguns first. He tried to recall every detail he could about his quarry, the last pony. She’d been wearing heavy leather armor, and he’d seen a few metal plates covering her flanks and forelimbs, no doubt for enhanced protection over vulnerable areas. He picked up one of the higher-caliber machine guns. The bizarre thing had three barrels, and obviously spun, like a gatling weapon. He set it aside, and picked up another machine gun. This one had a single barrel and a drum magazine. He set this one aside as well, and hefted a long-barreled rifle. He examined it, liking the heft, and noticed that it appeared to have a complex firing mechanism that allowed for both semi-automatic and fully-automatic fire. He set this weapon aside, pondering what he might need. Armor penetration would be necessary, to deal with the last pony, so he needed a powerful weapon that could punch through leather and metal.

Bruce returned, carrying a large weapon that dwarfed the small squirrel. It was a simple looking gun of goblin design, and most importantly appeared to be steam-powered. He handed it off to Red, who whistled appreciatively. “What is this beast?”

“‘Beast’ is goblin-made, steam-powered rifle! Can fire very fast, or one-shot, yes? Very accurate, but vith rapid-fire setting, dog Red can... how does saying go? ‘pray and spray’, da?”

Red nodded, liking the sound of it. “It uses the same steam cells as the pistol?”

Bruce nodded, grinning wide, “Da! Brucie vas searching, and remembered, ‘Brucie did trade with goblin six stormfront ago!’. Brucie got dis gun for good price!”

Smiling, Red hefted the weapon, feeling the weight and the grip. “Yeah, this is good. What kind of ammunition does it use? I’ll probably need enough punch to take down an armored target.”

Bruce pointed to the gun’s chamber, which was currently open. “Rifle uses high-caliber steam bolts... and Brucie just so happen to have some that are special-made. They penetrating rounds, da? For armor targets, just as Red vas thinking, hm?”

Red nodded, “Perfect. I think I’ll take this, that ammo, and... the grenade launcher and the rounds for that as well.”

Bruce cackled, “Brucie like friend Red! He big spender, yes? Brucie also has much armor, as vell. Perhaps friend Red is getting into big trouble, hm? Armor is alvays good idea.”

The two figures moved deeper into the Zeppelin, into a smaller section that was filled with armor. From heavy metal pieces, to lighter leather, and everything in-between, Bruce’s wares were versatile. Red finally found a leather vest that would protect him against some small-caliber weapons. Red couldn’t recall the last pony carrying any long-range weapons, so he decided to forgo heavy armor in favor of the maneuverability that the lighter articles afforded. He also picked up leather bracers for his upper arms, to defend against slashing weapons and offer him a modicum of protection from the dagger weapon the last pony had used on him.

Bruce chuckled, goggles reflecting the interior light as he looked over Red. He’d tucked away the poncho in his satchel in exchange for the leather vest. He now wore the heavy rifle on a strap on his back, and the steam pistol hung in a brand-new leather holster on his waist. He’d also picked up a light canvas belt that went around his upper arm that held a sheathed dagger. Another new belt hung opposite his holster, holding a pouch for steam cells and magazines of ammunition. Finally, the grenade launcher hung off his shoulder, along with a bandolier of grenades. Red smirked, striking a pose. “How do I look?”

Bruce laughed, coughing, and stumbled back in mock-terror. “Ah! If Brucie did not know any better, he vould think that new dog stood before him! Brucie has seen great transformation, from uninspiring vasteland pup to Crimson Score pilot, scourge of skies! Eyepatch now looks like grand accessory, hm?”

The Diamond Dog dug into his satchel, retrieving his bag of silver strips. “How much is this all going to be?”

Bruce’s head cocked to the side, and he frowned, considering. After a moment, the squirrel replied. “Five hundred silver strips for rifle, three hundred for grenade launcher, one hundred for all ammunition and grenades, and one hundred for all armor. Brucie throw in knife on arm for free!”

Red thought through for a moment. “So, one thousand silver strips for the whole getup? How about eight hundred?”

Bruce took a long drag on his cigar, seemingly unconcerned by the counter-offer. “Hmm, Brucie think that friend Red pushes luck? Nine hundred and fifty strips.”

“Eight hundred and seventy five.”

Bruce chuckled. “Ah, this is sounding like better offer, yes? But is still too low. Brucie thinks nine hundred and twenty five. Rifle is of high quality!”

Red considered. “Nine-hundred.”

Bruce scowled. “Come now, friend Red! Brucie has much mouths to feed in St. Petersbrittle, da? Childrens vould think less of their papa if he did any less than nine hundred and twenty five.”

Red chuckled. “I’ll go nine hundred and twenty five if you admit that you don’t have any mouths to feed but your own.”

