//------------------------------// // Dust // Story: Landsick // by redsquirrel456 //------------------------------// Dust lived up to its name. From the moment Happy Trails stepped off the gangplank with bulging saddlebags, dust and grit flooded his nostrils. It smelled old and musty, the grime of years left unswept until the filth felt like home. The town huddled miserably in the shadow of the mountain, the dark ramshackle buildings bowed like monks in prayer. The streets were full of creatures of near every size and stripe: diamond dogs, goats, a yak or two, some Abyssinian big cats; anyone and everyone who was big, burly, and unafraid of hard, dangerous labor. Every species stuck in groups no smaller than three of their own kind, glaring at each other from opposite sides of the town, claiming territory on porches, beneath awnings, and even discreetly avoiding one another on the street as they hauled crates and wagons under the eyes of surly foremen. Not a single one seemed friendly. A terrible place for a pony, and here he was walking right down the center street bold as you please. It was always a gamble, being a pony and walking out in plain sight. Nobody respected ponies this far from the reach of Equestria and her princesses. He was just a common vagrant like everyone else. But here, nobody so much as batted an eye, even when he almost bumped into a diamond dog pushing a wheelbarrow. “Watch it, tail-dragger!” the dog snarled at him, a refreshingly generic insult. For once, everyone was too miserable to think about pushing around the little pony. It certainly beat the company of griffins. “‘Scuse me,” Trails said to a goat standing around doing nothing. “Need a room for the night.” “Room?” the goat said, staring off into space. “Lots of room. Pick a spot. Nobody’s staying here much longer anyway.” “Well, yeah, but I meant like a bed.” The goat’s eyes swiveled around to focus on Trails, but his head stayed still. They stared uncomfortably at one another. The goat shrieked horribly in Trails’ face. For a moment, he thought the goat was having a heart attack, but then he realized the awful sound was laughter. “Wuuuaaah! A bed! Here? We sleep on rocks, stranger!” the goat crowed. “Money doesn’t come in here, it leaves! Thinking we can afford a bed, really!” His eyes turned to Trails’ saddlebags, fat with miscellany and traveling supplies. “That’s a lot of junk you’re hauling, stranger. Wuuaah! Lot of junk for a town like this! You’re gonna be robbed blind and thrown down a well before the week’s out. I promise you that!” “I wouldn’t have so much ‘junk’ if anyone was able to keep that promise,” Trails said. “But if you’re done with idle threats, I’d like directions.” “Only directions you should want are the ones that go back to Equestria, pony,” the goat spat. “All Dust has is rocks and ill intentions for your kind. Mines are drying up. Only stuff left to pry outta the ground ain’t even fit for a diamond dog to spitshine!” “Tuff heard that, rock-for-brains!” a skinny diamond dog roared as he crashed out of a nearby door, wielding a broom as ragged and patchy as his fur. “Last time! Tuff bans you from Tuff’s side of the street! Get!” The goat screeched again as the diamond dog swatted him with the broom and sent him scurrying away. Trails watched in nonplussed silence, eyeing the broom carefully. “Why pony stare? Pony need directions?” the diamond dog snapped, rubbing his paws on his apron. “Tuff save you from goat. Can’t save pony from stupid! Stupid pony to come here.” “Just need a bed is all,” Trails muttered, brushing his mane over his eyes. “Rocks’ll do, I s’pose. But, uh, thanks I guess. For puttin’ paid to that goat scoundrel. He was a real, ah, rocks-for-brains, mister Tuff.” Tuff lightened up considerably the moment the insult against goats left Trails’ mouth. “Mmm! Pony smarter than goat, yes. Tuff like creatures who don’t like goats. No goats at tavern! Pony should go there to sleep. Tavern has beds without rocks.” He grumbled under his breath. “Only building without rocks.” His shoulders sagged. “Only place with no rocks on menu. Tuff works there on weekends, to get away from rocks. No gems. Only rocks.” Trails cleared his throat. “Right. Yeah. Mind tellin’ me which way it is?” “Ha! Pony is stupid. Got eyes, yes?” Tuff pointed at a teetering wreck of a building five stories tall in the center of town. The top floor held a clock tower, stripped of walls and emptied of  