It was dawn. A red sun was growing out from the tip of the east horizon and its dim rays beamed sketchily across the blue sky, reflecting on scattered patches of alabaster white clouds. A brown-furred jackrabbit hopped out from behind a putrefying shrub, sniffed the air instinctively and hopped away in short little bounds, scurrying away into the endless desert. From a closer view, the place was undoubtedly in terrible need of inhabitants – for a bird’s eye view, one would spot the currently quiet town of Appleloosa settled many, many miles away into the east. The desert itself was hopelessly empty – for the few exceptions of some rough buildings hanging around.
One of those buildings was a two-storied, salt-selling saloon; it had a reasonably strong but still crude exterior painted matching shades of violet and sangria, all complete with a partly cracked, sloping, cerise roof. A wooden board hung loosely outside from the structure, ‘Salt in Hooves’ coarsely carved in the dense wood.
Trudging along, tired steps marking the dry dust, eyes cast downwards – not in any shame but irritated exhaustion – Apple Bloom approached the saloon – the saloon she owned. She didn’t look anything like a proper mare should have – prim and sophisticated certainly didn’t seem to be her style; in fact, her condition made it seem like nothing was her style. Strands of candy red hung over her trio of white freckles on either cheek. Her rugged hair hung over her head and crest, partially covering the top of her eyes; her mane retained its once-adorable, U-shaped front but it was far too raggedy – and definitely not in any good way – to be anywhere near nice now.
Lack of sleep – possible insomnia, an onlooker could think – had caused deep wrinkles to crease around her eyes – eyes that still had their fiery gold hues, flaming and fighting against whatever fatigue was burdening the mare. There was dust on her tail – there was dust all over her, to be frank – and tiny pieces of splintered twigs were visibly poking out from here and there.
She was right in front of the saloon’s door, her head still down – not hanging down, but its position couldn’t be called ‘up’ either. She put one hoof to the gate as it swung loosely on its hinges and pushed herself in.
There were few ponies in the saloon – surprising enough, given the time of morning – although two were simply employees: the piano player and one of the bartenders. A bunch of stallions, who Apple Bloom didn’t even bother to try to recognize, stood near the counter, talking at abrasive volume. The mare plodded forward to the bartender and slammed a hoof on the counter, making him look up.
“A mug o’ salt,” she grumbled.
“Miss Bloom?” the bartender pony – whose name was Sipstraw – asked with a slightly wavering voice.
Most of the employees were considerably respectful to Apple Bloom – except one certain beastly miser – and a lot of them were generally accustomed to her habits. That was the reason why Sipstraw quivered; he knew when she drank salt so early, ponies were never safe from the terrors of her messed up temper.
“Mug o’ salt,” repeated Apple Bloom, looking up at him with a deathly glare.
Sipstraw nodded hurriedly. His cedar horn glowed with a dark green aura and he used his magic to pour his employer a mug of salt as she had requested – more like demanded, actually. Apple Bloom grabbed it in her hoof and gave it a single chug before banging it back on the counter, her hoof still lingering around it, as she grumpily stared around at the saloon.
Apart from the dispersed shafts of sun rays peeking in through the incompletely-curtained windows, it was rather dark inside the building. A couple of firefly lanterns hung from the ceiling, their weak glow showing a vague staircase going upstairs. Tables and chairs were neatly – and surprisingly – stacked on top of one another in a corner. A piano sat in another corner, dirt staining its edges and keys. A mare, plum and petite with a string of music notes for a cutie mark, sat playing it in low, soulful tunes.
Soulful, thought Apple Bloom with a grunt as she took another gulp from her mug, but not soulful enough.
Hardly did the thought cross her mind, the door swung open from behind. Somepony tapped their hoof, waiting for her to turn around.
“Bloom!”
She didn’t even need to turn her head to recognize that voice. Instead, she gritted her teeth and shoved the mug back in her mouth, relishing the horrible taste of salt on her tongue.
There was little left in the mug now. She shoved it towards the bartender – a gesture he was scared to both refuse or accept. As far as Sipstraw knew, ‘Miss Bloom’ had a hard time keeping herself from hitting others after she had enough salt – on the other hand, he feared for his job and his life if he did not pour her more salt. Reluctantly, he tipped a ladle of salt over the mug, the stream of grey specks rolling down to become part of the mug’s contents.
From behind Apple Bloom, the pony she despised so much tapped the saloon floor again. She clamped her eyes shut, as if trying to keep her cool, and took one gulp of the salt.
“Hey, you! Bloom, I am talking to you! You deaf?”
The voice was so disturbing, so irritating; she would give anything to just never hear it again. Slamming the unfinished mug on the counter – and startling the bartender in turn, she turned around and wiped her mouth with the back of her hoof and looked up.
Peel was standing there.
He was not alone. Nearly a dozen ponies formed a semicircle behind him as if he were leading them to some protest rally.
Normally, such a sight would terrify Apple Bloom but she just rolled her eyes.
“Huh. Finally,” she spat. “Came early fa once to get ta work?”
Peel looked at his supporters with a smirk and then sniggered at her face. “I am quitting, Bloom.”
“Quittin’?” the word forced itself out of her mouth in utter disbelief. She couldn’t believe her ears. Redcut Peel, the saloon’s most popular asset – quitting? Only if he meant it for real, that is. Peel enjoyed tormenting her already weary and outraged being with twisted jokes that she never found humor in.
“Well, you sure don’t want me around,” Peel spoke, smirking as he observed his hoof. “I thought I would spare you. Haha.” A disgusting laugh snaked out of his mouth as he went on, “Of course, this place wouldn’t even survive without me.” He laughed again.
Apple Bloom watched, her shock turning into all-too-obvious anger. “Well, what’re ya waitin’ fer?” she barked. “Go get yer bloody rump outta here!”
Without waiting, or caring, for an answer, she abruptly turned back around with plans to finish that mug she had been interrupted in the middle of.
“Yeah,” Peel let out a loud cackle, “that’s not gonna happen, Bloom.”
“Y’all think? It sure is if I gotta break yer ribs an’ kick y’all out m’self,” she grunted between gulps and chugs of salt, her face still turned away.
“I’m not just quitting this runt of a saloon. I’m opening my own.”
Well, this just got a tad interesting, thought Apple Bloom as she turned her head partly so that she was able to look at him out of the side of her eye. Mug in one hoof, the other hoof leaning back on the counter, she snorted.
“Openin’ or quittin’, y’all still gotta get outta my place,” she pointed out, her voice as dreary and coarse as her intense intake of salt could make.
Peel chuckled. Rather darkly.
“Not if there is no ‘place’ to get out of.”
The pianist mare was playing a deep tune now – something that sounded… frightening.
Apple Bloom could have choked on her salt at the words but she only raised one eyebrow – the art of perfectly raising one eyebrow with proper sass had been bequeathed to her by a certain older mare – and put her mug back on the counter. This time, it was completely empty.
“And y’all mean what by that?” she growled.
The stallion didn’t answer. He smirked slyly and there was a sick glint of deviousness in his eyes – that was enough to alert Apple Bloom.
“Y’all gonna answer me or do I gotta punch the damn daylights outta yer head!?” Her voice was rising, vibes of indignation building up.
“Oh,” Peel clicked his tongue in phony pity. “You see, Bloom,” he exhaled, taking a few steps forward and smirking all the while, “as I said, I am opening my own saloon. Gonna be real grand, real big, real nice. My uncle Trot here” – pointing to a small old stallion beside him – “is gonna be paying for it. Damn hot idea, huh? And it is going to be around this area too. Well, I wanna start big and that means my place needs to be the monopoly. That, Bloom, is where you come in.”
Apple Bloom was listening. She wasn’t bored – all signs of weariness had been wiped off her face – and she was awfully attentive – her facial features pulled back in a threatening scowl. She did not like where this conversation was heading.
“You see, Bloom, like it or not, your saloon is the one place in this area that ponies recognize. Might not be super famous but they still know it. And they come here. Kinda annoying, you know? I just can’t have any competitor around when I open my thing.”
He took another step forward and smirked at her.
“You are going to have to close your saloon. Now.”
There was silence. Heavy silence.
Only some random tune on the piano rang in the air.
The customers, who had been watching the interesting episode, waited as if they were right at the climax of a suspense thriller.