Bruce laughed uproariously, slapping his knee and pausing briefly to cough heavily, “Oho, Brucie likes you, Red. Very vell. Brucie has no childrens. This is big lie. Very convincing, da?”

Red smirked as he dug into his pouch of silver strips. This was most of his funds. Luckily, he had food enough on the ship. He began to count out the silver strips, for Bruce’s sake, tucking away each strip into a separate pouch for the merchant. 

Bruce watched intently, goggles fogging slightly with smoke, and idly chattered at Red. “Tell Brucie, vhy does dog need so much heavy veapons, hm?”

Red paused in his counting briefly to consider the best answer; he shrugged. “I’m on a hunt.”

Bruce leaned in a little closer, goggles reflecting the silver strips as they were counted. “Ahh, a hunt. Dangerous game, hm?”

Red focused on counting out the strips, not fully paying attention to Bruce. “I’d have to say so. I’d imagine that if I was the last of my kind, I’d want to be as dangerous as possible.”

Bruce’s head jerked back, and the cigar fell from his mouth to the deck, and he scrambled to pick it up. He coughed, goggles nervously searching Red’s face now. “Last of kind, eh? Vhat... sort of creature does friend Red hunt?”

Red smirked, finishing his count and offering the strips to Bruce. “The last pony is my quarry, Brucie. Here you go. Nine hundred and twenty five silver strips.”

Red stared at Bruce as his goggles moved between the strips in Red’s paws and Red’s face. There was something amiss, but Red couldn’t quite pin down what it was. Bruce was almost visibly sweating as he obviously considered something, his paws wringing. Red frowned, “You okay, Brucie?”

Bruce appeared to snap out of whatever was occupying his thoughts, and his goggles glinted up at Red’s face. “Da. Da, Brucie is fine. Vas just thinking about finding mono-goggle for dog Red’s eye, hm?”

Red chuckled. “Why would I need something like that?”

“So Brucie cannot do something such as—” Quick as a flash, Bruce leapt up, poking Red in his good eye, “—this!”

Red jerked back, wincing his good eye closed as the tiny paw poked him. “Augh!” He dropped to one knee, rubbing at his eye. “Brucie, what gives?”

Red wasn’t ready when Bruce produced a massive shotgun, seemingly out of thin air. The quadruple barreled weapon pressed into Red’s chest, and the squirrel, previously so nervous, seemed determined now. Red snarled, “What in Tartarus is this, Brucie?”

Bruce frowned. “Is nothing personal, dog, but Brucie is afraid that business is over. Vhat Brucie vant, now, is for dog to put Brucie’s merchandise on deck. Very, very slowly. No funny business, da?”

Red growled, paw clenching around his pouch of silver strips. “I assume you want these as well?”

Bruce frowned, obviously considering the offer, but shook his head. “Nyet. Red can put strips avay, and then dog can drop all veapons on deck.”

“I thought we had a deal,” Red said, scowling as he tucked the strips away.

“Deal is over, da?” Bruce smiled, regaining some of his swagger. Red sighed as he began to drop all his newly acquired weapons on the deck, until he was down to the armor, his satchel, and holstered steam pistol. Bruce gestured with his oversized shotgun. “Pistol as vell, da?”

Eyes narrowing, Red reached slowly to the clasp of the belt and dropped it on the floor. “I thought you weren’t robbing me, Brucie. You know that the steam pistol is mine.”

Bruce frowned, glancing down at the pistol. “Then Red and Brucie make trade, da? Red keeps strips, satchel, and shiny new armor things, and Brucie takes dog Red’s pistol and does not blow dog Red’s brains all over bulkhead. Is good trade, hmmm? Da, Brucie think so.”

Red shook his head, eye narrowing. “Fine. Are we done? I’d like to leave before a certain psychotic squirrel decides to empty four chambers of obviously-compensating-for-something into my guts.”

Bruce smirked. “Is not so bad. Brucie is feeling generous today.”

Red was marched out of the zeppelin, and returned without ceremony to the front deck of The Crimson Score. Red turned to face Bruce as the squirrel retracted the gangplank between the two ships. “Why? Why turn on me now, Brucie?”

Bruce stared across at Red, considering him quietly for a moment before replying. “Red seems like good dog. Very smart. Has good ship, yes? But Brucie knows last pony. Pony is survivor, da?”

Red scowled. “Why throw in with her, then?”

“Because pony... pony is special to Brucie.” Bruce flicked his cigar away, off into the stormfront far below the two ships, and smiled at Red. “She is... repeat customer!”

With that, Bruce slammed the hatch into the zeppelin closed, and a few moments later the airship flew away, disappearing into the distance, leaving Red alone in the sky. Red watched the zeppelin depart, scowling into the wind and cold, watching his breath fog the air. He finally sat down on the edge of the deck, letting his paws hang free into the vast space beneath his ship. Below, the thunderheads on the trailing edge of the stormfront flowed together, obscuring the ground.