mechanisms, with only the idle clock face stuck at six thirty. “There, find bed. Maybe stay until next ride out.” “Why haven’t ya’ll left?” Trails asked. “Pah! Think boats are free? Think if Tuff had pack, had gems, had somewhere to go, would not have already left? Only other choice is Terminus, and that is not a place for ponies who dream of home. Dust is a hole, pony.” Tuff’s eyes narrowed. “Only thing to do is keep digging.” The tavern looked even uglier up close, with more than a few wood planks rotted off the walls and every window belching the stench of smoke and sweat. A rotting wood sign out front claimed “Many vacancies, cheap rates” in flaking red paint. A rusty can sat next to it, with a paintbrush petrified in dry paint. “What a surprise,” Trails muttered to himself. “Seems like such a cozy place for a summer getaway.” He pushed through the double doors, waded through the reek of alcohol and mine dust. His nose stung and his eyes burned. A concertina wheezed drearily in the hands of a melancholy minstrel over the sound of grumbling conversation and clinking glasses. The tavern was twice as crowded as the streets, and the clientele looked just as nasty. Unused pickaxes leaned on walls and chairs, and everything was coated in a fine layer of dust. Hardly anyone noticed as Trails meandered inside, ducking thrown mugs and folding his ears back when the singing got too loud. There was an air of desperation to it all. For every singer there were two who stared listless into their cups or dozed on tabletops. For every animated conversationalist five more grumbled and complained, or stared insensate at the walls. What a dreary existence, stuck in place with no hope, no anticipation of tomorrow, because it was all the same as today. Trails could relate, which was why the town repulsed him. He had only to purchase enough supplies to make it to Terminus. He didn’t mind grazing grass right off the ground—he’d been forced to do it before, and he would do it again. Once you got past the chewy texture and occasional bug, it was no different than a hayburger, just without the hay, or the burger. “Whatcha got?” he asked the bartender, a grey-furred Abyssinian missing half an ear. “Nothin’ good,” grunted the cat. “You got money?” “Just need a room for the night,” Trails said, pulling out a hoofful of bits. “With a lock on the door.” “Still got a couple of those,” the bartender said. “Locks are extra.” “I’ve got extra.” Trails pulled out a pouch that clanked when he set it on the bar. He peeled back the cloth to reveal a glint of silver. The Abyssinian gulped audibly and wiped his brow. “Well, if you don’t mind spending,” he said, snatching the pouch and slipping it beneath the bar. “I don’t need it where I’m going,” Trails replied. “Now, some of nothin’ good, please.” He crawled onto a barstool and sat there, planning on remaining immobile until nightfall. His plans were interrupted by a griffon kicking open the doors, followed inside by still more griffons. Trails recognized several of them as crewmembers from the Harridan and rolled his eyes. No doubt things were about to get loud. The miners seemed to agree, and were in no mood to share space or alcohol with rowdy aeronauts. The griffons stuck together, joking and laughing as they pushed through an already crowded tavern that didn’t bother to make room. The griffons were forced to push several  miners, but they didn’t seem to mind. They managed to find a corner to themselves, mostly through being so boisterous the loners occupying several tables were forced to get up and move elsewhere. They did not give up their spaces without issue, leading to a short shouting and shoving match between griffons and miners that almost erupted into a fight. If anything, it just made the atmosphere more excitable. Trails shook his head when he noticed Gertie trailing behind them like a lost puppy. That one was too nice to want to stick with company like that. But one didn’t get to choose the company one stuck with, more often than not. Trails understood that now more than ever. “Here you are, sir,” a quiet, raspy voice said next to his ear. He turned and saw a monkey-like creature standing on the bar, dressed in some robes wrapped tightly around its gangly limbs, and a headband holding a large gear against its forehead. It offered him a mug of something frothy and bronze-colored. Beer came to mind, but who knew what they used for ingredients here in the middle of