Fallout: Equestria: New World Blues
Chapter 3: Ghosts of the Palomino
--
----------------------
“Crimson Flare”
“Drawback”
“Ocean Breeze”
“Sharp Eye”
“Slickback”
----------------------
Ain’t much a stallion can say about the desert. Nothin’ against it, just that once ya’ve caught a glimpse, ya’ve caught yer fill. Rust orange rocks, brown rugged shrubs, and green cacti all rollin’ along dunes and flats of sun touched sand. That's about it.
Important though that ya keep a few things circlin’ in yer head, lappin’ back around so that ya remember just as ya forget. One, ya need to drink water, stay hydrated. Two, Ya need to eat, keep yerself healthy at all times. Three, and last...
It’s damn hot.
Which happens to loop right on back to number one, drink water.
“Ah’d take it ya ain’t from around here stranger?”
Question comes from Pokey to his right, trottin’ alongside him. She’s placed at the head of the caravan, him and Snake Eyes off to her left, Prickly and the Dust siblings off to her right, three stallions and their carts at their backs. She moves at a leisurely stroll, watchin’ him with a sympathetic frown as he struggles to hold a steady breath and keep his head up.
He watches her back from his peripherals, her dulled yellow eyes clashin’ with the sunlight. “Might be, might not. What makes ya think ah ain’t?”
“Its a hunch on account of you pantin’ like a dog four hours into the trip,” she says in the most kind way she can. “Not that ah don’t respect yer drive. Known some past caravan employees mahself that started whinin’ an hour in. Good ponies and Palomino natives to boot, just didn’t have the heart for the long drive.”
He’s unconsciously tugged his canteen free again, gulpin’ down another few swallows. Half empty already. Hate to do it, but might have to ask for more from the caravan later.
He puts the canteen back, lettin’ out a steadyin’ breath as he looks back to the long road ahead. “Ah found that strength happens to fade with age sometime back. Endurance sticks around though. Comes from the mind more than it does the body.”
Pokey nods, but still frowns at him. “True words, but the main way ah could tell ya wasn’t from around here was how yer fumblin’ with yer canteen. See here?” She tips up her head which brings out a rope tied loosely to her neck. Down below the rope droops, only loopin’ back up as it passes through the handle of a worn metal canteen. “Don’t know if ya’ve noticed or not, but the whole caravan has their canteens like this. Makes it much easier than fumblin’ around with the saddlebags.” She brings the canteen up to her muzzle fast and easy like, as if to demonstrate. “Make sure to remind mah sister Prickly durin’ the campfire tonight and she'll hook up yers much the same way, if that’s fine with ya.”
“Would be mah pleasure,” he thanks her, tippin’ his hat.
Pokey ends the talk with an affirmin’ nod, returnin’ her attention to the trail. He follows suit, ignorin’ the itch to reach back for his canteen again. Need to pace himself. Peerin’ about for a distraction lands him right on Snake Eyes a few hooves to his left. The city stallion has his head held high, eyes lidded and dark as if he might die of boredom before dehydration.
Snake Eyes realizes him watchin’, pullin’ a double take before scowlin’ at him. “Have a reason for drilling holes into the side of my head?”
“A bit surprised ah suppose,” he admits, keepin’ his left eye on Snake as he faces back forward. “Expected some complaints on yer side, but ya seem to be takin’ the heat well.”
Snake Eyes scoffs, eyes hardenin’. “I can assure you that New Pegasus is as much a part of the Palomino desert as any other town, heat included. Even more so considering the crowds of ponies that litter the streets,” Snake’s eyes narrow as he looks to the canteens on the saddlebags. “But now that you’ve spent my breath I could use a drink. Which one is yours and which one is mine? I don’t want you draining my canteen just because you can’t handle a little sunshine.”
Forty years younger and this slicker would be whooped. Age has made him patient though.
He taps the canteen closest to him. “Front one’s mine. Back one’s yers.”
“Excellent...” Can feel the saddlebags shake a bit as Snake wrestles with the latch, eventually pullin’ the canteen free.
He returns to focusin’ on the road while Snake Eyes sips at his drink. Strong sunlight makes everything simple: one light brown line runnin’ straight ahead of ya that serves as yer trail, a sea of light yellow on either side that doesn’t serve as yer trail. Any other details are nothin’ more than a stray glare along the ground.
Sweat drips down into his eyes, even with the stetson doin’ its work. Can start to feel the slick from his coat soakin’ into the combat armor. Feels like an oven under it all.
He reaches back for his canteen. Somethin’ bumps against his hoof along the way.
It’s Snake Eyes, latchin’ his own canteen back to the saddlebags. The city stallion grins at him, watchin’ his hoof sink back to the ground.
“Again..?” Snake Eyes asks with a mockin’ voice, waggin’ a hoof at him. “Seems an old dog does still have to learn new tricks after all. Don’t worry, however. Give or take a few years under the Palomino sun and I’m sure you’ll be trotting along with the rest of us just fine.”
He gives Snake a long hard stare before sighin’, lookin’ back to the road, pullin’ his stetson down a might further.
One of the golden rules of a mission: don’t pick up any civvies unless they’re an objective. Thought he’d learned why long ago.
Then this fella came along.
--
They rest in a circle around a hearty campfire about five minutes off the road. Moonlight is strong enough as is to keep the desert in a glow, but the caravan insisted. Alright. He just makes sure to keep himself and Snake Eyes an extra ten hooves from the campfire. While it makes ‘em the odd ones out, it hides his back and his rifle in the shadows. Sniper’s much more likely to choose a pony they think has a gun than one they think doesn’t.
Snake Eyes sits a bit off to his right, watchin’ the rest of the caravan with bored eyes. Can still see that grin under the bar light on his face though, just on the cusp of mockin’ him...
He sits up, stirrin’ after several minutes of silence have passed. “Was wonderin’ if any of ya knew a thing about New Pegasus.”
A ripple runs through the caravan. Pokey even lifts her head up from her nap, starin' over to him with interest. Prickly looks up from his canteen she’s been workin’ on for the past half hour, starin’ at him with curious eyes across the campfire.
“Well ain’t that a question out of the blue,” she says in surprise, but brings her hoof up to her muzzle, rubbin’ her chin. “But not quite a blue question, if ya catch me. Every once in a long while we get folks comin’ out of the east askin’ them same words, sayin’ they're makin’ their way over there. As for what ah know?” She drops her hoof, shruggin’. “Nothin’ much, aside from it’s so bright ya can see it over the horizon and that it’s a might difficult to reach.”