After a few moments, gathering his thoughts, Red reached into the satchel and retrieved his notebook and a piece of graphite. He flipped open the notebook to a fresh page and wrote inside it.

Note To Self:

The last pony is not universally vilified. I didn’t expect to come upon any creatures sympathetic to her, and I was careless in giving out information. I met a merchant: a flying squirrel by the name of Brucie. He has ties to the Griffons, mentioning “The Golden Gang,” probably a group of Griffon air pirates or mercenaries running a protection racket. If he’s up on his payments, that means I could end up tangling with these Griffons in the future. He also made it clear that he has a personal interest in the last pony, describing her as ‘special’ to him. This seems bizarre. Every time I’ve spoken to the denizens of the Wastelands of ponies, they’ve always been full of hate and malice. Regardless, I’ve learned that she is a repeat customer to Bruce, so I may be able to tail him in the future and learn more of her whereabouts, or perhaps even catch her when she meets with Bruce. That will have to wait, though. Bruce caught me off guard and stole my steam pistol. I have a few daggers stashed around the Crimson Score, but they are less than ideal. I need ranged weapons to survive. I’ll have to locate the M.O.D.D. sooner rather than later, and hopefully I can purchase a weapon or two there.

Red tucked away the notebook and graphite in his satchel once more, and stood up, heading back inside his ship and up to the bridge. He settled into the pilot seat. Well, at least this wasn’t a total loss, he thought. Gathering information was his first priority, and he’d learned several things. Red paused, wondering why Bruce hadn’t simply blown a hole in his face and been done with it. He’d admitted to the merchant’s chubby face that he was hunting for the last pony, and being disarmed, though a setback, wasn’t going to change that.

He pulled the map Ace had scrawled for him, set it on his console, and set his instruments to the first heading listed. Red flew slowly, following the trailing edge of the stormfront, watching as the massive bank of clouds pulled ahead of him, revealing the wasteland below in all its ash-laden glory. Red kept The Crimson Score at a lower altitude and focused on maintaining his course, watching for the landmarks noted on the map.

Red flew for a few hours without issue, occasionally having to correct his course due to minor mistakes. Spotting the first landmark ahead—a point simply labeled ‘ruins’—Red flew low over the small town. Tucked into the foothills of a mountain range, the small village was obviously of pony make. He examined the strange architecture: the buildings were primarily made from stone or brick, and didn’t have the usual gaudy pastel colors he associated with pony-made structures. Red had always been able to tell pony architecture apart from others because of the wide spaces between buildings and the large amount of “park” space, places where the ponies could enjoy the outdoors. Red assumed that it had something to do with their evolution from pastoral creatures.

Regardless of reasons, though, this town was different. Red gained a bit of altitude and made a mental note to return here when he’d acquired some weaponry. He didn’t know much about ponies other than simple hearsay or what he’d observed from the few ruined settlements around the crater that he had explored. This place was far too much of an anomaly not to spark his interest.

Red was beginning to feel exhaustion creep into his mind. He’d been flying for several hours, and had been pushing himself for a stormfront to complete The Crimson Score. He flew higher into the foothills, watching for a level point somewhere relatively safe to put down for the evening. After several minutes of searching, he spotted a suitable location, a flat area tucked between a set of hills.

Red brought the Score down, carefully settling the craft into the ash and dust. He moved through the ship, securing the hatches and locking everything down while he prepared to rest. Satisfied with his preparations, he returned to the bridge and settled into the pilot’s seat, setting the engines into a standby mode. If something spooked him, he’d be ready to power up and take off in moments.

Leaning back into the chair, Red tried to relax, but found his mind wandering. Reaching into his satchel, he pulled out his notebook and graphite once more, flipping to the most recent entry, and began to scribble beneath it. He drew simple geometric shapes and lines, not attempting to accomplish anything, simply allowing his mind to drift and his paws to move on their own; the simple task relaxed him. His eyelid began to drop lower, his paws began to slow, and—

I sighed, staring at the workbench in front of me. Scrolls and notes were spread out, surrounding the simple metal framework of my... device. I sighed, pressing a hoof to the side of my head, massaging my temples as I tried to focus. I was so tired. I’d been working for hours, trying to tackle some of the issues with the magic I was attempting to create.

I had hit a stumbling block. While I was aware of what the device was supposed to do, I didn’t have the slightest idea how to create the effects I wanted to achieve. The magic was something new, something untested and unexplored, which was exciting. I was proud to be working on this assignment. I knew that my superiors were watching me carefully, seeing what I could accomplish. They’d said words like ‘promotion’, and that was good, very good. A promotion meant moving out of this outfit on the edge of the nasty, dangerous swamplands—a post that was not by any means a place for an up-and-coming unicorn like myself. I was capable of so much more than Spell Research and Development, and this device was my chance to prove myself.