nowhere? “Uh, thanks,” he said. The monkey bowed deeply and hopped onto a stool, then on down to the floor, carrying a tray full of more drinks destined for other tables. The bartender came back from attending to drink mixing, and noticed Trails staring. “Gizmonk,” he told him, as if that explained everything. “Hired him after the machines stopped running.” “Sure,” Trails grunted. He turned back to his drink and swirled the froth around and around. It almost smelled alcoholic, in the way rotten eggs almost smelled like food, but he had learned again and again that this world did not abide by the old rules of what constituted alcohol, even if the effects were about the same. He took a sip and felt it… tingle. No burning. It felt like a trail of tiny firecrackers going off all across his tongue to the back of his throat. Not quite fizz, but not quite anything else either, like the liquid itself jumped over his taste buds. No real pain or kick to be had, but a shudder ran through his body, as if someone had jolted him awake. There was a vague sweetness behind the crisp, almost-barley flavor. Why, it almost tasted just like the Cola he treated himself to on Saturdays when he went into town to fetch the gas. There was dust there too, far more than in this sad little town. In those days the dust was ubiquitous, as if the world would end with it. He recalled one summer morning driving down Midtown Avenue, right after the second-largest storm Merrimack County had ever seen, and popping into Herring Brothers General Store. The town was still smothered in grit. But the Herring Brothers’ prized soda fountain with its glistening ivory handles still worked, and chased the taste of sand right away when the bubbles came roaring out and the sweet syrup hit his tongue with a tingle just like this. “God,” he whispered, and wiped away the wetness in his eyes with the back of his hoof. “Even out here. Even comin’ this far…” A yell made him jump, splashing his drink on the floor. Just behind him stood a muscular goat with thick horns and a beard nearly a foot long, looming over the quivering Gizmonk. “I warned you,” snarled the goat. “I warned you not to bump into me again, creep!” “Sorry, sorry!” the Gizmonk whimpered. “It’s crowded, I didn’t mean to—” “Didn’t mean to,” the goat snorted. “Like your kind ‘didn’t mean’ to wreck our diggers? Didn’t mean to send our whole operation into a death spiral?” Trails looked at the other patrons. Hardly anyone seemed to be taking notice, or at least they pretended not to. The few that did, close enough to hear the argument over the ambient noise, glared at the Gizmonk rather than the goat. “Please! Not our fault!” the Gizmonk sniveled. “We tried, we tried to fix it! Machines were old, the firestone, the dust—” “And what’d they leave you behind for, huh?” the goat huffed. “Why are you still here, hooter? Your kind all sure left in a hurry when you couldn’t turn a profit.” “That’s enough!” the bartender said, slapping his paw down on the counter. “Yarmouk, I told you not to make trouble!” “The only trouble is this little hooter you took in!” the goat said, a grating bleat rising along with his voice. “He’s a curse like the rest of them! First they break the machines, then suddenly it’s only the Diamond Dogs who get to dig, get paid. If all I’m gonna do is sit around with my hoof in my nose, I’ll put it to better use.” He turned back to the Gizmonk and shoved him roughly to the floor. The other goats at his table bleated viciously. “Yarmouk, I’m warning you—” the bartender growled, his hackles rising and his lips peeling back to reveal fangs. “No, I’m warning yooouuu!” Yarmouk bleated. “We’ve all sat on our duffs too long. This little hooter is responsible for the state of this town, and I will have satisfaction!” “D-don’t call me that,” the Gizmonk whimpered. “Oh, you don’t like that name? Hooter?” Yarmouk sneered. “That’s what you monkeys do, is it? You hoot like lunatics. Ook! Ook! Ook!” He gave the Gizmonk another shove, laughing as he tripped over his robes. Trails tried to shrug off his revulsion. There had to be some justice here, right? He glanced quickly to the bartender. He had some muscle on him, but all he did was stand there, spitting and cursing under his breath. The rest of the patrons didn’t even seem to notice the escalating confrontation—the griffons were arm-wrestling, and a yak with his back to the Gizmonk blocked the view from most of the tavern. Nobody