The bartender behind the counter gulped and noiselessly took Apple Bloom’s mug away from her sight – lest she be inclined to drink more salt.
The ponies around Peel straightened up as if they were readying themselves for any reaction the mare could slam in their way.
Peel flashed a sickly smirk, observing his hoof for the billionth time in his life.
Apple Bloom’s lips twisted. Was it a smirk or a scowl?
A growl escaped her lips, her eyes suddenly changing into a blazing orange color, as she lowered her head, scraping the floor with one hoof.
“That ain’t happenin’,” she finally spoke. Her voice was low, deep –-and if words could kill, Peel would’ve been lesser than a bucket of pony entrails chopped out and doused in blood.
“Yeah, it is,” snickered Peel. Two big stallions, faces scarred and weapons hanging around their bodies, stomped over to his side. The meaning was becoming clear. If she didn’t listen, they would kill her.
For a single second, she swallowed. She felt tense.
“Peel,” she forced, keeping her glare as intense as the summer sun, “this is m’ saloon and what y’all are tryna pull off is downright illegal. Y’all wanna quit? Be m’ blood-damned guest. Want me to shut down my own saloon?” She scoffed angrily. “Well, over mah dead body.”
“I am warning you,” chuckled Peel. “If you don’t agree now, I will open over your dead body. There will be no second chances – just killing. Pure, bloody killing. Bloody, you know? You like to use that word pretty damn much.” He laughed at Apple Bloom’s fuming face. “Well, you sure will know what bloody is.”
This had to be a joke. Another one of Peel’s cursed, horribly twisted jokes.
She couldn’t shut her entire business down – the bits on which she survived – all because the spoiled brat wanted to open his own saloon; and, in response, she snarled, prepared to stand her ground.
Peel chortled at her intensely furious gaze. “Opening a saloon, I hear,” he started between nauseating hoots, “is a lot of work but it really is nothing I am gonna be unable to handle.” He took a step forward, his laughter dissolving into a tacky leer as he stared at Apple Bloom dead in the eye. “Figured killing you would be a nice pastime, eh, Bloom?”
The ponies behind him were all staring at Apple Bloom. Her mind was barely functioning like a normal pony in spite of her salt consumption but, even with corroded brain gears, she realized Peel was not joking. Knowing the bloodthirsty customs of the ponies around, she knew it was a ‘life or death’ option.
Appleloosa? No, too close. Too crowded.
Her eyes narrowed even more. For a split second, she shifted her glance to the glass window on her left, the rising sun visible through the black curtains.
Peel clicked his tongue, waiting for an answer. “Well, Bloom? So what is your choice gonna be?”
Somewhere rougher.
Apple Bloom’s gaze landed on the floor. There was a very dim tune playing on the piano now – apart from that, silence ruled in the saloon. She closed her eyes, thinking in the darkness of her mind. Little exhales of breath escaped her lips as she spared sanity to think. Her head throbbed – too much salt never ended well for a pony – and her throat burned.
Someplace like… the Dodge City. Better chance of hiding.
Then she shifted her eyes up to look at Peel, her head still low and still.
“Nah.”
One word that silenced everything in the saloon – except the piano’s shaking tones. Sipstraw stood behind the counter, somewhat frightened for his employer’s life. The customers looked ready to flee at the drop of a hat.
“Nah,” repeated Apple Bloom, now turning her face up to face the stallion properly, “I ain’t shuttin’ Salt in Hooves an’ I bet y’all on mah life that ya can kill me if y’all wanna. Whatever it be, this saloon ain’t shuttin’ down all ‘cause you wanna be some bloody prat and destroy competition without a real sense of damn business. I ain’t shuttin’ nothin’.”
What happened next happened rather fast.
With a smirk and a gesture, Peel cackled. The armed, scarred unicorns with Peel pumped bullets that would have pierced and killed Apple Bloom on spot – her mind might have been drowned in salt but she knew what to do. Leaping for her life, a snarl plastered on her jaw, she smashed through the glass window she had targeted, rough pieces of glass tearing her skin and making thick blood spurt out. The bulky unicorns smashed out after her, firing loads of lead that Apple Bloom very luckily missed.
For all that she knew, she shoved herself to become the target of a corrupt cult – and she had to run. For her life. Galloping as the dry wind mercilessly lashed at her eyes, she fled out in the direction of Appleloosa, leaving a cloud of dust dispersing in the wind.
As he watched her disappear further in the east horizon till his unicorns could only fire about aimlessly, Peel trotted towards the saloon door casually.
“Stop shooting, boys,” he told, smirking as he cast a look around the saloon at the suddenly-empty saloon. The unicorn stallions lowered their guns in the air beside them as Peel put a hoof above his eyes to look at where Apple Bloom was headed.
“Ah,” he snickered, trotting out right outside the saloon, his group of assaulters following him out. “Looks like Bloom’s headed to… Appleloosa… Ha, not a bad choice but not the best hiding place.” His hoof still to his head, he smirked. “The saloon’s empty like I wanted. All we gotta do is demolish it. We don’t need that pest around to do it… but…” His voice suddenly lit up with a devilish tone, ringing with devious intentions. “But,” he repeated, lowering his hoof and turning around to address the ponies behind with a smirk, “didn’t I say killing her would be a nice pastime?”
The infectious smirk spread over the other ponies’ faces with the exception of the queer expression on his uncle Trot’s wrinkled features.
“Kill her, you say?” his voice was dim, cracked and too scratchy to be healthy as he questioned his nephew.
“Yeah, you got that right, Uncle,” Peel guffawed with sly eyes as he took a determined step back towards the saloon, the other ponies following him at a distant pace. “I want her killed,” stated the stallion as he trotted on, “and I want all of you” – moving his hoof around to include the others – “to find her. That is your job for now – track Bloom down to Appleloosa and finish her. You get any news, lemme know.”
He sniggered.
“Looks like Bloom’s got a lot of – ah, how can I put it dramatically? – blood coming her way.”
––––––––––––––––––––––-
The Badlands were not a particularly welcoming place for creatures of any kind. Dry, grimy, unruly – anypony could see they were the perfect spot for illegal advocates to gather around. Weapon smugglers were frequent visitors to the Badlands –- Scootaloo was no exception. Her last mission in the Dragon Lands had left her more rebellious and fiercer than she had been when she started out. She had blatantly lashed out at the leader of the delivery ponies –- at their customers. Neither Slashcut nor any other of her pegasus accomplices had brought that up yet but Scootaloo knew it would be addressed sooner or later.
With the single exception of Scootaloo’s crude insults at Groove, the delivery had gone without a hitch and they had been paid the full sum –- unlike the many other unfortunate times Scootaloo had affronted some customers which resulted in the team being paid lesser than they had initially bargained.
For the warm and particularly dry morning, Slashcut led her team to a spot in a wretched, little town in the Badlands. She had been commenting about how they needed to have a drink and ‘cool off’ –- a remark that was without a doubt meant for Scootaloo. Since they had set hoof in that town – and not for the first time, all four Pegasi had kept communication levels terribly low. Artic Sea was usually the quietest one but, for once, Scootaloo seized the title that day. She wasn’t afraid about her future –- she knew she was never afraid of anything –- but sulking would be a good way to describe her mood. While they all knew Slashcut was the leader of their group, Scootaloo was awfully infuriated about when Slashcut berated her in front of somepony who she knew to be in the wrong.
When they crossed a make-do stall selling cutlasses and daggers, Greenwing was the one to break the stomach-turning silence:
“We smuggle those high-tech thingies,” she commented airily, “but the old antique stuff” –pointing a hoof at a sleek, steel blade with a copper handle–“will never go out of fashion, you know.”
“Blades will not be of much use to ponies battling dragons,” Slashcut reprimanded, “and our customers can only match that might with technology. They are not pirates; they are rebels. If we were to supply cutlasses and” –clearing her throat ominously– “knives, we would be worse than tramps on the streets of Equestria.”
“But they are still pretty,” protested Greenwing feebly.
“Pretty does not mount to power,” snorted Slashcut, harshness abundant in her tone, “and weapon traffickers like us need powerful goods to bargain for bits.”
“They just have s-style… is all I am saying…” the younger mare tried to argue.