I turned back to my notes, re-reading over the careful selection of spells that I had been forming over a year of study and experimentation. I nodded to myself and hefted several new additions to the framework of my construct, using my mouth and hooves to position them and my magic to affix them in place. I stepped back, looking over the device again.

The construct was a bizarre looking prototype. The metal body was a helical spiral that held a large arcane focusing crystal. Around the spiral stuck four spokes, each one holding a hollow crystalline orb. These four orbs were special containers, crafted by master artificers to my specifications out of the purest amethyst gemstones, and were the final pieces needed for the device.

Well, almost the final pieces.

I left the device on the bench, and trotted purposefully into the halls of the base. My workstation was underground, as was the rest of the clandestine facility in the western wastes. I moved with purpose to Director Razorwing’s office, passing by several pegasus and earth pony guards in the halls of the facility. The halls were whitewashed and immaculately clean,  I knocked on the Director’s door and stepped back, shifting from hoof to hoof with nervous anticipation.

After a moment, Director Razorwing opened the door, peering out into the corridor. The white pegasus’ bleach blond mane stuck out in an unkempt manner, and I could tell that he’d been napping. He smirked when he saw me. “Well, look who it is. Our newest egghead.”

“I think it’s ready, Director Razorwing.”

Razorwing snorted, tossing his mane. “I don’t like hearing ‘I think.’ It is or it isn’t.”

I put on a determined face. “It’s ready. I need access to fresh samples and a test subject, and I should be able to demonstrate it immediately.”

Razorwing smiled at me. “Now that’s more like it. I’ll get you a requisition order and you can get your samples. When you’re ready to test them, let me know.”

Razorwing turned away, heading back into his office. His door slid closed behind him with—

—a slam shook Red awake, and he gasped, startled. Something was pounding against the viewport in front of him. Red sat up in his seat, his notebook spilling onto the floor, and he came face-to-face with the snarling visage of a troll. The troll clung to the front viewport and battered its thick, stupid skull against the glass, its beady black eyes full of menace. Red could hear scrabbling against the side of his ship’s hull and knew that a pack of the leathery beasts had discovered his ship. He flipped a switch, sending the idling engines back to full power, and powered up the turbines. They came to life with a roar of energy, and Red pushed them to full thrust, climbing into the air in a rapid vertical takeoff.

The Crimson Score exploded into the dusty air, sending a plume of ash out in every direction. Red set the engines to hover after he gained 30 meters of altitude, and gunned the rear rotors. The Crimson Score went into a spin, rotating like a top. Red sent the ship through several revolutions, glaring out the viewport at the troll as it clung to the glass. With a screech of claws, the troll was flung loose, spiraling away into the air.

Red finally halted the spin of his craft, sitting silently and listening. It was quiet, but that meant nothing. Gritting his teeth, Red reached into a compartment beneath the pilot’s seat and withdrew a long knife. He didn’t want any nasty surprises when he left the ship, which meant going out and making certain the hull was clear of any clinging trolls.

Red stood up on his toes and levered open the top hatch, opening it to the outside air, and leapt out onto the top of The Crimson Score. He immediately spotted a pair of trolls, climbing up the starboard side of the ship, peering through windows and scraping at the bulkhead, searching for a way in. He checked around, confirming that they were the only two, and then whistled sharply at the two beasts. Black eyes, full of hunger, met his yellow eye, and he motioned to them, snarling, “Come on, then. Let’s get this over with.”

The trolls climbed up the hull of the ship, sharp claws screeching as they clung to the metal. Red moved to meet them. He lashed out with his foot, smashing spindly fingers as they searched for purchase on the edge of the ship, and danced backwards as the other troll leapt to the roof of the ship, snarling at him. The first troll arrived on top of the Score, nursing a broken finger and growled, rage filling its eyes. Red watched them, dropping into a low stance and reversing his grip on the knife. Trolls were grapplers, preferring to get in close and pull prey to the ground with force of numbers. He could handle these two without much trouble, but he couldn’t afford to be careless. The trolls circled him, snapping their sharp teeth at him and gibbering madly.

Red watched them carefully, shifting his stance to adapt to their position. They suddenly lunged, simultaneously launching themselves at Red. Red snarled and moved to meet them, body-checking one and bringing it down on the hull. His dagger plunged downward, and the troll beneath him snarled and dug its claws into his sides as it was stabbed, its sharp nails raking against the tough leather. The other troll came from behind, wrapping its arms around Red’s neck in an attempt to choke him, while its sharp teeth bit into Red’s hide.