“And Ms. New Pegasus!” Bursage, one of the big stallion cart pullers, calls out as he rolls up onto his side. His soft scarlet mane sways along his soft green coat as he swoons like a big puppy dog. “Aaaaaw Ms. New Pegasus,” he sighs in a deep rumble. “Ah’m gonna trek on over there one of these days and marry that mare. Will treat her right ah will.”
The rest of the caravan reacts accordingly, either shakin’ their heads and smilin’ or hidin’ their snickerin’ under their forelegs.
“Make sure to send me a weddin’ invitation after she falls into your hooves,” the Dust brother says, grinnin’ like a jackal at the lovestruck stallion. His sister slaps his back, hidin’ her muzzle under her stetson.
A little confused here. He waits until the giddiness begins to wear off before castin’ a curious eye over to Prickly. “Might ah ask who Ms. Pegasus is?”
“She is the host for Radio New Pegasus,” Snake Eyes butts in, says it with a sigh as if it’s common knowledge. “And before you ask, Radio New Pegasus is a station which details the day-to-day life and events of New Pegasus while also playing assorted music.”
Bursage rolls up onto his front hooves, gazin’ over to Snake with wide eyes. “Aw! You’re from New Pegasus ain’t ya city slicker? Have ya met her before? Have ya?”
“...And if my info is to be believed, which it is...” Snake Eyes continues, ignorin’ the other stallion and keepin’ his bored tone. “The station is also fully supported by Mr. Spade himself. That said, I have not met Ms. New Pegasus myself to ask her, so do not trust me completely on that.”
“Aaaaaaw...” Bursage groans, sinkin’ back down to his side.
Prickly snickers at Bursage one more time before lookin’ back over to him and shruggin’ again. “But yep, that’s about all you’ll get out of us here caravan folk. Apologies, stranger."
Hmph. The mysterious only gets more mysterious. Figures.
He rises from his spot at the campfire, gruntin’ as his joints pop and snap in protest. No oil left in these old bones.
Prickly looks up from the campfire, watchin’ him in surprise as he gets to his hooves. “Huh? Ya headin’ off to bed already stranger?”
“‘Fraid so,” he says, turnin’ away from the campfire. Target is a sizable rock fifty yards off in the distance, black against the silver sand. “Thank ya much for the company, and holler if there’s any danger.”
Can hear Prickly cursin’ behind him as he starts to trot off. “Well shoot! He galloped off quick. We ain’t even gotten to the ghost stories or Big Iron playin’ his banjo.”
“Ghost stories...?” Snake Eyes answers back, unimpressed.
By the time Prickly responds her voice is nothin’ more than a muffled squeak in the desert air. He finishes trottin’ the distance, circlin’ the rock until he’s on the other side. With one last scan of the desert he lowers himself down, proppin’ his back up to the rock, lettin’ out a long, tired breath.
Legs are burnin’. Chest is burnin’. Been a long while since he’s done a full day’s trot like that. Not often he’d be assigned to a grounded troop, much less one on the march. Could probably wrack the old brain a while and think up the number, but the willpower to actually do it ain’t there. Not surprised. Just a number in the end anyway, another group of faces that have passed him by along life’s road.
Stomach is growlin’. ‘Bout that time, ain’t it?
He leans forward and takes the saddlebags from his back, settin’ ‘em down in his lap. Liftin’ up the left flap reveals the two cans of rations hidden underneath. He pulls one out, pullin’ the flap down again. Rollin’ the can around his hooves is different from the typical. ‘Cause of the Palomino brand, of course, yet still has some similarities. Still has the B-rations etched into its side, still opens the same way.
He pulls out his combat knife, stickin’ it through the can’s top. Wind it around the lid’s edge. Don’t quite finish the circle, lest the lid falls into the can. Hard as all hell to get it out then. Leavin’ that small part of the lid intact makes it easy to grab with his mouth, yank it off. Sure, might cut the tongue if he gets unlucky, but the blood ain’t nothin’ to fret over. Heck, adds to the flavor even.
It’s after he spits the lid to the ground that a faint thud reaches his ears, carried along by the desert breeze.
Hooves thumpin’ against the ground. Growin’ closer.
He lowers the rations quietly to the ground, slips his nehmoa from its holster. Thumpin’ is louder now. Give or take another ten seconds and they’ll come around the rock. Let a half second’s pause go by after, shoot if it ain’t Snake or any of the caravan—
"Head's up stranger. Just the caravan mare."
He sinks back a little, but still keeps his nehmoa drawn. Only until a weaponless Pokey comes trottin' around the rock does he exhale, holsterin’ his nehmoa. “Apologies about the gun. Just cautious."
"Understand completely," Pokey excuses. "More important is the reason ah dropped by. Heard ya askin' around about New Pegasus back at the fire."
That garners his attention, He sits up and looks to the mare in a new light. "Ya've got information for me?"
"No."
Damnit.
"But ah know somepony who does." She lifts her hoof up, pointin' off down the trail. "Up ahead in Goldroot is a mare by the name of Shady Sands. The town mayor, in fact. Soft mare on the outside, but can get real hard on the inside if she wants.... She's mentioned to me a many times that if ah ever had the mind to run off to New Pegasus that ah'd better stop by her first. Her nature in mind, ah have no doubt she'll extend the same offer to you and yer friend."
Shady Sands. A name he has to remember. He looks back up to Pokey and nods. "Thank ya kindly. That said, why didn't ya tell me this back at the campfire?"
Pokey hesitates, droppin' her usual calm attitude for the moment. She turns her head down and paws her hoof at the ground. "Ya see, ah would've, but things have been gettin' a might hectic lately and mah sister—"
If you are actually tucked behind this rock, hold off on the gunfire please. Getting shot due to your paranoia is the last thing on my list tonight."
Pokey cuts herself short, lookin' back over her shoulder. Returnin' to him, she shrugs and begins to trot back off towards the camp. "Just remember 'Shady Sands'. 'Til tomorrow, goodnight."
Just as she turns out of sight behind the rock Snake comes creepin' up, watchin' her go with a curious look. He turns to him and grins. "And what was that about...?