“Style!” exclaimed Slashcut in disapproval, waving a heavily dismissive hoof in the direction of the stall. It was purely an exclamation blurted out in terrible distaste, making Greenwing cower low to the ground in fear, but it caught the eye of the stall vendor –- an odd half-fish monster who immediately got the impression that Slashcut, as a potential customer, thought his items had ‘style’.
“Hey, you! You, grey pony!” he called out, his scratchy voice squeaking out in the street. “You buying?”
The old mare, already enraged by her accomplice’s unfitting interests, snapped back to glare at him but Artic Sea shook his head on her behalf. “Just passing through,” he spoke with a volume that was slightly louder than usual.
“Ah, but cutlass is good. It stylish,” pestered the weird creature, “and it be only nine bits.” The corners of his fish mouth twisted into an uncomfortably broad smile, displaying rows of jagged, yellowed teeth. “So… you interested?” he wheedled again.
“No,” Artic answered, his very manner of speech disinterested and bland as it always had been.
Defeated by, what he thought was, a lost customer, the vendor grumbled some curses, going back to ordering his items on display. Scootaloo spoke nothing; she only watched the encounter with bored eyes and a boiling mind. The rest of the journey was silent once more till they reached a two-storied building, shabby and cracked but the din of the customers inside seemed like it had a good business running.
A chaotic scene greeted the ponies as they entered inside. A large anteater and a shark-like creature stood behind the messy counter of the bar, pouring and serving drinks and collecting bits hungrily. The culmination of so many creatures made the internal environment of the bar sweaty and warm but Scootaloo had been through worse temperatures and she bore her disgust the best she could. Small tables with wooden stools were littered on the floor of the building and the new arrivals roughly made their way through the heaps of customers to the counter.
Slashcut tapped the counter loudly to get one of the bartenders’ attention. The anteater turned to look at her with a gruff scowl.
“Whaddya want, pony!?” he yelled over the building’s noise.
“Drinks! Lemonade for me,” Slashcut yelled back and went to specify her choice. “Salted, no sugar.”
“And ya three!?” he shouted at the other ponies.
“Plain lemonade,” piped Greenwing.
“Water,” said Artic Sea.
Scootaloo thought for a while and then, with a decided glare, ordered, “Salted lemonade.”
The anteater shuffled some mugs and containers before thrusting four mugs towards them. “That’ll be two bits for each of you,” he growled.
Slashcut pulled out two, greasy, gold bits from the saddle on her bag and dropped it in front of the bartender. Artic Sea paid his sum as well; his bits were strangely sparkling. Greenwing accidentally dropped five bits on the counter but immediately swept up three of them with her wing before the anteater could lay his paws on them. Scootaloo rummaged her own saddle bag for bits with one wing and, upon feeling a healthy dose of bits, shoved two on the counter.
Hungrily, the anteater grabbed the bits, dropping them in a grubby cash box nearby. There was an awfully forceful air around him or so Scootaloo thought; the way he guarded his bits with that burning ravenousness in his beady grey eyes –- it was just sick. Before she knew it, Slashcut was pushing her towards an empty table and then she found herself plopping down on the hard wooden surface of a stool. The other ponies were sitting around the table as well; Slashcut was in front of her while Artic Sea and Greenwing sat on either side.
“Dirty lemons,” muttered Slashcut as she took a gulp of her drink and slammed the mug back on the table, her hoof still holding it. With her other fore-hoof, she pointed at the popping bubbles in her mug. Scootaloo watched. “In the Badlands, they say,” told Slashcut, staring at her drink rather intently, “the fruits and veggies are always mucky. Like lemons. Dirty.” She stopped and took a small sip. “Well, the Badlands are definitely not anything like the capital of Equestria… but still…” She shook her mug a little as her words faded away – knowingly. “Hmm. It is just odd, you know. Ponies still pay for stuff made out of dirt. Shocking.”
“Well, we paid for this ‘dirt’ too,” Scootaloo snapped before she realized what had come out of her own mouth.
Slashcut took her hoof away from her drink and looked up at the younger pony. There were no traces of anger on her face –- just tolerance.
“Yeah,” she agreed unashamedly, “we did, didn’t we?” Her voice grew soft – dangerously soft – and she leaned forward to look at Scootaloo properly. “You know why?”
Of course, Scootaloo didn’t answer. But her silence was acknowledgment of her ignorance and Slashcut sighed, anger now seeping in her tone.
“To blend in,” she exhaled.
Scootaloo had a feeling this conversation was slipping down a messy lane.
“Everything in the Badlands is dirty, Scootaloo. We need to behave in accordance to their ways to be a part. Ponies like us, the most wanted criminals in Equestria, we gotta stay low to save our skin. If we don’t drink this dirty stuff, the only place you’re gonna find sparkling, fresh mulch is the fancy society of Equestria. You wanna go there? The only home we can find there is in the jail –- if we’re lucky, that is.”
“What I meant,” grunted Scootaloo, her adamant nature refusing to give in even though she had a very clear idea of where this road was leading to, “was that we are here now so… well, so there is no reason for any whining. I mean, badmouthing the stuff you are drinking yourself? Who does that?”
“Badmouthing?” Slashcut raised an eyebrow. “I ain’t the one badmouthing, girl.”
Scootaloo totally knew what was next and she shoved her mug towards her face, trying to drink whatever came near her mouth.
“Yesterday,” breathed the old pegasus. “With Groove.”
There it was. She finally spoke it. Scootaloo drove the lip of the mug further into her mouth, pretending to be busy drinking.
“You talk like that to dealers, you increase chances of exposing us.” Now Slashcut’s voice was raging like sizzling lava pouring out of a volcano. “All of us!” the words came out as a scream and creatures on nearby tables turned around slightly to see what was going on. Greenwing and Artic Sea silently sipped on their drinks, eyes cast down lest Slashcut find reason to yell at them too.
“I was just trying to prote–-”
But Scootaloo was cut off by a snappy growl as Slashcut banged her mug on the table. “Don’t you dare say that, Scootaloo,” she seethed. “Trying to protect us, were you!? More like exposing us right on the spot!!”
Then, without warning, she thrust her face towards Scootaloo; the latter, taken by complete surprise, scooted her stool back and scratched the floor in the process. Some patrons again turned to see the cause of commotion but ignored it and went about their own conversations. Slashcut was glaring right at Scootaloo, a piercing gaze with her boiling red eyes, and Scootaloo inched further back from her slavered screams.
“You know what laws those Equestrians have put up now?” she barked. “Equestria, land of harmony and friendship between ponykind… that’s what they used to say, huh? Well, when the rebellion began with the dragons and ponies took up trades like ours…” Slashcut growled, specks of grimy saliva marking Scootaloo’s face. “Since that happened,” repeated she, “do you know that Equestria permitted… hanging? Killing unlawful ponies that push this rebellion on and on? Ponies like us!?”
Her breath bore an unbearable stench of tobacco and betel leaves. Scootaloo put one hoof up –presumably to block the smell – and wiped the saliva of her face as Slashcut lowered herself back in her seat.
“Groove looked dangerous,” began Scootaloo when it looked like Slashcut had cooled down a bit, “and I was afraid it was gonna be some crazy set-up. Thought we’d get to know the truth of the meeting if they paid us first or not… Well, I guess it sure was no set-up but…”
“But what?” retorted Slashcut.
“But,” continued Scootaloo, trying to keep her cool, “I was just acting on instinct.”
“Your instinct,” snorted Slashcut dismissively. “It is all about your instinct every time, isn’t it? A dozen times you have berated our patrons and, whenever I ask, it is either about protecting the team or your bloody instinct! Such damned instincts belong in a grave, Scootaloo –- and you bring that fate upon yourself every time you mess up. The team –- we –- cannot be seen by anypony not part of our circle, remember? Buy, deliver, sell –- that’s the motto, huh? Hmm?”
“I remember,” breathed the apricot-skinned pegasus, reluctance grudging in her tone.
Slashcut regarded her with slight scorn. “I want to make myself absolutely, one-hundred-percent crystal clear here, Scootaloo. Listen well, pony. I want you to keep up with the rules of this team, get it? Protection or not, danger or not, I want you to stay in your limits, do as you are told and, unless somepony doesn’t violate our safety obviously, you are to remain obedient and silent. Do you hear me?”
“I care about the team,” Scootaloo started, her hoof slightly quavering and her mug shaking with the movement, “and sometimes I need to trust my gut for the good of all of us, Slashcut.” She wasn’t afraid of repeating her mistake or Slashcut’s rebukes –- but she was afraid. Of something. Something she didn’t know herself.