Red growled in pain, pulling the dagger out of the troll beneath him and rolling backwards, falling on top of the troll on his back. He twisted as its grip loosened, coming face-to-face with the troll, and he snarled, his teeth plunging down into the troll’s throat. The troll’s claws raked across the back of his skull as Red’s fangs punctured its leathery hide, rewarding the Diamond Dog with a hot spurt of black blood that filled his mouth. Red nearly gagged on the taste, spitting and pulling back as the troll began to bleed out, its arms going slack as it gurgled weakly. 

The other troll tackled him full in the back, and he twisted to meet the new threat. They traded blows, troll claws raking across his armored arms as his dagger stabbed again and again into the unarmored flesh of the beast. The troll gripped him, the pain from its injuries only seeming to make it angrier, and pulled Red hard against the hull. Red fell atop the troll as it went down, his weapon sliding between its ribs and sticking hard. Red released his weapon and grabbed the troll by the sides of its head. The troll snarled and snapped in his grasp, and he slammed the back of its skull against the bulkhead, again and again, until it stopped moving. Red fell back after a moment, panting and sweating as adrenaline coursed through his veins, and he surveyed his handiwork.

 Black ichor covered the top of the ship, as well as smeared his muzzle and chest. He growled, paws reaching up to touch the side of his head. Two deep wounds bled freely, matting his coat. He was surprised that the troll that had bit the back of his head hadn’t taken some hide with it when he’d collapsed atop it. His vest and the leather bracers on his arms had taken some damage, but hadn’t been punctured, merely torn in a few places where scrabbling troll claws had run across the tough surface.

Legs shaking, Red stood up and almost immediately coughed, spitting out some more black troll blood. He kicked one of the corpses, growling at it, before hefting it by an arm and a leg and throwing it over the edge of the ship. He repeated this process with the other troll, clearing the top of his ship of the mortal remains of the two trolls, and then re-entered the ship through the access hatch.

Red felt the adrenaline rush leaving his system, and with it came a wave of weakness. He reached back again, gingerly, and felt the two wounds across the back of his head, and grimaced. He was bleeding heavily.

Red went immediately to the first aid kit in the storage room and pulled it open, retrieving several thick bandages and a white, thick-grained powder in a vial, along with two small compact mirrors. He set one on the table before him and sat down on a stool. He lifted the other mirror and, watching the reflections, surveyed the wound, wincing at what he saw. There were a ragged double-line of punctures running across the back of his skull, oozing blood. He opened the vial of grainy powder in his off hand and, bending his head down, poured the white powder onto the wounds in small amounts, though the sudden tremor in his paws made that difficult.

He yelped as the powder touched his injuries, stinging and burning. He steeled himself and continued to pour, covering all the wounds with the powder and then, with a grimace of pain, rubbing it into the injuries, packing the powder into the bleeding ring of holes in his head. Red closed his eye as the pain lessened.

The powder was an old Diamond Dog remedy, made from the soft talc rock, ash, and a blend of underground plants and fungi. They would ease the pain and, more importantly, help stop the bleeding, creating scab-like coverings over the wounds while they healed. Red began to wrap bandages around his head, keeping them tight to help stop the bleeding further, and then finally sat up, looking in the mirror.

He looked awfully ridiculous, his muzzle and good eye poking out from a layered wrap of bandages. He chuckled at his reflection, and his chuckle turned into near-hysterical laughter as he shook, the fear he’d felt during the encounter bleeding away with the laughter, leaving him hollow and nauseous. His laughter turned into more coughing, and Red gagged. He managed to grab a bucket tucked into a corner before he vomited, emptying his stomach. Hunching over the bucket for a few moments, stomach heaving as he spat, Red cleared his guts and mouth of the taste of troll blood. He finally sat down, leaning back against the bulkhead near the floor, breathing heavily, and pushed the bucket away. Crawling on all fours, he worked his way back onto the bridge and slid into the pilot seat. Red estimated he’d only gotten a few hours of sleep, but there was no way he was going to be able to rest after that encounter.

Red took The Crimson Score out of a hover and throttled the engines forward, heading for the looming mountain range.

Red checked the map against his current heading and nodded, noting down the next landmark as he passed over a massive, sprawling urban landscape of ruined buildings. A pony city stretched out before him, more massive than anything he’d ever experienced. The sheer scale of construction was impressive, even if what remained were hollow shells of former buildings, stretching upward to touch the dim haze of the sky above. Red had actually been forced to increase his altitude by several hundred feet to stay well clear of the ruined ironwork spires that reached up like claws, threatening his ship. He stared down into the dark streets far below. Camp fires lit the city in some places, no doubt denoting groups of wastelanders vying over the resources and scraps of the ruins. Red adjusted his course, heading north-east for the far-distant mountain range. He had at least another three days of flying ahead of him, by his estimate, before he reached the M.O.D.D.