"Ain't yer place to ask," he growls. "What do ya want?"
Snake Eyes scoffs at the question, lookin’ venomously back to the caravan as he stops a few feet in front of him “You would be insane if you think I would stomach another hour of that mare’s brain-dead rambling.”
He sighs, liftin’ the flap up on the saddlebags again and pullin’ out the other can of rations. “You’ll be sleepin’ with the caravan tonight. Ah’ll be restin’ along ya’lls perimeter, meetin’ back up with ya in the mornin’.”
“What?” Snake hisses in disbelief, turns his eyes over to him, glarin’. “You remember that I made a deal with you, yes, and not the bumbling caravan ponies? Or have you already forgotten?”
He nods as he sticks the combat knife in the lid, begins workin’ along the edge. “Ah remember. Ya need to recall that ah’m just as blind as you when it comes to the Palomino. Those ‘dead-brain’ ponies out there know much more about the wildlife and terrain of this desert than ah can ever hope to. If the deal is to escort you safely to New Pegasus, then ah’ve decided that those ponies are where ya’d be safest for the night.”
Snake Eyes frowns, raisin’ his hoof as if to argue. Seconds later the stallion reluctantly withdraws, sinkin’ back to his haunches and rollin’ his eyes. “Ugh. You make sense, as much as I hate it.”
Leave just enough so that the lid doesn’t fall into the can. Sheathin’ his combat knife again, he grabs the lid between his teeth, yankin’ it free from the can. He spits the lid into the desert and holds up the rations, offerin’ ‘em over to Snake Eyes.
The city stallion crinkles his muzzle, glancin’ between him and the rations. “Oh, you can’t be serious.”
“Ya haven’t eaten all day. Ya either starve or go beg the caravan for some of their food.”
“And thus, you’ve convinced me,” Snake says, pursin’ his muzzle as he takes the rations.
He takes up the can he had opened minutes before, wipin’ away any of the sand that had been whipped up by the breeze. Snake Eyes is still starin’ down at his own rations. Hasn’t moved ‘em since he got ‘em.
“So this is it...? Just... eat it?”
“Eat it. Drink it. Depends on what ya make of it.”
Take a swig of his own rations for an example. Can see Snake Eyes from the peripherals, cringin’ as he watches him slurp half the can in one go.
Snake grimaces, turns back to his own can. “Hmph. I suppose I’ve drank alcohol back in New Pegasus more dangerous than this.” Brings the rations up to his muzzle, hesitates a moment. Steels himself. Tips the can back into his muzzle.
Second Snake parts ways with the can he goes into a fit of coughin’, holdin’ one hoof to his stomach, the other to his mouth. Throat swellin’, cheeks puffed, eyes sealed shut.
“Keep it in,” he calls, takes another swig of his own. “Tastes like brahmin dung the first time, rotten tomatoes the second. Gets better every mouthful.”
Solid half minute before Snake Eyes finally lowers his hooves, opens his mouth to let out a putrid gasp. Looks over to him in horror.
“How long have you been eating this trash?” Snake croaks.
Have to think a bit on that one.
“Hm. Rations, ah’d say about fourty somethin’ years now. Rations that taste like this, fifteen.”
“I pity you.”
“Start pityin’ yerself. Still got about twenty more takes at the pace yer goin’. Unless ya wanna go beg the caravan, of course.”
Snake Eyes scowls at him. Loses it a moment later, lookin’ back to his can. Disgust, maybe even a hint of fear lurkin’ behind the eyes.
He downs the rest of his own rations, throwin’ the can out to the desert. It rolls before stoppin’, becomin’ just another dark blot against the silver sands.
That’s about a wrap for the day. Another one and a half and they’ll be at Goldroot. Might not have the same strength he’s had throughout the years, but he’s survived much worse to let a bit of a haul get to him. Will also help with a bit of sleep under his eyes.
Only thing now is waitin’ for this city slicker to finish his dinner.
“What a surprise,” can hear Snake Eyes seethe through his wheezin’. “Just like rotten tomatoes. Wonderful...”
Almost cracked a smile at that one.
Almost.
--
Footnote: Maximum level reached
Status: Normal
--
They doused the flames, packed up their goods, checked their gear, and were back on the road twenty minutes after dawn. The day brought nothin’ more than what the previous had, its highlights made up of small quips of talk between the caravan as they trot down the road. Dust siblings got caught up in an argument, Prickly and Pokey got caught up in a pleasant discussion of desert fruits, Big Iron rambled about the best way to hold a banjo, and Anvil bragged about forgin’ the axle of his cart by his own hoof. All nice little tales for the road, but not much more.
Was able to keep his head a bit higher today, most likely thanks to the sleep. Heat didn’t move much down the scale and the wind was dead once again. Prickly’s rope holdin’ his canteen to his neck proved a might handy though, savin’ his hooves countless trips to his back.
Sun does another cycle, turnin’ the wheel in the sky. Was glad to find that his legs have simmered down from the day before, now only a dull ache when Prickly guided ‘em off the road for the second day’s camp.
A couple minute’s trot off the trail and she throws her hoof up, callin’ for a halt. The rest of the caravan sighs in relief as they drop their gear and cast off their carts. He lets his saddlebags slide from his back, welcomin’ the renewed freedom on his shoulders.
“Woowee!” Prickly whoops, settin’ her own bags down and surveyin’ the surroundin’ moonlit desert. “Ah recognize this spot here. We’re right on time! If we move like this tomorrow, we’ll be reachin’ Goldroot just as the sun’s hittin’ the horizon. Perfect!”
He looks out to the desert, searchin’ for a landmark that would pinpoint their location. Shrubs. Rocks. Mounds. Cacti. See Snake Eyes beside him doin’ the same. Same for him. They share a confused glance before abandonin’ the matter.
Prickly unpacks another round of firewood and hollows out a ring of sand. Layin’ the wood down into the ring, she calls Dust Crops over to lend a spark, just as her brother had done the night before.
And there ya go. Campfire’s castin’ its glow, cart pullers are makin’ their way over to join ‘em, Dust Crops and Dust Bowl are settlin’ down across the way, and Prickly’s pokin’ and proddin’ the flames higher while her sister tuckers down beside her.