“Trust your gut?” snarled Slashcut, “The gut that will be sliced open by the Equestrian Intelligence Agency if they catch sight of you!? Law forces are right up our tails here, tryna track our every movement and eliminate us when the time is right! You make enemies, you increase chances of our coordinates being leaked!”
Scootaloo didn’t answer. She had nothing worthwhile to say. Impulsively, she darted her eyes to glance towards Artic Sea –- who was silently observing his lap –- and Greenwing –- who had taken a refill for her lemonade and was chugging it down rather busily.
“Now, Scootaloo,” Slashcut’s voice sounded calmer and more controlled, “I can’t have you yelling at any more clients, get that? Cooperate with the team and learn to know what is really best for all of us. Do you understand?”
The younger pegasus blinked, tossing an unwary glance at her still-half-full mug of salted lemonade. Then she drifted her tense eyes and grimaced.
“Yeah. Totally.”
“And I’m hoping you mean it for real this time,” rumbled Slashcut.
Scootaloo nodded slowly. “Yeah… I do. For real.”
There was a minute of silence while both sides absorbed the conclusion of the rebuke. Scootaloo unenthusiastically sipped tiny drops of her drink while Slashcut looked for something in her saddlebag.
“Slashcut?”
The old mare looked up at Artic Sea. “What?”
“We got a transaction for this noon,” the stallion answered. “Gotta get a couple of toxic sprinklers, remember?”
“Huh,” huffed Slashcut. “Guess we gotta go soon then.” She adjusted her saddle slightly and started to address all her team together. “These toxic sprinklers are one of the newest additions to the current range of weapons –- and a pricy thing to sell and buy. They’re hot off the presses and I know the rebellion’d die to get their hooves on stuff like that. One snap and a single sprinkler can finish anything in a ten-mile radius. Well, I got a fathead of a yak to give us three dozens of them – costed three thousand bits, I tell ya. But we’ll make up for it. We’ll sell one dozen for five thousand bits. And I know those weapon-hungry idiots would never let such a massacring option slip out –- they will pay any price to kill the dragons.”
“What’s the pay then? For us?” asked Greenwing.
“We’ll divide it as usual. Half for future supplies and the remaining half will be split in equal parts for each of us.”
“Works for me,” Greenwing grinned, hunger gleaming in her eyes.
“Sounds good,” nodded Artic Sea bluntly.
“Sure,” agreed Scootaloo although her voice lacked any luster.
“Look well, ponies,” spoke Slashcut as she stood up and so did the other three Pegasi. “Let’s go and get it.”
It took a solid ten minutes to find their promised informant in the chaos of the building. He was a smaller-than-usual yak with ebony fur and bright, lemon yellow eyes; one horn was chipped and jagged while the other had a red band strapped around. When they reached him, he was silently sipping water from a small beaker.
“Furcuts,” Slashcut addressed him as she slid into the stool opposite, the other three ponies standing around warily, “have you brought it?”
Furcuts looked up at her and blinked as if he was studying her for any signs of deviousness. Finally, he spoke, his voice deep and defying of his stature, “Yak bring sprinkler like yak promise. Three thousand bits. Pay yak now.”
“Show me the goods first,” demanded Slashcut with an objectively arduous tone.
Without any change of expression –- or any expression at all in the first place, Furcuts pulled out three, small, black bags from under his stool and tossed them on the table towards the pegasus. Slashcut opened one bag with the tip of her wing and ran her wrinkled hoof over the tiny but deadly spheres inside. With a sharp roll of her eyes, she gestured Scootaloo and Artic Sea to check the other bags which they did. As they found, all three bags contained the toxic sprinklers and no symptom of mischief from their supplier’s side.
“Looks like the deal is working out,” Slashcut remarked as she gathered the bags closer to herself. “Greenwing! Pay him.”
Obeying the given command, Greenwing pulled out a brown satchel from her saddlebag, her hoof twisting with the weight, and lay it on the table in front of Furcuts. The yak poked at its side, felt the satisfying outline of bits and nodded in approval. “Three thousand bits cheap,” he bellowed suddenly. “Yak go through intelligence agency ponies to bring sprinklers. Officer ponies have dangerous traps. They hunting for old pony” – pointing a grey hoof at Slashcut– “and old pony’s friends. Yak want more bits!”
“What?” blurted Slashcut. “More? You asked for three thousand and that’s what we’ve given ya!”
“Yes,” nodded Furcuts. “But going through EIA ponies not easy. Yak run for life. Yak hide. Yak try to be safe! Yak want five hundred more bits.”
Another threat. Scootaloo’s mind boiled all of a sudden. She opened her mouth to tell him to back off into whatever snowy hole he crept out of –- but she remembered her promise to her team–- and clamped it shut again.
“Fine,” Slashcut gave in with a groan. “But you’ll have to give us two days.”
“Yak want money now!”
“Well then, ‘yak’ gotta stop being a spoilt foal and give us time to gather the bits!”
Furcuts huffed and was silent for a long minute. “Old pony has two days. After two days, yak come to get bits.”
After this somewhat uncomfortable encounter, the four ponies, now carrying their new supplies in the saddlebags, walked out into the street. Grey clouds were looming overhead –- signs of a brewing rainstorm –- and it was unsurprisingly dark for the time of day. The sweltering heat of the town was mingled with a fresh breeze and everything was quiet. A few cloaked ponies trotted by, minding their business in silence.
“Well, that deal was a bummer,” bayed Greenwing.
“We couldn’t risk making a scene,” Slashcut expounded firmly, “and five hundred bits isn’t that much. We can get the bits once we sell these sprinklers…” Her adamantly self-assured voice suddenly faltered. “There is something else bothering me though…”
“Something worse than a messy transaction?” asked Artic Sea.
“That yak said the EIA were hot on our trail… they are looking for us so desperately…” Slashcut’s voice cracked in fear and faded away. For a few moments, only wafts of cool wind and indistinct whispers of creatures seemed to exist in the silence but then Slashcut regained her voice. “And, yesterday, I heard about this new thing that EIA got to track us: the Mark Disparager. Don’t know how it works exactly but the federal officers use it to capture a pony’s cutie mark and skim the database for whereabouts of that unlucky thing. And” –in an icy, frightened whisper– “it never goes wrong.”
“Huh. Pretty creepy,” admitted Scootaloo, “but we can worry about that later, huh? Right now, let’s focus on paying that damn yak his bits.”
They ambled further ahead into a narrower street. There were just a couple of stalls around, selling discarded junk, and even fewer ponies. The calming scent of rain in the air intensified into an alarm of imminent danger and Scootaloo’s eyes whizzed around on impulse to make sure everything was safe to go through. Her cautious lavender eyes glanced at some bizarre creatures walking by, some grubby and greedy stall vendors who were trying to get customers but one sight made her breath hitch to a sharp stop in her throat: two groups of cloaked ponies stood quietly on either side of the street, watching and waiting.
For them.
For them, for them, for them. Damn. They were so not safe.
Suspicion seizing every cell of her panicked brain and eyes shrinking to the size of dots, Scootaloo nudged Artic Sea who was beside her. The sudden movement immediately grabbed both her team members’ and the cloaked groups’ attention.
“EIA!” was all she had time to yell out before she instinctively unfurled her wings and threw herself up in the air.
The masked ponies she had so blatantly accused galloped forward, their loose cloaks falling off their bodies, as they pointed weapons of all sizes at the fleeing group of four. “Freeze!!!” shouted one of the officers but, before Scootaloo could slit his throat open with a knife, Slashcut was already flapping her wings and screaming: “Fly! Fly! RUN!!!”
All four Pegasi immediately took to the sky, flapping ferociously and soaring as far from the clutches of the Equestrian Intelligence Agency as their wings could take them. Greenwing was the speediest –- she whizzed through the air like a green spark, nearly forgetting her team behind. Slashcut and Artic Sea were somewhere on the same altitude; one was old and one was slow –- but their terror of being caught drove them across their usual speeds. Scootaloo took off the group and, even with all her flapping and beating of wings, she could never go beyond a few meters in the sky, lingering many yards behind her rapider accomplices. She was able to fly but only just –- she had always been a weak flyer.
