Chapter Three
One pony’s stupidity is another’s good fortune. Stupidity in the Wasteland results in death.
Both wings removed. One stub surely pulverized between the raiders and an explosion. For whatever reason, the red pony clung to life, even when he was sure he’d prefer to die. He wasn’t one to act on the impulse, but the thoughts of suicide could not be ignored. It hurt so badly. Everything hurt so badly. For what reason did he still live? There was none. He had nothing to live for. No reason to keep surviving other than his fear of death. What if death was even worse than life?
The gun shots died down after some time. The noises went quiet. A large part of the buildings at the start of the alley had fallen, pouring burnt debris into the space between buildings, forming a small mound. It wasn’t impassible, though there was little incentive to clamber over it to the chance passerby. It hid Falcon from view from that side of the street, though what would have been his exit was still exposed. He wasn’t in any condition to run, so leaving wasn’t an option, unless he wanted to be caught by the second band of raiders and go through the routine of unbearable torture again.
It was filthy in this dumpster. It was filthy by nature and there was no reason to expect a 200 year old dumpster would be in any way clean, but Falcon still reeled from how dirty it all was. Then again, with how he looked and how he felt, maybe he belonged in the trash. On the bright side, if one could call it such, he needn’t worry about his wings getting infected. By now flesh had grown over the stubs, still lacking a coat though. They had healed enough not to get infected, but still sensitive enough that a mere nudge could cause great discomfort. “I’m not even surprised,” he had muttered just before he crawled into his disgusting sanctuary. It was the only hiding place he had and as soon as he had the energy to do so, Falcon gravitated to it, somewhat beside himself as to just how low he had fallen. He pushed up a bag of garbage, to his mild surprise finding that it didn’t burst and spill its contents onto him. It was small things like this that reminded Falcon that the universe wasn’t out to get him, against evidence to the contrary.
With the bag hanging over the metal lip of the green canister, the former pegasus lowered its lid, the bag slumping under the weight but suspending the cover just enough that a sliver of light shone into the dark. He’d be able to breathe. All he had to do now was endure the subdued stench without vomiting, rest and then…
He didn’t even know. “Welcome to the Equestrian Wasteland, Falcon Wing,” he said softly to himself. “We hope you enjoy your visit because you aren’t leaving. Now that you survived several consecutive near death experiences, what will you do now!?”
Lie in a dumpster apparently. Lie in a dumpster and slip into a state of unease and constant anxiousness, the trauma of his life flashing through his mind. His breaths became shallow and ragged. He was on the verge of sobbing. He couldn’t stand being awake, free to recall such memories. It was a long time until he slipped off to sleep, using a garbage bag as a pillow. His sleep, like his lapse of consciousness, was peaceful. No nightmares. No stress. No soul rending fear. Just emptiness.
He awoke with a start some hours later. There was a voice. “We got a live one here!” a stallion had called out. He was looking away at first, towards the rubble obstructed entrance, but Falcon saw the stranger look back to him. The lid was fully opened again. Maybe a dumpster with half a garbage bag slung out of it with the lid not completely closed was just a set piece out of place in the Wasteland scenery and this pony with his keen eye saw something was up. “A sobber by the looks of things. What a waste of water,” the stallion added almost chidingly.
Falcon Wing only noticed that his face and cheeks were moist with tears when the pony brought it up. He was crying? In his sleep? Why? Sleep and unconsciousness in general were when he was most calm. And for how long was he crying anyway? His heart sank when he realized the sound must’ve been what attracted the other pony. It must’ve been loud for him to locate the unwinged pegasus in the near complete darkness of night. “D-don’t hurt me…please,” Falcon wing stammered to the silhouetted figure. “I’ve been hurt enough,” he wanted to add, but stopped himself from doing so. He doubted his pleading would result in anything, it was best he didn’t waste his breath with saying more.
“Hurt you? Damn, if I wanted to do anything to you I would have done it while you were still sleeping, weeping into the shit inside there,” the stranger countered lowly.
Falcon Wing cringed from the inflection of the stranger’s voice alone. He didn’t dare try to imagine what sour expression must have been on his face. “An expert conversationalist as always, Klaxon,” another pony said, another stallion. His voice wasn’t any more pleasant to listen to than the one whose name was Klaxon. It was a monotone as opposed to gruff hardness, conveying some kind of condescending jadedness. The sound of hoofsteps preceded his arrival beside Klaxon. “Well he is indeed alive, perhaps that is more of a misfortune than anything else, really,” he continued to say.
Klaxon replied, “The raiders weren’t the one to stick him in there then. Their bodies are all over the place there but they weren’t the ones to do it. Judging by the crying though, I’m thinking they had their fun with him before they could kill him.”
“Their bodies? Did he mean all of their bodies? Did each side pick each other off until there was no one left alive?” Falcon pondered. Sure, the… detonation of the filly Unicorn would have killed many of the attackers, but they were exponentially better shots than their rivals who seemed to hit everything other than what they intended to. Really, such inept ponies were only alive because they had found each other to be idiots with. Even then, it was impossible that every raider in that battle had bloodied the streets. Some must have survived and went off to their hovels, probably to rest and continue the daily slaughter once in a more able state. “Y-you’re right,” Falcon stated in response to Klaxon’s stipulation. “They beat me badly then they…” he swallowed hard. “…they took my wings off. They kept beating me for a while after…”
A while, he noted, was an understatement.
“Nasty,” Klaxon said.
One word. ONE WORD!? Falcon had lost the things that gave him identity as a pegasus: his wings! He suffered unbelievable mistreatment at the hooves of savages, and this pony could only say one word!? And to say it so casually too...
“At least they didn’t rape you, though. That’s what I thought happened. At least you have that to be thankful for,” he elaborated.
Falcon’s lips quivered in the dark. “What. The. FUCK!?” he exclaimed, utterly bewildered, but mindful enough to express his anger without proclaiming their positions to everyone in the vicinity of the dumpster.