Below him, Red noted activity on the ground. He watched with interest, and suddenly tensed as shapes began to lift from one of the camps—airships. Two zeppelin craft pulled into the atmosphere below him. No doubt they’d seen him flying in from the west and were looking for a easy target. He pulled up into the sky and pushed the engines, shooting The Crimson Score away from the city at full speed. Red grit his teeth, ignoring the throbbing ache in the back of his head, and focused on keeping his aircraft on course. He felt the rear rotors begin to drift slightly, and he adjusted their power accordingly, smiling to himself. He was maybe, just maybe, starting to get the hang of this.

The Crimson Score flew over the center of the city, and the zeppelins rose to meet it. Red scowled as he realized he wasn’t going to pass them without being intercepted by one of the two rapidly rising craft. He slowed his engines slightly, and angled in on one of the Zeppelins. He considered for a moment at how best to approach the situation, and then powered on the broadcast system, closing with the nearer zeppelin. He lifted the receiver to his mouth and put on his best gruff voice. “What do you fools think you are doing? Are you searching for death?”

Red continued to approach the craft, waiting for a reply. Finally, the zeppelin broadcast back from unseen speakers, “You will land immediately and surrender yourself, or we will blow you out of the sky!”

Laughing, Red broadcast back to the zeppelin, “Ha! You don’t know who you’re dealing with, obviously. I’m feeling merciful, though, so I’ll let you know: This is... Captain Talon, of Griffon Mountain, pilot of the airship The Crimson Score!”

Red listened intently, hoping his bluff paid off. There was a long pause, and Red steeled himself, reaching forward to the throttle controls. Finally, he heard the voice of the other pilot. “We... we did not recognise your craft, Captain. Your airship is new to us. We thought the Golden Gang were the only griffons in these parts of the Wastelands!”

Red smirked, and replied, his voice harsh, “Idiots! Do you think that the Golden Gang own the skies themselves?! I should shoot you down for your insolence!”

The other pilot’s voice broadcast back, carrying an air of desperation, “W-we’re sorry! We’re sorry! We won’t bother you! We don’t want any trouble with the griffons!”

Red stifled a laugh and spoke into the receiver, broadcasting back. “If we weren’t fully loaded with cargo, you would be in a world of hurt. Retreat from my airspace at once, scum!”

The zeppelins began to lose altitude without reply, and Red deactivated the broadcast system, powering the Score forward. He briefly muttered a wry word of thanks to Brucie. The squirrel’s obvious fear of his ship, based upon its advanced look, had given him the idea to pose as a Griffon vessel. His gambit had obviously paid off. As the two zeppelins retreated, he continued unhindered over the ruins of the city. Red smiled to himself, speaking aloud. “Not bad. Not bad at all. I should use that trick more often.”

Red adjusted his heading once more, watching the mountain range below carefully for the tell-tale signs of the M.O.D.D.. Ace’s map featured a very rough sketch of what appeared to be a small building stuck on the peak of a mountain, held aloft by a forest of cross beams and braces. Red angled The Crimson Score down between several peaks, looking out for any sign of the M.O.D.D. Before long, he spotted a glow, illuminating the twilit sky above one of the mountains. He brought the Score around, smiling to himself. He’d done it. It had taken a few days of careful flying, but he’d navigated the Wastelands.

The Crimson Score flew around the side of the mountain, revealing the bizarre structure of the M.O.D.D. before Red. Illuminated by the sickly green glow of a neon sign that spelled “MODD” in the hazy air, the three-story building was a ramshackle of hammered-together metal and wood, and it sagged on one edge ever so slightly. Beneath the structure, dozens of metal struts and braces held the building to the mountain, preventing it from collapsing into the ravines far below. Several airships were moored or hovered over the M.O.D.D., and wasteland denizens of all shapes and sizes moved to and from the building. Red grinned and set the Crimson Score into a hover, bringing it to a halt over one of the many berths. He extended the docking clamps and his ship tucked into place, maintaining its station on the berth.

Red double checked the engines and gathered his things, preparing to disembark. He stopped in the workroom and slowly, carefully, unwound the bandages from the back of his head and face. He winced, touching the area around the bite wounds. They were a little tender, but appeared to be healing nicely. Red left the scabbed-over injury open to the air, and headed down into the hangar deck. He exited out the front hangar doors, sliding them shut and locking them. Climbing down the ladder off the side of the front deck, Red moved down the stairs leading from the berth where The Crimson Score hovered placidly. Red brushed past an inebriated goblin and into the front doors of the first floor of the M.O.D.D.

The M.O.D.D. was a melting pot of various Wasteland creatures, all joined by the common cause of getting stupendously drunk and held in check by the wary eye of the baboon bartender. Red’s nostrils were assaulted by the combination of strong drink and bodily fluids, and he focused on not gagging. The bar was lit—dimly—by gas lanterns that flickered, casting eerie shadows through the hazy room. Circular tables held ogres, Dirigible Dogs, goblins, and all manner of other beings. Red walked farther into the room, feeling glances pass his way, and he kept his face neutral, impassive. Suddenly, a mangy raccoon with bloodshot eyes stood up on a nearby table, pointing at him with a metal foreleg. “Fresh meat!”