“RUN! RUN!”
Slashcut’s shrill screams blasted through the air and Scootaloo’s ears throbbed as she fought to get away from the agents behind. She beat her wings harder and harder till beads of sweat wrung her face but she was still unable to escape from the impending hazard. Greenwing was flying so swiftly that, from Scootaloo’s distant gaze, she was appearing as a mere bright green dot in the greyed sky.
“Come on,” she urged herself, dangerous panic burning in her mind, “fly faster! Flap those wings harder! C’mon, just a little harder! Fly, fly, fly!! Fly, you damn weakling!”
Wheezes of sweltering, enforced breath rushed out of her mouth that was terribly desiccated; she fought her weak aerodynamics to mange to keep up with her team. Maybe it was on instinct and maybe she shouldn’t have done it but, when she did snap her head around to see where her pursuers were, her entire circulatory system froze as she saw them not more two yards behind her.
Her wings skidded to a rough halt and she tumbled down on the roof of a shack she had been flying above. Two EIA agents flew to her, holding peculiar weapons painted red and purple in their front hooves, but Scootaloo acted fast. Unfurling her wings at sight of them, she again took to the skies, trying to get away as she screamed for help from her team who had flown miles away by now, dodging past the bullets attacking them from behind. Both Slashcut and Artic Sea turned to notice her pleas but they didn’t stop to help.
“Get away!” Slashcut screamed back at her. “Get away, Scootaloo! Run! RUN!”
Scootaloo hardly got a mile up into the air when she felt a hoof roughly grab her hind leg and yank her back down. Barely able to keep herself afloat, she kicked the unwanted intruder with the strongest buck in her entire life. Flapping like her life depended on it –- and it did, Scootaloo cast a rapid glimpse behind her to see the two pegasus agents flying right behind her, those strange weapons still in their hooves, one of them concealing a fractured and bruised jaw with a hoof.
She beat her wings harder, trying to keep up with her withdrawn team. All her energy was put into flying faster. She didn’t even spare energy to breath –- just to fly fast enough. The cloudy horizon in the distance blurred in her eyes, a daze dawning over the darkness of her mind…
Her hooves quivered, trembling in the air…
Streaks of mulberry mane crudely hung over her closing eyes…
Her wings flapped unsteadily but in vain…
There was a zap. Something hit the top of her left flank, a burning sensation devouring her entire leg and she let out a piercing scream that filled the silent winds.
For a few seconds, she forgot to fly.
Tears leaked from her eyes with the throbbing pain and she grit her teeth to hold back any other scream that could discharge from her dried lungs. Her wings snapped shut at her sides and, before she knew it, she was falling.
Falling. Falling. Falling.
Cold air, carrying the scent of forthcoming rain, brushed through her mane as she dropped down towards the ground. She blinked once. Twice.
She was still falling. To her death.
Something rang in her ears.
An indistinct voice of somepony she couldn’t quite recognize.
All the same, it was blazingly motivational and perky, ringing with intense vibes of inspiration and energized vigor. Her ears perked up against her head and, without knowing it, she spread her wings open just before she hit the rocky ground.
For the first time in seconds, Scootaloo realized what had happened. She had been falling to her death, under some gaping old buildings, her pursuers seemed to have temporarily lost track of her and her team was nowhere in visibility range. The saddlebag containing the toxic sprinklers was still safely resting on her side and the weight relieved the mare.
As she lowered herself on to her hooves on the ground, her hind leg scorched with pain and Scootaloo had to control the cry she was about to release. Looking down at her left flank, at her cutie mark, she found to her sudden horror that around half of her cutie mark was roughly bleached, reddened and aching like hell.
“Scootaloo!”
Greenwing whizzed towards Scootaloo from the back, lithering to an abrupt stop next to the mare. Her bright hair hung messily over her sides but she didn’t seem to mind.
“Scootaloo,” she repeated, “come on, let’s go!”
“You came?” asked Scootaloo, a doubtful frown creasing her dusty forehead.
“Didn’t really hear you screaming,” chuckled Greenwing –and Scootaloo was surprised she found any humor in the whole situation, “but Slashcut did. Then she told me to go get ya so… here I–- hey, what the hell is going on with your flank?”
Scootaloo winced as she looked down at where Greenwing was pointing. “Those EIA guys shot my cutie mark with something,” she grumbled, “and it seriously doesn’t feel nice. Ugh, the pain is damn awful!”
“Geez, it looks bad enough,” coughed Greenwing. “You still able to fly?”
“And walk,” stressed Scootaloo. “My leg sure is hurting but I’ll be fine in a snap. I know I will.”
“Well, good. I got a deserted back alley to get out of here safely. Slashcut’s waiting for us! Come on!” Grabbing Scootaloo’s front hoof in her own, Greenwing shot back the way she came. Her hooves were bended back as she flew, holding on to Scootaloo tightly all the while. The speed she had was incredible –- not quite as fast as a certain, sisterly pegasus Scootaloo remembered but it was way better than her own slow pace.
Before she knew it, the pair were approaching Artic Sea and Slashcut, Greenwing had left her hoof and she was flapping her own wings to keep balance at the mountainous altitude.
“I got her!” Greenwing flashed a grin at Slashcut who nodded rather neutrally.
“Scootaloo, you okay?” asked Artic Sea, his voice lacking any care his words hoped to show.
“Yeah, almost,” grimaced Scootaloo and then pointed a wary hoof at her cutie mark. “They shot my flank with some burning stuff and, yeah, it hurts but I am gonna be fine.”
“No.”
Scootaloo looked up at a blanched Slashcut. “Huh?”
“No,” repeated the old pegasus, “you are going to be killed.” She shakily pointed at Scootaloo’s cutie mark. “You’ve been struck with the Mark Disparager. All this part that’s bleached… they have recorded it and- and now they are gonna find you.”
Words are supposed to hold meaning, they say. Scootaloo had never struck herself as a really deep pony. She had always been a bit rash and was used to tossing words away like garbage. The words Slashcut stuttered, however, meant the world to her –- rather, meant her world would be going away from her.
“G-G-Gonna find me?” the words tumbled out of Scootaloo’s mouth between shaky breaths. Slashcut, Artic Sea and Greenwing were already backing away.
“You can’t stay with this team now, Scootaloo,” exhaled Slashcut. “If they find you, they’re gonna find us. Uh… here, gimme those sprinklers.”
Scootaloo didn’t even have time to properly respond or react before Artic Sea grabbed the saddlebag in his own hooves. The world spun around Scootaloo in a haze and she just wanted to… go away. From life.
“Slashcut,” she whispered in a voice that shook and cracked, “let me stay. Please. I won’t ever tell anypony abo–-”
“It doesn’t work like that,” Slashcut cut her off with a shake of her head. She had the dignity to sound somewhat remorse. “The EIA will find you. If you stay with us, they will track you to us as well…. And you know the rule. To never be seen by anypony. To never be caught…” She sighed and put a hoof on Scootaloo’s shoulder, a burden that struck the groping pony like a mountain. “You are gonna have to go, Scootaloo. We can’t help you.”
“No…” whispered Scootaloo. “No… I-I- I can’t… You guys’re a-a-all I’ve known…”
“Sorry, Scootaloo,” Greenwing peeped in, swinging her vibrant hair to hide her –- as Scootaloo thought –- unashamed face.
“You really are going to have to leave,” told Artic Sea, flapping gently to just hover in the air. “Helping you is gonna be… well, toxic for us.”
“I’m going to die,” Scootaloo forced a whisper where she wanted to scream, “and none of you are going to help me? After all these years? All what I’ve done?”
“We want to help,” Slashcut spoke before either pegasus could reply, “but we can’t. We just… we just gotta cut ties, Scootaloo. If you hadn’t been hit with the Disparager, we’d help you at once but… that ain’t the case here, is it now?”
“So you are just going to send me away with the knowledge I will die?” croaked the panicking, quivering pegasus, her head hanging down as to prevent them from seeing her misty eyes.
“Seems that way,” came Slashcut’s sigh.
Scootaloo inhaled sharply and swallowed her tears back, brushing her eyes roughly to wipe away any that might have gotten away. She looked up slowly at her former team and a discouraged glower darkened her face.
“And where am I gonna run to, huh?” she hissed. “Just where can I go that my hide might be safe? Everything I have done for this team!! You’re just gonna walk away!?”
