//------------------------------// // Chapter Thirteen // Story: Clipped Wings // by Desrium //------------------------------// Chapter Thirteen Raiders are the product of the Wasteland: what happens when a pony is stripped of all hope and happiness; what happens when the only way they can cope with life is by causing immeasurable suffering to their fellow ponies. Sometimes friendship is one’s only lifeline, the only barrier between them and the bleakness. The lapse in communication was one of the longest periods of silence Falcon endured in days. Everyone went off in separate directions, somehow managing to distance themselves from each other in the confined space of the basement. Falcon Wing wanted to be with them, to make sure they were alright after such a trying ordeal. The talk alone made the red colt feel exhausted. He wondered just how well they would handle having to reevaluate themselves, to somehow move on and let go. He could only have faith in them, just as Steiner had faith in him to better himself in the harshness of the Wasteland. It was difficult, Falcon Wing wished to rely on the merits of his associates but they made a damn good effort to conceal them, to carry on the illusion of indifference while their lasting grievances ate away at them. It was difficult but not impossible; Steiner had shown hints of compassion in spite of his stony demeanor and Klaxon had great patience and understanding in teaching the landbound pegasus the art of stealth. It was with evidence of these virtues; Falcon Wing believed there were others hidden away by the two ponies -- he was convinced his associates… his friends -- would triumph. But that would take time. Time he had to spend somehow. He went about this undertaking by doing what he tended to do regardless: observe and study. This time he found himself scrutinizing the lamp. It was still on, without Steiner’s magic. His explanation for it: the lamp was indeed battery powered, modified so that the unicorn could recharge it on a whim. He assumed the same of Klaxon’s goggle lamps; how useful would lights that you can’t use without another pony be in a jam? Alas, thinking about the application of magic to lighting only got the red colt so far. His exhaustion and concern for his friends was now compounded by boredom. He felt like laying his front half of his body on the floor and walk around with his rear legs alone, dragging himself around. He stopped himself because doing that on concrete would hurt, even with his vest on. Besides, why would he risk damaging it at all? Falcon Wing cast aside the foalish impulse and turned his thoughts to the radio Klaxon had procured during their “acquisition mission”. It was a blocky thing with rounded edges and an olive green in color. It had the familiar film of brown from dust and grime coating it along with a bit of rust. He doubted the thing still worked with how bad it looked but clopped his hooves against its knobs and dials anyway. By some strange occurrence, the crackling of static emanated from the device. A low volume crackling that gradually gave way to more recognizable broadcasts as Falcon continued messing with the knobs. “-- evening!” the deep voice of a stallion greeted Falcon, the voice somewhat distorted by the poorly maintained radio. “This is DJ Pon3, and I have some news for you! Major update on the situation at Arbu and Bucklyn Cross…” After listening to the broadcast, Falcon sat in disbelief at what he had heard. It was a…news report concerning one known the “Stable Dweller”… and cannibalism. Ponies… eating ponies and feeding others -- The wingless pegasus tasted bile. That was beyond foul, beyond vile. His stomach which had persevered so valiantly during his week on the surface was finally threatening to heave. His eyes began to water from both the sickness he felt creeping over him and sadness for all who had been unfortunate enough to be touched by this depravity. The music that followed the report was not helping at all, not even the more upbeat songs. Time escaped him. The next two days were miserable. It was nonstop rain. Nonstop… heavy rain. The drumming of raindrops on the dumpster was loud, there was an unseemly cold draft, it made sleeping on the “welcoming mat” most uncomfortable for the red colt. Falcon Wing tried not to linger on the bad however, in spite of the noise that threatened to permeate his thoughts and the cold that made him use his overcoat as a sheet, he was thankful that the cellar remained dry, untouched by the deluge happening outside. Against the aspirations of those who built it, it was no bunker to outlast the apocalypse, but it certainly held its own against the elements over two centuries. The situation with his friends did not offer such solace. They were like husks moving around in the cellar, getting their canned meal of the day, eating in silence, disposing of the cans and then returning to their solitude in close quarters. The unrelenting storm made this even more depressing. Ponies were not meant to live like this. Not even ponies in the stables lived like this, Falcon was sure of that! If they did, then it was no wonder why the mare known as the Stable Dweller left! The radio had become his companion in those two days. The quality of the broadcasts had steadily deteriorated in that time; whether or not it was the storm’s doing or the already bad shape of the radio to begin with was unclear. The garbled messages and butchered music were still better than silence and gave Falcon Wing something to think about. He held onto that dearly, for he knew what happens when his mind is left to wander: it invariably finds its way found its way to the days of the past. He did not need to remember those memories, not at a time like now. “Didn’t I tell them that they needed to let go of the past in order to heal?” he thought, resting his head on a hoof, his elbow resting on the table. “Because a wingless pegasus wasn’t ironic enough. He had to be a hypocrite too.” “Hello out there? Anypony awake? It’s time for a special late night edition of the news!” the deep voice of DJ Pon3 exclaimed, the voice alone almost giving the just-about-busted machine some semblance of life. The audio was still pretty crummy though. “Late night? It’s night already!?” Falcon Wing thought incredulously. Being cooped up in the cellar for two days straight was really starting to mess with his perception of time! “I have with me, communicating over broadcaster, Grandpa Rattle, long-time resident of Arbu and new resident of Friendship City. And he’s here to set the record straight. The whole pony about what went down three nights ago. So sit down and hold onto your hats, children, because this is going to be one hell of a story,” DJ Pon3 went on, oblivious to the red colt’s confusion possibly miles away. Forcing himself to focus -- in some cases, translate the garbled mess of static and words -- Falcon Wing listened intently to the stallion’s words. “… When you’ve seen as much as I have, when you’ve seen as many heroes fail and fall… it’s not hard to expect it. It’s hard to keep believing. Even when you know there’s a pony out there you should believe in. You didn’t fail us Stable Dweller, I failed you…” He continued listening for a short while. He heard past the DJ’s apology to the mare Falcon knew so little about and the beginning of Rattle’s contribution to the program. He stopped there, for the sake of his stomach he shut off the radio. Falcon did not want to hear about what details of the atrocities of Arbu. He wanted to think about what DJ Pon3 had said about heroes, and the Stable Dweller who had become a Wasteland Heroine. Falcon turned off the lamp, plunging the cellar into abysmal darkness and started walking back to the “welcome mat”, pulling his coat off of his back in preparation to cover with it, the stubs that remained of his wings completely healed and covered in red. Silently, Steiner poked his head out from his doorway, intrigued when the distant din of radio chatter stopped so abruptly. It was the first time the radio was silent in two days. He was not the only one to notice. Klaxon also investigated, opening the door to the bedroom as quietly as he could, the sound of his hoof against the knob being a distinctive sound in the quiet of the cellar. Steiner whipped around to look at the bronze Earth pony, who then returned the even stare. They read the pain in each other’s gaze. Klaxon broke off a few seconds later to fetch the radio from the little table then as quickly as he had appeared, he vanished into his room.