Red glared at the raccoon, not understanding, but the cry was taken up by nearby patrons, and soon the bar was chanting it raucously, paws and hands drumming against the bar and tables. “Fresh meat! Fresh meat! Fresh meat!”

The bartender stood atop the bar, leering down at Red. “Well, look at that. Hello there, fresh meat.”

Red glared up at the baboon. “What’s the deal?”

The baboon grinned at him, baring his huge canines. “It’s a tradition here in the Monkey O’ Dozen Den. I’m Pitt, this is my place, and my eleven other brothers and I run the joint.”

Red snorted. “Nice to meet you. Now, what’s going on?”

Pitt reached below the counter and pulled three jars of clear liquid from underneath, placing it on the bar before Red. “The challenge. You’re fresh meat, pup, and that means that you gotta prove yourself. No pilot who’s ever come through here has avoided the challenge.”

Red eyed the jars of liquid. “All right.”

The baboon chuckled, his nostrils flaring, and he produced a small shot glass, placing it in front of Red on the bar as the Diamond Dog moved closer and pouring a small measure of an amber liquid into it. “Simple, really. I’ll bet you a hundred silver strips that I can drink these three jars of water before you can finish the shot glass. Only two rules. Rule one is that you’ve gotta give me a head start and let me drink the first glass of water before you start on your glass. Rule two is that I can’t touch your glass, and you can’t touch mine.”

Red chuckled. “If you think I’ll bet one hundred strips, you’re crazy.”

The baboon laughed. “Don’t get smart with me, pup. That’s the deal. One hundred silver strips, or you can fly somewhere else.”

Red considered his options carefully, and then offered, “I’ve only got seventy strips.”

The baboon snickered. “Fine, seventy. I’ll let ya off light. Now, you gonna take the challenge, or am I gonna have to throw you off the side of the mountain?”

Red shrugged. “Fine, let’s go.”

As he sat down at the bar, the patrons all cheered and began to chant again, and Pitt stared Red in the eye. “Remember. I drink my first jar, and then you go. And no messing with my jars.”

Red nodded, focusing on the shot glass, stretching out his fingers and shaking out his shoulder. He knew this con, knew that Pitt was going to flip the larger jar over the top of his shot glass and prevent him from grabbing it. He was ready. Pitt sneered at him, then without ceremony grabbed the first jar, chugging it down. Red watched carefully, and as the baboon finished, he reached for his shot glass, quick as a flash. The baboon merely set down the jar and grabbed the next, drinking it down. Red picked up his shot glass, completely uncertain now, and stared at the liquid inside. Pitt hadn’t even tried to put the jar over his glass, which meant that there was another angle. He scowled, sniffing the liquid in his shot glass. Pitt finished the second jar and moved on to the third, staring Red dead in the eye. Red slowly set the shot glass down on the bar and watched Pitt as he finished the last jar of water and roared, slamming it down on the bar and raising his hands in victory as the bar laughed and cheered. Pitt looked Red in the eye, grinning. “Pay up, pup.”

Red dropped seventy silver strips on the bar, and Pitt slid them off the bar top and away. Red eyed the shot glass and said, after a moment, “So, what’s in my glass, Pitt?”

Pitt smiled, picking up the shot glass and downing it in one go. “Alcohol, idiot.”

Laughing, Red leaned back in his seat and stared at the now-empty shot glass. “Not bad, Pitt.”

Pitt snickered, cleaning up the three jars and shot glass. “Not bad yourself, pup. You drink that glass, and people know you’re really fresh. You’ve obviously been around the Wastelands a few times. You know better than to trust something at face value. Trust me, pup. You'd a’ drank that, and there’d be four or five ogres or goblins waiting outside to rob a rube like you blind. What’s your name, mutt?”

Red offered a paw to Pitt. “Red. I pilot The Crimson Score.”

Pitt stared at Red’s outstretched paw for a moment, until Red awkwardly retracted it. “Yeah, nice ta meet ya and crap.”

Nodding to himself, Red leaned forward across the bar. “So, you sell anything more than just alcohol here?”

Pitt eyed Red, sliding another patron a glass of strong alcohol and serving up another one a sandwich featuring a skewered pastel parasprite on top. “That depends, pup. What’re you lookin’ for?”

Red leaned forward. “I got blindsided by a floating fuzzball, and he took my guns. You sell anything that goes ‘bang’?”

Pitt nodded. “Yeah, I got a few things. What’d ya need?”

Red hesitated for a moment. “...A steam pistol, or something heavy and high-caliber, like a rifle.”