Again, just far enough away from the fire so his rifle is hidden. He sinks to his back, gruntin’ at the pain in his spine but thankin’ the goddesses for the cool sand. Snake Eyes settles to his haunches beside him, puttin’ on the same bored eyes he’s been wearin’ all day and the day before.
“Gettin’ the jitters yet?”
Snake Eyes turns his head, glarin’ at him with a raised brow. “‘Jitters’? I don’t speak old stallion. Is that a kind of drug?”
“What ya get when ya don’t have yer drugs,” He rasps, bringin’ up his own worn hooves and turnin’ ‘em about. “Or yer alchohol. Or yer gamblin’. Ya seem to have the dark eyes, searchin’ for somethin’ that ya know ain’t there. The shakin’, the ‘jitters’, are next.”
No condescending scoff, no smug grin. Snake Eyes frowns, shufflin’ his hooves, swayin’ his head between a shake and a nod. “I suppose the gambling is a small part of it, yes...” Golden eyes light up with dim embers. “But there’s so much more than that to New Pegasus, understand. A stallion can—”
“Hold it slicker!”
Snake Eyes hisses, glares to the voice.
Prickly. She’s leaned over, holdin’ her hoof up, frozen completely still with an ear turned to the sky. Everypony else in the caravan lies perfectly still, perkin’ their ears as well.
“What is it?” Snake seethes between clenched teeth. “Why are you all doing that?”
None of ‘em respond. Still frozen. Beginnin’ to wonder what the hell is goin’ on himself. He starts to rise, keepin’ quiet as he pushes himself up with his hooves.
Then he freezes. The hair on his ears vibrate. Somethin’... only a tear right now, a ripple... sounds off in the distance. Wordlessly he reaches behind him, unslingin’ his rifle from his back, tuckin’ it beneath his duster and onto his battle saddle.
“Ugh... you too...?” Snake Eyes mutters under his breath.
He brings his hoof up to his muzzle. “Stop talkin’. Listen.”
They wait, nine ponies nothin’ but another set of dead objects out in the desert. Only thing movin’ is a rustled Snake Eyes and the cracklin’ flames of the campfire. Horizon’s empty, nothin’ but a thin silver and deep blue line in the distance.
His ear twitches. The echo comes again, rollin’ out across the desert. He closes his eyes, strains the old eardrums as far as they can go...
Hold a minute.
He opens his eyes again, raisin’ his head. Another echo, closer now, spreads over ‘em.
Howlin’. Yippin’. Snarlin’. Ghostly comin’ off the desert night’s breeze.
He sighs and lowers his rifle, frownin’. “Ain’t nothin but coyotes folks,” he rasps, settlin’ back to his haunches. “Don’t attack ponies, much less ones carryin’ weapons.”
But the moment ‘coyote’ escapes his muzzle the caravan bursts into action, dartin’ about the area, tossin’ their saddlebags, hollerin’ to one another, frettin’ as if a second balefire shower was comin’ from the sky.
"Drop the carts! Get 'em buried!" Pokey leaps up from her rest and gallops off towards the stallions.
“Dust Crops, Dust Bowl, fetch the dynamite!” Prickly shouts, frantically shovelin’ sand onto the fire.
“Crops has the dynamite!”
“What!? No YOU have the dynamite ya damn liar!”
The flames smother under Prickly’s waves of dirt, leavin’ ‘em all at the mercy of the moon’s dim silver. “Ah don’t give a damn which one of ya has it just get it ready!”
Through the chaos he’s scannin’ the perimeter, readyin’ his rifle. Somethin’s got these ponies spooked. Ain’t one to sit around and wonder why. Howlin’s runnin’ up on ‘em, coyotes for sure now. Irradiated? No radiation left. Would’ve died out over the years. Mutated?
“Uh... we’re havin’ a bit of trouble...”
“Aw for goodness sake!” Prickly shoves Dust Crops out of the way, diggin’ into the unicorn’s saddlebags. As she rummages she continues shoutin’ orders. “Bursage, Big Iron, get those carts grounded.” Her eyes shoot over to him and Snake and she curses again. “Anvil, keep the strangers safe!”
He squints. Somethin’ flickers, stirs under the moonlight. Becomes more clear the nearer it draws. Sand, yet it lifts from the ground, tears up as if spurned on by the vacuum of a ragin’ whirlwind.
For the first time he sees Snake’s eyes widen in fear. The city stallion hisses, startin’ to trot back in retreat. “Dunestalkers... how could I forget...”
Dunestalkers. He looks back to the horizon, mind startin’ to piece together the puzzle. Whirlwind of sand is racin’ towards ‘em, howls growin’ louder, caravan ponies dashin’ around in a fit...
These ain’t just coyotes.
He brings up his rifle, takin’ the mouth grip in his muzzle. Three hundred yards out. Would be a difficult shot if this ‘dunestalker’ wasn’t seven ponies wide. Aim down the sights. Suck in a deep breath of desert night air...
A hoof touches his withers. He backs off the mouth grip, looks back over his shoulder.
“Effort’s appreciated stranger, but that rifle ain’t gonna do a thing. Time to move.”
It’s Anvil, right behind him. Big stallion’s dark gray coat and pitch black mane stand out against silver light as he offers up a hoof to him. Snake Eyes stands to his side, shufflin’ his hooves as he stares to the cloud of sand, lookin’ just about ready to dart off in the opposite direction.
He looks from Anvil over to Prickly and the Dust siblings.
“Dust Bowl had ‘em I swear!”
“Ah... Ah don’t remember anymore!”
“Just keep searchin’! These bags ain’t bottomless!”
“They’ll be fine stranger,” Anvil rumbles, a bit of urgency sneakin’ into his words. “Ain’t nothin’ you can do. Need to get ya both out of the way. Come on now.”
A hundred and fifty out. Give or take another minute and this thing’ll be right on top of ‘em. Goddess knows what happens then.
He grimaces, lowers his rifle and turns to Anvil, noddin’. “Alright. Lead the way.”
Anvil nods back and turns around, takin’ off with somethin’ between a trot and a gallop. Him and Snake Eyes follow close behind as he leads ‘em further out into the desert. While they trot, he takes his stetson from the back of his head and tosses it into the closest pocket on his saddlebags, diggin’ his combat helmet out at the same time.
He pulls the helmet over his head, tightenin’ the mask’s latch, gettin’ that first whiff of damp musk. Notice as they pass the carts that Pokey and the other two stallions are diggin' 'em down into the sand. Only serves to confuse him more.