cared. Not that he should, either. He didn’t survive this long by getting involved. “Ain’t that your employee?” Trails muttered to the bartender. The cat huffed and puffed, his shoulders hunched… and then, to Trails’ disbelief, sagged. “Whole room’s a powder keg,” he said, shaking his head. “I’ll lose my business if I help out a Gizmonk more than I already have.” “That’s a bit cold,” Trails said, eyes narrow. “This whole town’s already lost its business.” “Keep your nose out of it, stranger,” the bartender hissed, his tail whipping the air behind him. When Trails’ glare didn’t waver, he stomped away to a back room and didn’t return. Trails’ eyes dropped down to his drink. Not your problem, he told himself. You don’t know the situation. Nobody here’s your friend. Don’t make more enemies than you already got. But all the words in the world failed to douse the fire growing in his chest. It reminded him so much of himself. Small. Weak. Alone. At the mercy of someone who had none at all. Another pained squeal made his mouth go dry. The guilt settled like a shroud. The memories came flooding back. A face lit with malevolent glee and horrid green light. Hideous instruments, dank cells, the smell of mould and damp and stone, a lunatic’s laughter mocking, taunting, haunting. You’re alone, creature. You’re alone and no one will save you. He forced himself to look over his shoulder. Yarmouk had the Gizmonk by the tail. He pulled on it viciously until the Gizmonk screeched, ‘ook’ing relentlessly. “Come on, hooter!” the goat sneered. “Hop! Hop around like your kind always do.” “Stop! You’re hurting me!” Yarmouk pulled harder, dragging his prey across the floor. “I said hop, you little snitch! Hop or I’ll make you limp!” “Please!” the Gizmonk wailed, loud enough to get a few stares that were more curious than pitying. Yarmouk’s face twisted into a hideous snarl. “You’re pathetic,” he spat. “I hate that, you hear me? I hate you and all you scampering freaks, toying with our machines, breaking what isn’t yours. Goats are just as strong as dogs, but you let them have our spots in the mines. Well there’s no one left but you! You’re alone, get it? You’re alone and no one’s gonna help you.” Trails’ hoof thudded into the side of his face. A meaty thwap echoed through the tavern. The blow hurled the goat and the Gizmonk apart. Yarmouk stumbled in a daze until he collided with the rump of the yak, who only now grunted curiously and turned to see what the fuss was about. Yarmouk wheezed. The other goats stared. The Gizmonk curled up on the floor. Trails stood in front of him, hooves planted firmly on the ground. “Stop,” he said. Yarmouk stumbled back to his hooves, his eyes bulging. Trails suppressed a shudder. He always found goat eyes mildly unsettling, and that was before they were attached to a creature that could seethe with anger like Yarmouk was doing now. “You…” the goat snarled, puffing his chest out and throwing his horns left and right. “You!” Trails braced himself. “You hit me!” Yarmouk shrieked, loud enough to rattle the windows. The music stopped. Talking halted mid-sentence. Now, everyone turned to look. Trails gulped. His chest tightened. His mane itched. Eyes on him. Eyes everywhere. Hungry, angry, vicious, empty. Staring, peering, asking. Who are you? Where’d you come from? But he couldn’t back down now. He turned back to Yarmouk and matched his glare. “You were distractin’ me from my drink,” he said, shrugging. “Ain’t you got cards to play or somethin’?” “Cards?” Yarmouk said, spittle flying from his mouth. “Cards?! I’ll play drums with your face, pony! All you outsiders coming in, making life tough on us!” “Us?” Trails said. “Who’s us?” Every goat at Yarmouk’s table stood up in unison. “Us,” Yarmouk sneered. A jolt of adrenaline ran down Trails’ spine. He flicked his tail and turned his ears forward. He felt the old thunder of his heart pounding in fear and anticipation. Cold sweat beaded on his brow. “Okay,” he said warily. “Let’s all just agree one little… uh… Gizzomonkey ain’t worth the trouble, huh? Did I hurtcha? I got the money to buy your whole table a drink, an’ that’s the honest truth. Buy whatever you want, get yourselves totally splifficated an’ come morning you’ll forget any of this ever—” “Shut up!” Yarmouk snapped, stomping his hoof. “You interrupt me, now you get what was coming to him!” He pointed behind Trails, but the Gizmonk had vanished. The door to the back room