Pitt glared at Red. “I thought you only had seventy strips?”

A grin spread across Red’s face. “I thought part of being a Wastelander was not taking things at face value?”

Pitt snarled at the Diamond Dog, “Go hang yourself, ya mutt.”

Turning away, the baboon stomped up a set of stairs and bumped into a smaller primate clad in blue overalls. Pitt snarled, hitting the monkey over the head. “Idiot! Watch where you’re going, or so help me, next time I’ll throw you down the stairs and break your scrawny neck!”

The monkey cowered. “Sorry brother! I was just—”

“Don’t you ‘I was just’ me! Now, get your butt downstairs and watch the bar before somebody robs us blind. Friggin’ waste of oxygen...”

 Pitt’s brother stumbled downstairs and began serving the patrons, sliding drinks down the bar as though his life depended on it.

 Behind Red, a scuffle broke out between a few goblins, their knobby fists flying as they fought and yelled at each other unintelligibly. Red watched with disinterest as the goblins crashed through a few tables, spilling the drinks of a group of ogres. Within moments, the melee was outside, as the large ogres flung the smaller goblins bodily out the front doors of the bar.

After a few minutes of waiting, Pitt returned with a rusted steam pistol and a long rifle, complete with scope. Pitt set them on the bar with a grin. “One steam pistol, and one rifle. I even found one with a scope!”

Red picked up the steam pistol, scowling at its condition, and then set it aside, hefting the rifle. It was a bolt action weapon, in fairly good condition, and the scope appeared to function properly, not missing any lenses or parts. Red nodded. “What’re you offering?”

“Sixty for the pistol, and eighty for the rifle.”

Red laughed. “You must be joking. I’ll do thirty for the pistol, and sixty for the rifle.”

Pitt considered for a moment. “Seventy for the rifle, and you’ve got a deal.”

Red reached into his pouch of silver strips and retrieved one hundred strips, plopping them down on the bar. “Done. I need ammo for the rifle and a few extra steam cells and bolts for the pistol.”

Pitt nodded, scooping up the strips, and returned upstairs briefly, coming back with two boxes of bullets and a handful of steam cells and bolts. “Got plenty of ammo for the rifle, but not so much stuff for steam-powered hardware.”

Red eyed the bullets and held up twenty strips. “This enough?”

Setting the bullets down, Pitt shrugged. “Well, like I said, not a lot of steam powered ammo. It’s at a premium at the moment, see? What with the war in the Valley of Jewels going on.”

Red scowled at Pitt, tapping the bar top with annoyance. “You trying to swindle me, Pitt?”

Pitt bared his fangs at Red. “You owe me thirty strips, you lying mutt, and I intend to get them, one way or another.”

Red frowned. “All right, thirty, then.”

Pitt grabbed the thirty strips as Red dropped them on the bar. Red tucked away the steam pistol and all the ammo in his satchel and slung the rifle over his shoulder. “Pleasure doing business with you. Now, what’ve you got to eat in this place?”

A few hours later, Red sat in the pilot’s seat of The Crimson Score. He’d decided to pay Pitt for the berth for the night, and had hooked up his batteries to a M.O.D.D. charging cable that the baboon had provided him at some cost. Red relaxed in the pilot’s seat, determined to catch a few hours of uninterrupted rest. He retrieved his notebook from his satchel, his paws briefly brushing over the weight of the new steam pistol nestled inside. He’d spent the better part of an hour cleaning out the steam pistol and rifle and making certain that they were in working condition. Pitt probably had overcharged him a bit, but he needed those weapons. Red was not interested in tangling with trolls at close range again anytime soon.

Red flipped open the notebook and moved to the most recent page. He stopped, squinting, and turned back to the page previous.

A bizarre drawing of some sort of device sat on the opposite page, where he had been doodling before dozing off in the Wastelands when the trolls had attacked. The device was a crystal structure of some kind, with a helix frame wrapping around the crystal. Four spokes topped with orbs radiated out from the frame. “Hello... what are you?” Red’s paw brushed across the drawing. The graphite’s texture felt odd under his paw, and a curious warmth spread through his claws as he touched the sketch.

Red gasped as a sudden pressure exploded in his skull, sending him flipping backwards out of the seat. He landed on the back of his head, and groaned as he felt a scab scrape off on the deck, sending blood oozing out of the re-opened bite mark. His back arched as another blast of pain jolted down his spine. His paws scrambled for the satchel, spilling out the contents. He found the syringe and needle, biting his tongue as the fearful pressure increased. He managed to load the syringe and simply stabbed the needle into the meat of his leg, yelping with pain, and injected himself with the moon dust solution. He slid the needle out of his leg, tossing it aside as his muscles spasmed, and his vision exploded in bright colors, dulling his senses and leaving him unconscious.