They stop a good ten seconds’ gallop away from the camp. When Anvil rotates around, can see the calm has disappeared from the big stallion’s eyes, a nervous spark in its place as he peers back at the rest of the caravan.
He turns as well, flippin’ on the night vision, tradin’ silver for red. Moment he does, somethin’ catches his eye.
The cloud of sand. But not the cloud itself. Only this close and with night vision can he see the dark silhouettes beneath it all, veiled, cloaked, hidden as they run rampant across the desert flats. Look like coyotes. Goddess knows if they truly are. Only a hundred yards out, fifty for Prickly and the crew. Growls and snarls begin to mix in with the howlin’.
Still no clue what the hell is happenin’, but he’s got a target now. His already burnin’ legs protest as he gallops, makin’ a quick arc around the caravan ponies for a clear shot at the dunestalkers.
“What are you doing?!” Snake Eyes hisses after him, steppin’ back farther away from the caravan. “It’s useless!”
Lift up the rifle, keepin’ the mouth grip lowered. Can’t use it with the mask on. Instead he raises his other leg, rotatin’ it a slight so that his spurs match up with the mouth trigger. Difficult to master at first, natural after a thousand times.
He pulls his hoof back. Flash, recoil, explosion.
He looks up from the sight, searchin’, hopin’ for anything, any reaction at all.
Silhouette he aimed for barrels on as if untouched. No way in seven hells did that miss. Even a hellhound will flinch at bein’ shot. Whatever this thing is, it ain’t natural.
And now its mere moments from bein’ right on top of Prickly and the crew. He cocks the lever, goes in for a second shot.
Too late.
“Got it!” Prickly yelps in excitement as she holds up a bundle of dynamite sticks. “Dust Crops you are a damn liar and from now on ah’m the one who’s gonna—”
The cloud engulfs them, snuffin’ Prickly’s words. Shouts and screams erupt soon after, mixin’ right in with the howls and yips to create a tangled, hellish chorus.
Anvil gallops past him, chargin’ off into the veil of sand without a word. That leaves him and Snake Eyes. The city stallion gawks at the chaos, backpedals a bit before cursin’ under his breath and spinnin’ in place, gallopin’ off further into the desert.
Hm. Can’t really blame him.
He turns his attention back on the fight. Everything’s a mass of dark blobs thrashin’ against one another. Can’t get a shot. Not that it would help any.
Have to make a decision. Try to leap in himself and help the caravan folk, or escape and keep tabs on his ticket into New Pegasus.
He grimaces under his mask, hesitates.
The mission...
The mission. Letter in his saddlebags has spoken for him. He unfurls his wings, beats ‘em against the cold desert night breeze, sends himself risin’ into the air. He stops, hovers, looks out in the direction Snake Eyes had ran off to. Can see a figure gallopin’ a ways in the distance, his nightvision catchin’ the light of the moon comin’ off the coat.
He flares his wings, bankin’ in pursuit.
A torrent of wind strikes him.
Not an idea where it came from. He struggles to stay afloat as the gusts throw off the beat of his wings. As he fights a mist of sand hitches along for the ride, turnin’ his vision fuzzy and his wings heavy. Thank goddess for the combat helmet’s gask mask or he’d be chokin’ on dirt about now.
Then with a final kissin’ whisp it’s gone. Just as fast as it had come. He steadies himself, regains his wing beats, tries to track down Snake Eyes again.
There. City stallion doesn’t gallop very fast. ‘Specially not fast enough to outrun the cloud of sand closin’ in on him.
Damnit. The dunestalkers. Must have finished the caravan, passed right underneath him on their way to Snake Eyes. Will catch up soon enough, make quick work of the earth stallion.
He banks and follows after the dunestalkers. Mind’s swimmin’ again though. Could just turn around right now, fly on to New Pegasus. Even if what Snake Eyes has said is true, still avoids the possibility of bein’ killed by whatever the hell this thing is.
But again, if what Snake Eyes says is true, months could be wasted.
The mission...
Doesn’t help. Need both himself and Snake Eyes alive for a complete objective.
So he takes the middle road. Keep behind these dunestalkers, take a moment to see what makes ‘em tick. If Snake Eyes can be saved, let him. If not, better off hopin’ the city slicker’s been lyin’ the entire time than gettin’ himself killed.
Ah. Things are damn quick. A brief thought and they’re already closin’ the final wanin’ gap between themselves and Snake Eyes. Will have to ignore the fire in his chest and push harder if he wants a shot at this.
He beats his wings faster, risin’ higher and pickin’ up pace so that he’s flyin’ directly over the dunestalker’s storm It’s once he’s in position that the storm finally closes in on Snake Eyes, lickin’ at his back hooves. The city stallion gets one last fearful glance over his shoulder before the storm engulfs him completely, stealin’ him away beneath a thick shroud of dirt.
Cloud ceases its charge soon after. Snake Eyes doesn’t gallop back out, so assume whatever the hell is happenin’ in there has got him pinned down.
Right then. He takes a moment to ready himself before tuckin’ his wings in and bankin’ into a steep dive. The sandstorm buffets him a second time, whippin’ his duster back and forth as it tries to get up under his wings. Have to focus all of his energy on keepin’ ‘em glued to the side of his body as he free falls. They open, he’s nothin’ more than a livin’ kite tossed about in a hurricane.
He holds the dive as he punches through the storm’s perimeter, gettin’ ready to shift into a steep glide for a fly by. Surprises him though. The wind inside the storm itself is much more calm, a choppy spring breeze compared to the tropical storm he’d just fought through.
He snaps his wings open to steady himself. Vision flashes white as the old muscles scream in pain, but he’s able to shake it off fast enough to look around and start catchin’ his bearings.
Ends up in what he can almost call a hurricane, with the eye at the center a safe haven that contrasts the chaos around it. Also much easier to see, even with the remainin’ flecks of sand and dirt turnin’ his night vision fuzzy.
Lookin’ down on the other hoof gives him a charlie foxtrot.
The dunestalkers are clear now. Must be four, five, maybe six of ‘em all lopin’ through the eye of the storm. They snarl, howl, snap, growl, move and hunt in a pack, all wrapped up in the form of large canine.
If it barks like a coyote, lopes like a coyote, and looks like a coyote, it’s a coyote.