“We have to,” stressed Slashcut, “and we’re sorry about it. But that doesn’t mean we ain’t gonna help you when we can.”
Scootaloo glowered even more.
“You wanna run somewhere... safer? Well, I can tell ya one thing: stay in these parts and you’ll be EIA food in a jiffy.”
“I can’t go back to Equestria,” muttered Scootaloo, almost spitting out the last word.
“Yeah, you can,” pressured Slashcut. “You’ll find more reason to mingle there with other ponies, ya see? Word of advice: go to the Dodge City. It’s past the Macintosh Hills–- some haven in Equestria that doesn’t have enough law enforcement. You’ll be safe there… uh, for some time…” There was a beat. “Scootaloo, just leave. Every second you spent here is only gonna draw EIA closer.”
Scootaloo hadn’t realized how much anger her fear had drowned by now. Her legs were quaking at the thought of being hunted by the EIA and losing her… well, not friends but they certainly had been her acquaintances. She couldn’t argue back; she had no choice except accept what little advice she had been given. It was painful. Every muscle in her body ached and she sniffed.
“Well, have to leave now, huh?” she contorted. She didn’t look up at them; she just turned away, getting ready to fly to that Dodge City. Wind swept her bristly hair in her eyes as she stared at the darkening, stormy horizon.
“Goodbye, Scootaloo,” said Slashcut’s hoarse voice from behind.
“Yeah, bye,” mumbled Greenwing almost inaudibly.
“Good luck,” came Artic Sea’s bland words.
A storm was brewing. It was going to be really wet soon, Scootaloo decided.
“Huh… yeah. See ya,” she muttered as she gave her wings a heavy flap before heading over to the Macintosh Hills. The EIA wouldn’t leave her. Equestria had permitted hanging and killing of ponies who broke the law as badly as she had. If she could live for more than 24 hours before the EIA found her, she sure would be surprised.
She was going to die. She knew it.
––––––––––––––––––––––-
The first of the three promised days had begun.
Ten hours ago.
Actually, Sweetie Belle decided, it might have been evening by then. The sky above the roads of Baltimare were gloomy and the air carried an intense smell that promised heavy showers later that day. There was no way to tell the difference between day and night with plain vision; the bronze clock tower peaking at the Mane Road was, however, helpful in time-telling. A high-pitched bong, when the minute hand hit twelve and the hour hand hit ten, cleared Sweetie Belle’s concerns.
It was indeed ten o’clock in the morning.
Sweetie Belle’s mane hung loosely over her shoulder, a discarded sparkly band partially holding on to a few strands at the back of her head. Her recently manicured hooves lumbered along the marble-tiled pavement by the silent road. Baltimare was not the busiest city in Equestria but even so it was eerie to see it so quiet–- especially at such a time. Icy shivers slid through Sweetie Belle’s spine like a trail of ice cubes; it could have been because of the morning’s unnerving hush or because of the threat Slayer had palpably unleashed upon her.
Three days.
Seventy-two hours.
Well, ten hours had already gone to waste so only sixty-two hours were left now.
And how much of her debt had she managed to collect yet?
Ten bits.
Sweetie Belle shuddered at the thought of Slayer; thinking about the consequences of being unable to pay him nearly made her collapse where she stood. For the past five years, she had been doing one thing: gambling. One year back, she tried to control it –- but ended up still doing it anyway. Now she was inches away from the menacing hooves of ponyslaughter and there was nothing she could possibly do in three days to save her hide.
Her head thumped with anxiety and mental discomfort and there was a terrible droning sound in her ears that she just couldn’t get rid of. Pointing a hoof up, Sweetie Belle rubbed her temple and grunted.
“Just need to clear my head a bit,” she grumbled to herself.
As she drifted her stressed eyes up, like a mirage in her dreams, the young mare saw some sort of roadside bar lingering at a silent bend in the road. The day was rather quiet and there were hardly any ponies around so Sweetie Belle was somewhat astounded to see that the place was still open. Tramping forward in not her best mood, she gave the counter a series of continuous, harsh raps to demand the attention of the pale yellow stallion behind.
The earth pony, who was not particularly busy and just adjusting some barrels to keep himself occupied, spun on his hoof to see what customer could be so ill-mannered –- but when he saw the dazzling unicorn in front of his humble shop, he was so badly lost for words that he couldn’t speak.
“Oh, many apologies for the harsh noise, dear sir,” cooed Sweetie Belle, maintaining her most ladylike stature, “but I was wondering if you could be so generous as to pour me a dainty mug of… salt? I have been having a slightly busy day and would love to clear my head.”
The stallion blinked.
Then he shook his head and coughed.
“Uh… we sell cider, miss. A-Apple cider,” he stammered. For a moment, Sweetie Belle nearly dropped her charming facade out of disappointment but she decided to make do with what she could get.
“Oh, not a problem,” she fluttered her eyelashes and exhaled in a measured, soft tone. “Could I kindly have a mug of cider then? What, pray tell, is the price?” Every word she spoke danced out of her mouth and floated to the stallion like a cool breeze over a field of sweet-smelling lilies –just like she had practiced many-a-times– and he cleared his throat in an attempt to sound more virile.
“Why, miss, I would be more than happy to offer you one for free,” he grinned.
Sweetie Belle smiled from the outside; she smirked from the inside. “My, what a gentlecolt!” she exclaimed, allowing her lashes one more unrushed flutter before the pony turned to pour her the promised mug, fumbling awkwardly with some tools in the process. Charm works every time, told Sweetie Belle to herself as she turned herself slightly so she might be able to view the rows of neatly-lacquered houses in the distance.
Staring aimlessly at the houses, another daunting realization struck the bars of her breaking mind. There was a mare called Mrs Cloud Boothoof who had lent her a shack of a room to reside in while she had been in Baltimare; it had been four months since she had last paid her rent. She had been coming up with excuses, avoiding Mrs Boothoof and generally sneaking in and out for all that time; the last time they met, Mrs Boothoof had clarified that either Sweetie Belle pay the rent of all four months or leave. That had been the day before yesterday and Sweetie Belle still had to come up with something to say when she met Mrs Boothoof again.
“Miss, your cider!”
Sweetie Belle jolted forward in surprise, turned around to yell but remembered to be ladylike and politely accepted the mug the bartender had put forward. A luminous green aura enveloped the mug handle and she levitated it towards her mouth, suppressing her thirst to take a dainty sip of the drink.
The liquid was surprisingly cold but still delicious and the taste of creamy yet tangy apples swam down Sweetie Belle’s throat in caravans of luscious delight. It had been a long while since she had some apple cider; it had been even longer since she had some ‘quality’ apple cider. Managing to drink her cider in the most dignified manner she could bear to possess, Sweetie Belle levitated the empty mug back to the stallion.
“Goodness, that cider was most divine!” she twittered, loosely leaning a stunning hoof on the counter. “I don’t believe I have had the chance to drink something with such quality for a long time!”
The stallion grinned broadly. “Fresh cider, miss, fresh cider! And we refuse to use anything less than the highest quality of apples in our products.” Pride flashed in every word of his but Sweetie Belle ignored it; she only tossed her mane and melodramatically sighed.
“Dear me,” she gasped, false yearning glimmering in her eyes as she maintained her best air of drama, “I do wish there were something so delicious that I could taste again…” Her eyes flickered to the too-happy-for-his-own-good stallion and a deliberate smirk flashed on her lips. “Something to fill my being with delightful sensations… Something so exquisite in taste and so rich in flavour…”
She knowingly trailed off in her words with a breath of longing but she knew she needn’t say anymore.
“Oh, of course, I could give you another mug – for free! O-Of course, miss… heh, heh…” Yet again, the stallion turned to pour her another mug. Sweetie Belle knew she could be charming enough when she tried; when she practiced her behaviour over and over, she learnt to be good at it and get away with a number of things that weren’t all the nicest to speak of. Unlike a certain unicorn sister who naturally had the most charming allure a pony could hope to retain, Sweetie Belle had learnt to be charismatic to make do with her life.