squeaked open, and as it closed they saw the flash of a monkey’s tail disappear around the corner. Trails blew out a heavy sigh. Not that he blamed the little guy for running, but he could have at least stuck around as moral support. Yarmouk just got angrier. “That’s it,” he growled. Foaming drool gathered at the corners of his lips. “I’m gonna rearrange your spinal cord with my horns, and then… and then I’m gonna ram into you paste! Then we’ll all stomp you six feet under!” Trails hung his head. “... I don’t wanna do this,” he groaned. “Just… come on. You can’t even take one little punch—” “Little punch from a little pony!” one of Yarmouk’s goons said. “You’re just a little pony!” Trails’ throat tightened. “No I’m not,” he said. The room seemed to shrink. A rumbling noise drowned out everything but his own voice. His body shook like a flag. Like the weathervane during the summer storm. “I am… not. A little pony,” he said in a low, quiet voice. “Little pony!” the goats bleated in unison. “Little pony! Little teeny tiny little—” Trails jumped up on his hind legs in full view of the tavern, twice as tall as before and steaming mad. The goats went quiet. The other patrons leaned back in their chairs. Trails stomped on two legs towards Yarmouk without missing a beat, who took a step back as if to flee while he stared up in stark, unbelieving shock. Trails pulled his hoof back, and the goats collectively flinched. His hoof crashed down on their table. An almighty snap followed by the ruckus of breaking glass bounced off the walls. A gasp went up from the crowd. Trails heard none of it, only the jackhammer of his heart as he stared down at the ruins of the table he had broken clean in half. Still on two legs, he lifted his gaze. Yarmouk and his crew paled beneath him. One of them had fainted, and lay on the floor stiff as a board. Oh, how Trails had missed looking down at these critters. “... That’s what an earth pony does when he gets mad,” Trails whispered, shaking his hoof in front of Yarmouk’s nose. “So unless you all want that to be your bones, I suggest you shake a leg and scram.” The goats gulped and shared a frightened look. One by one, they started to retreat, meekly wandering off in confusion, as if nobody had ever threatened them like that before. In all likelihood, no one ever had. How often had they tormented creatures who couldn’t defend themselves? Trails didn’t even want to think about it. He took a deep breath, gathering up the fear, the mortification at being seen on two legs with such uncanny ease, the anger at Yarmouk’s harassment. He balled it all up in his chest, knowing the cat was out of the bag and wanting to take it back was useless. Then he let it all out in an explosive sigh, falling back on all fours. “Glad that’s over,” he muttered. Then a full mug of ale smacked him in the face. The first punches flew before he even hit the ground. Yaks roared, dogs yipped, cats yowled, griffons shrieked. Even Yarmouk and his friends turned around and rejoined the melee, ramming every unsuspecting behind they saw. An eagle-headed griffon stood on a table and cheered before leaping off to perform an elbow drop on the nearest diamond dog. Trails sputtered and coughed, wiping his soaking mane out of his eyes, and yelped as a diamond dog nearly collapsed on him, crashing to the floor as it wrestled with a griffon warrior. Trails crawled along the floor, tripping more than once on his thick duster coat, dodging between the legs of sparring tavern-goers until he could prop his back up against the bar. Chairs, glass shards, and bodies rained down all around him. Just then the bartender came roaring out the back room, howling curses and throwing what appeared to be grape-sized balls. They burst open when they struck the floor, causing an ear-splitting pop and a flash of bright pink light that made Trails feel downright discombobulated. But it was the weird pink smoke they left behind that really made his head spin. Mostly because of the sparkles. Or maybe that was just the dizziness. Surprisingly, all the explosions did very little to calm anyone down. Trails looked up, where his drink still sat untouched. He reached up and grabbed the mug like a lifeline, taking a great big gulp he nearly choked on. A yak crashed to the ground next to him. Bottles spilled down from the shelves. The entire building shuddered from another explosion. “I’m out,” Trails said, and slipped through the back door.