Unless they’re a dunestalker. Then they’re coyotes with bodies made up completely of sand.
He blinks, shakes his head clear. Nope. ‘Fur’ still trickles down like a waterfall, ‘paws’ still merge with the desert every rise and fall of the legs, and the ‘teeth’ disperse and reform with every snap of the snout. Only thing out of place on ‘em is the glowin’ yellow eyes. Seen some strange things throughout life’s long road. Damn if this ain’t near the top of the list.
Of course at the center of it all is Snake Eyes. If not for the suit, would think him a completely different stallion. Arrogant eyes, smug grin, towerin’ posture, all dropped somewhere back durin’ his failed escape, vanished in favor of absolute terror. As the dunestalkers circle about him he cowers, shakin’ with fright, searchin’ frantically for a weak spot he might escape through.
Not a chance in hell he can pull off an extraction here, now. Can barely keep himself up these days. Both his body and mind agree, scream at him in unison. Mission is what he’s here for. Better delayed than failed. Probably been lyin’ behind that smug grin the entire time anyway. Fly off. Let it go.
The stallion nods, a grim hint of satisfaction finally breakin’ over his tired face. He slides the letter across the table, takes his hoof from it, looks up with steeled eyes.
“Ya have yer orders then. Two weeks. Get in, get out.... and good luck.”
He folds his wings, bankin’ into another dive.
Also the same moment the dunestalkers set in on Snake Eyes. They close the circle, springin’ upon their prey in almost perfect unison. He holds the dive. Even a stallion like Snake Eyes can survive bein’ chomped down on by sand.
But the dunestalkers don’t bite. They push. Swarm. Almost like a wrestler tryin’ to grapple their opponent to the ground. Snake Eyes cries out in desperation as the creatures latch to his chest and hindquarters, tuggin’ and pullin’, doin’ their best to sweep him from his hooves. Cry smothers out when the last dunestalker leaps itself right up to Snake’s head, draggin’ his neck down like a bent fishin’ pole.
Can barely see any of the strugglin’ stallion left under the dunestalkers as he begins to reach the end of his dive. Nothin’ tactical about this. Only one option.
He snaps open his wings again, fights against the pain again. Just far enough away to slow his descent, just close enough that the landin’ will cause some damage.
He grimaces, braces himself.
Slam right into Snake Eyes’ dunestalker-ridden side. A shower of sand, a pained yelp, and a nice cushion for the landin’ serves as his reward. Can feel the mass of sand that made up the dunestalker slip down underneath him, returnin’ to the ground below.
One down. Still a whole pack swarmin’ Snake Eyes.
Next dunestalker he moves for is anchorin’ itself on Snake’s head. As he charges he brings up his shoulder, puttin’ all of his force into the short leap such a small space has given him. Again, a burst of sand and a yelp. The dunestalker breaks from Snake Eyes, tumblin’ along as it hits the ground. Impact hadn’t crushed this one as it did the first, but it takes a good chunk of sand out of its side and hind legs. Should disable it long enough for him to take care of the others.
Next dunestalker is...
Ah hell. Damn thing just regrows its legs right before his eyes. Currents of sand rise along with the dunestalker, patchin’ its side back up as well. By the time it’s returned to its four legs, it’s as if he’d never even touched the thing in the first place. Give it a few moments more and it’ll be right back on top of ‘em.
He hesitates, mind tumblin’ between his next target.
“Not them you idiot...!” hear Snake Eyes cry out beside him. "Me!”
He turns, puts Snake into focus. Can see the city stallion’s face clearly now with the dunestalker off. Fear. Desperation. Pure horror. But what catches his eye is Snake’s body itself, buried knee deep into the sand. Even as Snake thrashes and fights to free himself the ground sucks him in, eatin’ away inch by inch,
Too many factors. The dunestalkers. Snake Eyes sinkin’. Himself beginnin’ to sink. Have to either ends this now or retreat.
He spreads his front hooves wide before clampin’ ‘em around Snake Eyes’ stomach and pullin’. At the same time he pumps his wings furiously, tryin’ his damned hardest to get them both airborne. Been goddess knows how long since he’s carried another pony by his lonesome. Only remembers that it was back when his feathers were a might harder, his legs a bit more built, and his back a lot less brittle.
Better off droppin’ dead right here and now if he lets that be an excuse though.
Snake struggles along with him as he strains himself, takin’ labored breaths through the humid combat mask. Put his back into it. Pull harder. Pump the wings faster. Entire body feels like a rubber band stretched to its end, just about ready to snap under all these years of pressure.
And that’s his limit. A wave of heat rolls over his form and blots his senses. For a few precious seconds he’s able to hold this peak, his entire body screamin’ with pain at the immense exertion. The red tint over his vision brightens until it blinds him, his mind shuttin’ out the yips and howls of the dunestalkers and shruggin’ off their formless teeth snappin’ at his limbs.
A few precious seconds. They pass and it all begins to slip. Muscles in his legs start to loosen. Beat of his wings begin to slow. Breaths come out short and irregular. Whole body shakes violently, breakin’ down like an old overworked machine.
And Snake Eyes hasn’t budged. Hasn’t come up, hasn’t gone down, still knee deep in the sand, still mobbed by dunestalkers, right where they started. Even after all his energy, after all of Snake’s frantic pants and desperate thrashin’...
Instinct takes over, warps his thoughts. Can feel his own hooves loosen around the still strugglin’ stallion, retreatin’ back to his own sides. His wings pump again, an extra burst of eagerness to their rhythm as they realize they’re free of any extra weight.
As he lifts into the air, Snake Eyes looks up to him, his face shiftin’, twistin’. Turned up brows and a slack jaw. Must have seen this face a few dozen times throughout the past fifteen years. Comes up along with the truth, right when they realize that the bullet they just took might be their last, right when the medic takes a good long look at ‘em and shakes their head, trottin’ on by.
Snake’s another good two hooves under as the last dunestalker assaults him again, stealin’ him from sight.
He grimaces, looks away as he gets ready to punch through the storm again. Ain’t a fate he’d wish on anypony, even a stallion like—
An explosion sounds from nearby, shatterin’ his senses. A gust of wind that goes against the dunestalker’s storm buffets him, strong enough to knock him off course, weak enough that he stays airborne. Only thing he can hear through the sharp ringin’ in his ears is a shrill battle cry screechin’ against the storm.