She tapped her hoof on the marble beneath to stop the unwanted nostalgic memories that were mingling with her headache…
A home…
Three friends…
Laughter of a filly who loved her life…
Her sister…
The aroma of home-made dinner…
Giggles…
Smiles…
She didn’t even know how she was quivering till a tear slipped down her cheek and, with a tiny ‘plip!’, landed on the ground beside her. She raised her head, her bottom lip shaking gently as she held back whimpers, and, in her misted vision, like a heavenly haze, she saw a blend of white and purple approach. The clink of hooves gradually approached, the sound distant and barely audible to Sweetie Belle’s dazed mind.
Was it that one pony she was thinking of?
Was it… her?
Sweetie Belle straightened up and blinked. The white-coated mare was even closer, still blurry in her vision, and her purple mane was slowly swinging in the cold, rain-scented breeze.
Sweetie Belle’s lips shook. How could it be?
“Is… is that you? Ra–-?”
The elucidated appearance of the mare stopped her in her words and her ears perked up in alarm. A small, blue coat adorned her ivory fur down to her mid-section, her folded wings lying out neatly at her sides, and bouncy curls of her grape purple mane were partially knotted up into a bun. Perched on top of her slightly craggy nose were a pair of small, round, azure-rimmed spectacles; behind them, she had squinty, pink eyes with gentle furrows lining the skin underneath.
“Oh, damn. Mrs. Boothoof,” Sweetie Belle coughed –- mostly to herself –- and, forgetting the cider she had to have, she took the old mare’s appearance as her cue to make an exit. As she turned, the cider stallion slid the promised mug on the counter, grinning buoyantly at her. Sweetie Belle grimaced–much to the stallion’s shock, levitated the mug in a snap and was about to take off sprinting when–-
“Miss Belle!” called out Mrs Cloud Boothoof, much to the unicorn’s dismay; it looked like she might have to stick by for a lot longer than she had hoped. “Miss Belle,” said the pegasus again as she trotted ahead with a presumably synthetic beam, “I was just looking for you!”
Sweetie Belle coughed again and rubbed her eyes, the mug still levitating beside her. “Well, I sure wasn’t looking for you,” she wanted to spit out but she shook her head and smiled back weakly at her landlady. “Hello, Mrs. Boothoof. Um, good morning…”
“Yes,” nodded Mrs. Boothoof, looking up at the swelling grey clouds that enveloped the sky, “I certainly agree. It is quite a fresh morning, isn’t it?”
“C-Certainly,” swallowed Sweetie Belle. She turned her eyes down and poked at some insignificant dot on the sidewalk with her hoof. Her mouth was silent but she was mentally rummaging through her mind for some excuse for when Mrs Boothoof would bring up her delayed rent.
“Haven’t seen you for a couple of days, dear,” said Mrs Boothoof’s homely voice. “Where have you been?”
“Uh…” Sweetie Belle cleared her throat and looked up slightly. “Well, I’ve had some hard luck as it is… and, well, I’m just trying to keep up with life, I guess.”
Mrs Boothoof nodded–- in understanding, perhaps? Mockery? Sweetie Belle couldn’t be sure. The pegasus was a generally nice old mare but anypony could lose their temper if somepony refused to pay them what they deserved. Still, Mrs Boothoof knew of Sweetie Belle’s rather crude life to some extent and she had a hoof in keeping the police away; so she was the closest to a friend that Sweetie had had in a long time.
“Drinking cider, I see,” remarked Mrs Boothoof.
Sweetie Belle passed a swift glance at the hovering mug and chuckled feebly. “Yes... i-it is simply too good, I have to say.”
“Cold cider on a cold morning. Ah, just the simple bounties of life,” the old pegasus commented, her eyes staring for into the distance. She blinked, a little smile fleeting across her lips, and turned to Sweetie Belle. “How much was it?”
For a moment, the young unicorn considered lying but she just shrugged in reply. “Nothing. This delightful stallion here”–pointing a hoof at the stallion who was still overcoming the shock of her anger– “was generous enough to… gift me some. A princely gesture indeed!”
Mrs Boothoof raised a knowing eyebrow. Sweetie Belle blushed and fumbled her hooves together–- but then her landlady gave a low chuckle.
“Oh, Sweetie Belle, you’re such a card,” she giggled, patting a soft hoof on Sweetie’s back. “You make being a lady sound like one can get away with anything!”
Sweetie Belle cleared her throat and tried to giggle back but her mouth was too parched all of a sudden. Turning her head away from Mrs Boothoof’s well-humored face, she pretended to find something interesting in the endless empty streets ahead.
Three days.
A bit more than sixty hours to pay back her creditor.
Just a while before she would be murdered in the most vicious ways known to ponykind.
How could she do it?
“…and now she said I need to attend but, really, I have too much to put up with here already; what can a mare do in such a pickle, hmm, dear? Well, that’s exactly what I asked that old neighborly sir–- and do you know what he said? Well now, this is quite the tale, dear because do you know that old thing always forgets to water his sweet peas; and I…”
Mrs. Boothoof was just going on and on about one of her ‘interesting’ and terribly lengthy incidents that she had been part of recently. Sweetie Belle had zoned out somewhere while she was babbling on about some sugary vegetables and everything suddenly became quiet; the voice of the pegasus mare became distant and faraway and every sound that was once audible was now no more than a tiny tinkle.
The burden of her debts.
The restrained time.
And no money.
Sweetie Belle didn’t know what she was going to do in the few hours she had left. She knew she would be unable to get the money in such little time… unless she could plan a bank heist–- but she shook that thought out of her head. It had taken her a while to leave her larcenous life and keep clear of police and she couldn’t risk all her secrets now.
And if she couldn’t pay, then what?
Where would she run to?
More specifically, where could she run to that Slayer would never find her?
“Sweetie Belle? Miss Belle, are you listening?”
Jerking from her terrifying nightmares, the unicorn turned to Mrs Boothoof again. The older mare frowned and Sweetie Belle tried to smile.
“Huh? Oh, yes… uh, what is it, Mrs Boothoof?” she coughed, almost choking her syllables out in a fearful feat of memories.
“Dear? Is everything okay?” questioned Mrs Boothoof, patting her two-toned mane softly.
Sweetie gulped. And then she flashed a half-smile. “Um, yeah. Why wouldn’t it?”
Mrs Boothoof’s eyes narrowed at the other pony’s weak attempts to hide what she was truly feeling. “Because you are crying?” she suddenly hissed. Sweetie Belle’s eyes went wide and, on impulse, she put a hoof to her cheek to feel the streams of tears running down. Gasping, she brushed them away and cast a feeble glance at Mrs Boothoof.
“I-I-I-I…” there were no proper words for Sweetie Belle to convey her shambolic mind’s state and, for a long second, her face paled as she stuttered to find the right word.
Her landlady listened to her meaningless ramblings with a fixed eye, waiting for something audible to actually come out.
“I can’t pay the rent,” blurted Sweetie Belle.
The world stopped.
The cider bar behind them had been closed –- and they didn’t even know.
Thunder rumbled in the distance.
Mrs Boothoof sighed knowingly–- and not happily.
“Well, I figured as much,” she pronounced, shaking her head in disapproval. “I have been letting you stay for too long for no money. I suppose it would end up like this.”
“I’m sorry,” whispered Sweetie Belle, her arid voice squeaking out faintly. She wasn’t crying anymore but the turns her life was taking her on… she was unsure she would ever be able to anything anymore.
“And I’m sorry,” decided Mrs Boothoof, glancing at Sweetie with unmoved, fuchsia eyes. “You are going to have to find another lodging, dear. I am one old pony; I need money. If you can’t deliver that, I believe my resources can be put to better use.”
For a moment, Sweetie Belle resisted with great fervor the urge to slam her hoof on Mrs Boothoof’s face and knock her lights out. Of course, she was just being professional but Sweetie Belle felt like a solid punch or two on the jaw would teach her a lesson for such relentless unfeelingness.
“And if,” she seethed, opting for words instead of action, “you let me stay for a couple more days…?” Because that’s pretty much all I am going to live now, she thought of saying as well.
“Miss Belle! I have let you stay for four months without any charge; do you expect me to be so naïve as to give you more time?” barked Mrs Boothoof. Sweetie Belle just rolled her eyes so Mrs Boothoof continued, “It is best you pay me your due rent if you so wish to stay.”
“Yeah, I told you that can’t happen,” mumbled Sweetie Belle, her voice dry of any emotion–- not even anger or fear. “I am in bit of a pickle as it happens…”
Mrs Boothoof sighed quite audibly. “What happened this time? Did the clubs not pay you enough?”