“Get off him ya mangy mutts!”
Another explosion. High enough now that he avoids another round of confusion. The howls and snarls of the dunestalkers turn to yelps and whimpers of fear.
“Ah’ll blast ya so high they’ll be callin’ ya moonstalkers!”
Another explosion. The air below is a curtain of disembodied sand, neither Snake Eyes nor the dunestalkers anywhere to be seen. Through the sandstorm a pair of eyes flash, shinin’ so bright that he can see the pink in ‘em against the night vision’s red tint.
“If ah gotta tell ya’ll again ah’ll come in there and wrassle ya’ll mahself! Now git outta here stalkers!”
Another explosion. The whimpers grow into deep mournful howls as the sandstorm around them rumbles. Every speck of sand and desert debris that’s been floatin’ about the air suddenly shifts, gustin’ in one direction as if a massive gale was sweepin’ through. He fights against it, tryin’ to keep airborne.
Wind’s too damn strong. His wings finally skip a beat, give out after all the stress. Blink of an eye and nature hurtles him down, slammin’ him against the ground. Have to thank the sand as he tumbles along its surface. Any other terrain and he’d most likely be lookin’ at a few broken bones right now.
Doesn’t mean it didn’t hurt. He stifles a groan as he lays there, wind still whippin’ at his duster, a fine layer of sand still foggin’ up his night vision. Every muscle in his body is spent, leavin’ him motionless. Not quite sure what to expect now. Maybe get swarmed by dunestalkers. Maybe get blown up by dynamite. Rare case when he doesn’t know the situation he’s in. Only thing to do is lie still and wait.
But like like a passin’ spring rain the sand dissipates, rollin’ out into the desert. Off in the distance the sound of frightened howls fades into the night, the cloud of sand travelin’ along with it.
He tries to move, pushes at the ground. Still might be a chance to save Snake Eyes. Have to get up, have to—
“Agh... help me you dimwitted inbreds!” can hear Snake Eyes split the night air with a hiss from behind.
Shiftin’ his position allows him to roll his head, puttin’ Snake into view. There he is, lookin’ about as pathetic as he sounds, with his entire body, save his head and neck, buried beneath the desert sand. He spits and sputters and thrashes as if drownin’, mutterin’ curses and long strings of insults in between ‘em all.
“Hold on there slicker! Bursage, Big Iron, Anvil, dig that poor fella out!”
He lets out a long breath, drops back to his side and flips off the night vision. A stampede of hooves follows soon after, signalin’ the arrival of the three large caravan stallions. They waste no time in surroundin’ Snake and gettin’ to work, diggin’ at him with large shovelin’ hooves. Whole thing’s done with about as much care as a drunken archaeologist, eliciting another long line of spits and hisses from Snake Eyes as the sand tosses up into his face.
“Ah... ya alright there stacker?”
Prickly pops up into sight as well, leanin’ down into the sand so that she’s level with him. Her bright pink eyes reflect back the moonlight as she stares and blinks curiously, a worried grimace stretched across her face. Pokey stands there beside her expressin' much the same.
He makes to rise back to his hooves as an affirmation. Nope. Bring up a leg for an okay signal. Nope. He finally gives up, lettin’ his muscles go limp again. Layin’ there, unmovin’, he settles with a short and simple grunt which comes out more as an agitated groan through his mask.
Prickly’s grimace grows into a wide smile. She gets back up to her hooves and lets out a loud whoop, tossin’ a hoof into the air and circlin’ it about. “Wooooweee! Damn! Worst scrape with dunestalkers ah’ve ever been in and we pulled through without a single pony lost!” She lowers her hoof back and offers it down to him. “Come on stacker! Drinks are on me tonight!”
Before he can mutter out a request for a few more second’s of rest she’s grabbin’ him by the leg, tuggin’ him to his hooves. Dear goddesses. Have to concentrate his entire mind on not lettin’ out a pained gasp as she raises him up on all fours. His legs sting as he wobbles about for a bit. Thankfully Prickly sticks by his side, actin’ as a fine piece of leverage as he steadies himself.
Snake Eyes just about has his forelegs unearthed. Dust Crops and Dust Bowl have joined in with the three stallions, formin’ a small circle around the rustled stallion as they dig. All the while Snake sits there with his hooves crossed, scowlin’ and scoldin’ at his rescuers. “Watch the suit. I said watch it. I assure you it’s worth more than your petty salaries combined several times over, you plebeians.”
He sighs. Might’ve been for the best to leave the venomous bastard buried out here. Too late now.
With some effort he’s able to unlatch his mask and pull his combat helmet off. A spray of sweat answers in return, gathered up from the perspiration that runs down his face and drips from his mane. Cold air goes along perfectly with it all, mixin’ with the sweat to give the feelin’ of an ice pack spread across his hairs.
He slips the combat helmet into the saddlebags and pulls out his stetson. Can see Operation Fold ‘Em still nestled down at the bottom, its seal glistenin’ back with the kiss of the moonlight. He seals up the saddlebags, turns back forward and takes a deep breath.
Weight of it all crashes down on him as he closes his eyes, steadyin’ his breathin’. Was supposed to be so simple. Five days in, five days out, no resistance. Now? Killed some Rhinos, lost his squad, and he just finished combat with ghost sand coyotes. Can still see ‘em. Glowin’ yellow eyes, sand drippin’ down their coats, the sandstorm... only one question left that burns in his mind.
“The hell were those things?”
Prickly perks up at the sound of his voice, raisin’ her brow as she looks over to him. “What? The dunestalkers?”
He nods. “Ain’t ever seen a thing like ‘em.”
Prickly’s expression suddenly falls, turnin’ grim. Her eyes darken to a dull violet and her muzzle purses as she begins to take slow, laborious steps towards him. When she speaks again, it’s with a deepened, hollowed voice. “Ooooh... it’s a tale stacker. Horrible one at that. Ya see, years and years back, a good band of pre-war ponies decided to build a new town out in the southern valleys of the Palomino...” Prickly draws closer, her head hung low and her trot sunken. “But ya see, them ponies didn’t realize a certain small little detail as they built up their homes and stores and farms. Them ponies never knew... that their town was built right on an ancient buffalo burial ground.” Prickly’s right beside him now, puts a hoof across his back and stares at him with wide, soul crushin’ eyes. “Was one fateful night when the entire town up and sank right into the sands, takin’ the settlers with it. It was quiet for a long time after, but one day the sand started to rustle, and somethin started to dig its way out. What came out... was the dunestalkers,” she draws out the name, vibratin’ her voice in a hauntin’ rattle. “Cursed spirits that hunt under the full moon of the Palomino, scourin’ the desert for their prey. Got only one thought on their mind: seekin’ out defenseless ponies and ensnarin’ ‘em, draggin’ ‘em down into the sands. Moment you’re under, the sand starts its work... It twists and turns you, beginnin’ with your eyes, next your heart, and then... your very soul.” She tightens her hoof around his back. “And then, when all’s said and done, ya dig yerself out. Not as a pony. Not as anything alive. But as.... A DUNESTALKER!” She shakes him like a rattle as she wails the name, her eyes growin’ so large they look to nearly pop out her head.
"Prickly..." Pokey sighs, coverin' her face with a hoof.
“Prickly? Ya spoutin’ bullshit again?” Dust Bowl shouts from his diggin’ spot, eyein’ ‘em both. “Stacker, don’t listen to her if ya want yer head on tight. Ah paid attention in school, and the teacher said dunestalkers ain’t nothin’ more than creatures named ‘Timberwolves’ that stumbled in from the east, traded their timber for the Palomino sand.” He shakes his head at Prickly, goin’ back to diggin’. “Ain’t got nothin’ to do with spirits or old buffalo shit.”
“Aaaaw.” Prickly gives a sad groan, her ears droopin’ as she lets go of him and starts a slow retreat. “Ah just wanted to make up for all the ghost stories he missed out on is all...”
“Finally!”
The five caravan ponies break, fallin’ back from the hole as if they’d dug up a pit of serpents. Out of their midst stumbles Snake Eyes, his entire crimson coat and gray suit twinklin’ silver with specks of sand. Both eyes are alight with a golden flame, pairin’ along nicely with his sickled sneer and gratin’ brows. After a second spent brushin’ himself off, Snake Eyes looks up, turnin’ the piercin’ gaze upon him.
“You!”
Ah shit.
Snake Eyes stomps towards him, rage burnin’ across his face. “You. Are. Worthless! You had one job. One! Job!” Snake stops and points at him with an accusing hoof. “And yet after a single meager attempt at assistance you flee like a spineless craven! Tell me, what use has a machine that can’t perform its one purpose? None! Worthless!” The last word is hissed out fiercely, held it so that it echoes across the desert.
The caravan ponies watch on in shock. Only one of ‘em to move is Prickly, creepin’ up into view with her muzzle scrunched in embarrassment “Ah... don’t be too hard on him slicker,” she calls. “Was our fault in the first place for not havin’ the dynamite on the ready. Caught us off guard it did, fightin’ dunestalkers along the Buckham road. Ain’t too common.”
Snake rolls his eyes at her voice, doesn’t even give the respect of turnin’ around. “Yes, that is true but you see, I expected the seven of you to be incapable of defending anypony but yourselves. Lo and behold, I was correct. This... ‘ranger’, however...” Snake crinkles his muzzle, sneerin’. “I suppose I didn’t expect very much either. On the other hoof, I cannot lie that I at least expected something.”
Familiar snideness workin’ its way back in, brushin’ aside the rage. Flames in the eyes have calmed, simmerin’ back down to dull embers. He waits a bit longer for the sneer to drop a bit as well before finally raisin’ his head and meetin’ Snake eye to eye. "Ah couldn't shoot 'em, couldn't draw 'em off ya, couldn't pull ya out... ain’t much else I coulda done 'cept leave you, hope they make it quick.”
A shudder ripples through Snake’s body. “Eugh! Was I not clear enough two nights ago? You guard me, make sure I survive, not leave me behind and fly off like a coward as soon as the going gets rough!”
“The deal was clear,” he acknowledges. “But ah have my priorities. Mission first, you second. Ya aren’t as smart as ya think if ya ever believed it any other way.”
“Priorities...?” Snake seethes, his expression jumpin’ from disbelief to anger to a fake, mockin’ grin. “Hah! Let me remind you of your priorities then, ranger.” With a few trots forward Snake plants himself only a few hooves away, leanin’ in, voice droppin’ to a scathin’ whisper. “I am the mission. Me. If you’re willing to put your life on the line for an audience with Spade, then you will do the same for me, or you will fail.” Snake retreats, narrowing his eyes as he settles and stares back with glowin’ gold eyes. “Do you understand, Tumbleweed?” he hisses under his breath. “Did I make myself clear enough for you?”
Words are poison, seepin’ into his mind, cloudin’ his thoughts. He opens his muzzle to respond only to find he has nothin’ to say. Nothin’ to fight with. Everything said is either true or false, and he has no clue or hint which. When he finally looks up again, Snake Eyes stares back, his face hard, his eyes reveling in victory.
“I’ll take that as a ‘yes’. Good.” Snake Eyes turns, brushin’ his suit off again as he looks out back to the campsite. “Now put that combat helmet back on and start searching for my fedora. I lost it while... ‘evading’ the dunestalkers and will not leave without it.” Snake huffs and trots off, scourin’ his gaze along the desert surface.
He’s left standin’ there, watchin’, wonderin’ just how far this old stallion’s luck really goes. Stumblin’ across Snake Eyes was either a stroke of it or the last bet he’ll ever make. Guess at this point, with the cards he’s been dealt, only time will tell him if he’s struck a dead pony’s hoof or a full suite.
Hear somepony trot up from behind. Pokey, with her sister at her side. They come up into his peripherals, easin’ up slowly beside him. For a straight minute they all stand there, watchin’ Snake Eyes paw his hoof at the ground, scowlin’ when he inevitably fishes up nothin’ but grains of sand.
Pokey eventually leans in, brings her muzzle close to his ear and whispers. “City slicker sure slings a rattler’s worth of venom, don’t he?”
He sighs, closes his eyes.
Darlin’, ya don’t even know.
---------------------
Footnote: Maximum level reached
Status: Normal
Snake Eyes:
New trait added:
Out of Style:
“They say it’s the clothes that make the stallion. This particular fella might have taken the sayin’ a little too close to heart.”
-1 to Charisma when Snake Eyes does not have his fedora equipped.