“Damn the clubs,” the unicorn muttered under her breath but only shook her head at Mrs Boothoof. “Been taking a bit too much debt lately, you know, and now I’ve… well, now I gotta pay back all of it if you still want to see me with a head on my shoulders.”
“Some big crime boss?” Mrs Boothoof pressed.
“Yeah. Some real big crime boss… I owe him bits. Millions of bits.”
“Millions?” came the shocked question.
“Millions,” repeated Sweetie Belle. Her head hung low and she felt dizzy. Her stomach turned and shrunk madly like she had just gotten off a rollercoaster–- she could feel tears lining her eyes yet again but she blinked them away. Mrs Boothoof wasn’t that inhumane after all, she decided; still she thought against revealing that it was Slayer she owed money to or that she had only three days to pay.
A tiny ‘splash’ landed on her nose. It was cold and wet and suddenly made her entire body rigid; she lost her balance and her cider mug dropped from her magical hold, the frothy, golden contents spilling out on the ground. Instinctively, she shot her eyes up to the sky–- to have another raindrop whizz right in.
“Eugh!” she groaned as she shook the water out of her eyes.
Hundreds of clear water droplets poured down from the rolling, grey clouds and, before long, the marble sidewalk was ringing with the familiar pitter-patter of the rain. The water dribbled over and mingled with the sugary cider that had been sadly wasted, the excess liquid trailing away in a thin stream down the pavement. Using her magic to create a shield big enough to act as an umbrella from the wet weather, Sweetie Belle looked over at Mrs Boothoof who had taken out an actual, purple umbrella and was holding it open with one wing.
Her mane was drenched enough in rainwater but Sweetie estimated it would take less than an hour in good sunshine to dry it up. Mrs Boothoof, on the other hand, was completely dry; it looked as if she had taken action sooner.
“So it looks as if you are in a bit of a predicament,” commented the old landlady, increasing her voice over the obscuring clatter of rain.
Sweetie Belle nodded. Even if tears did slip out, they would mix in with the rainwater. “Please, Mrs Boothoof,” she appealed as professionally as she could without sounding like a wretched beggar, “if you could let me stay for a while longer… just while I collect that debt…”
“I have another customer who is interested in that room of yours,” Mrs Boothoof piped up in response, “and he has agreed to pay eighty bits each month, not to mention the advance of hundred bits. Remind me again how much you are supposed to pay for that room, Miss Belle?”
“Er, sixty bits per month,” grumbled Sweetie.
“Exactly,” hissed Mrs Boothoof–- or maybe it was not a hiss. The rain could be deceiving. “At the moment, you owe me two hundred and forty bits which I have relieved you of… I could be making a profit here with that new client while, with you, it is always one gambling story or another. You were too young to mess with such crass lifestyles–- but you did and now look where you are, Miss Belle. I helped you while I could but I do have my own life and business to take care of, don’t I?”
“Yeah, I know but–-”
“I know you need help,” Mrs Boothoof cut Sweetie Belle’s forthcoming jab as gently as she could muster, “but I can’t help for much longer.”
“I could die,” squeaked Sweetie Belle hoarsely, “and I need somewhere to live while I think about how I could sidetrack my own doom. You’re my friend, Mrs Boothoof; and… well, that’s why I am looking up to you.” She assembled all her grace into her words and, even though she knew she wasn’t in the mood for extreme wheedling right then, she hoped the response would turn to be appealing enough.
Falling raindrops cast a vague, shimmering curtain over Mrs Boothoof and Sweetie Belle was unable to see what expression the pegasus’ face retained at the moment. Irritation? Pity? Ridicule? Perhaps it was best that she didn’t see her face; the words that came next were enough.
“Miss Belle… you are my friend and I am glad to know you think the same way.” Her face was still unclear and her voice was official and smooth –too smooth to mean anything positive– and boiling hot tears dribbled on Sweetie’s white cheeks, their warm touch contrasting with the colder raindrops. “From the perspective of a business-mare, I hate to say it but you are most certainly not allowed to set hoof in your former room.” Rigid words, colder than the rain, shoved themselves out of Mrs Boothoof’s mouth and Sweetie Belle winced.
Of course. She should have known.
Why would she get help from a mean old mare like that prune of a landlady?
“However, from the perspective of your friend,” Mrs Boothoof turned slightly, a hint of a… kindly smile tugging on her face, “I suggest you go over East… there is a cheap city where you will easily find lodgings… five bits a week, by Jove! If that’s not affordable, I don’t know what is.”
Sweetie Belle had not realized her mouth was hanging open but, as she shook her head to fully get Mrs Boothoof, little hope crawled into her guarded heart. “That’s… good,” she lowly squeaked. “What city is it?”
“Dodge City. You might have heard of it… well, if you happen to be into rodeos, that is.” The little laugh Mrs Boothoof added at the end didn’t stir any change in Sweetie Belle’s mind but she still shrugged and said:
“I used to know it. Yeah, not the case anymore, though…”
Don’t do anything stupid. She might be able to help you yet.
Sweetie Belle groaned. There was this annoying voice in her head–- her own irritating conscience. “Mrs Boothoof,” she started, her voice slightly cracking as she went, “is that really the only option? Not that I don’t appreciate it–-because I certainly do–- but is there no other, uhm, advice I might find more… elaborate?”
“Oh, somewhere stylish and unique like the height of luxury in Canterlot or the never-ending twinkle of ornamental gems in Manehatten, you mean?” A scoff followed Mrs Boothoof’s words. “Dear, you are penniless. I know you are and so do you. Go to those glamorous cities if you want, if you can. I certainly won’t stop you.”
The attitude, the arrogance dripping from the old mare’s words once again made Sweetie Belle want to strike her. Her jaw and her nose would bleed non-stop for an hour at the latest; still, at least, she would learn to mind her manners next time.
Or maybe she was right.
A snappy grunt yelped out of Sweetie’s mouth to get the voice out of her head. But she stopped out to consider what it had said.
Could there be any truth in Mrs Boothoof’s words? Could there be?
“Yes, well, uh, what I meant was that it sounds okay… Of course, about cities like Canterlot…” A half-hearted chuckle. “Well, a filly can only dream, huh?”
Warmth returned to Mrs Boothoof’s face and she gave a soft giggle. “How right you are, Miss Belle.”
“So, yeah, Dodge City sounds good enough and all…” Sweetie Belle bit her lip and darted her eyes about at the heavy showers pouring all around her. “I’m just on a real strict time limit here, Mrs Boothoof, so every minute counts.”
The landlady raised an eyebrow. “Are you saying you want to reach there as soon as possible, dear?”
Sweetie Belle sighed and, slumping her shoulders in a shrug, croaked, “Uh, um… what would you do in my horseshoes?”
First she frowned but then a little smile sparked on Mrs Boothoof’s wrinkled lips. “Oh, Miss Belle, worry not; I have got a few leads!”
“You mean… you mean…” words tumbled out in a breathy pant from Sweetie Belle’s mouth. “You mean you can send me off to Dodge City now even though… I mean, all trains have probably stopped running, right?”
Mrs Boothoof waved a dismissive hoof in the air. “I know a pony. He will take you to the town anytime.” If Sweetie Belle hadn’t been staring at her in all her shock, she would never have seen just a dash of coldness envelope the old pony’s eyes. “Just one thing, Miss Belle: this is not a personal favour. I am helping you so that you forget me. Paying millions of bits is an impossible feat for anypony who is not Celestia–- and when you do get caught by your creditors, I wish you to never even know I existed. I don’t want to be hunted by money-crazy savages. Am I clear?”
“Will it be free?” rasped Sweetie Belle in her squeaky voice. Action was the essence of time and there was no time to even think about anything; only to act.
“Free and immediate,” nodded Mrs Boothoof. “I would prefer to leave this pickle at once.” She smiled briefly and gave her tail a slight swish. “If you’ll pardon me, Miss Belle, I should leave to call the stallion who will drop you off.” With a nod and no patience for an answer, she trotted down the road, leaving Sweetie Belle standing under the magically-diverted rain.
What choice did she have?
She was stuck between the Devil and the deep blue sea; she might try the sea for a while because she definitely knew was going to end up with the Devil in the end.
No harm trying.
In paying.
In hiding.
Dodge City it was then.