//------------------------------// // Annexation // Story: Severed Roots // by Bad_Seed_72 //------------------------------// Annexation Outside the inn, Dyea and Soapy waited, their mining team in tow. Today marked the first day of their trek back into the relentless plains. Babs Seed’s and Apple Bloom’s bar, lovely as it was, contained no silver hidden within its depths. And Soapy would’ve bet all the precious metal in the West that Dyea would soon tire of his drunken serenades, anyway. Just as dawn broke, Turner headed out of the inn with the two bartenders in tow. “Good mornin’, Turner! Ya ready?” Soapy asked, striding up to meet him. “As ready as I’ll eva be,” Turner replied, smiling. He turned back to his daughter, who nodded encouragingly. C’mon, it’s alright. We’ll see youze soon. Soapy takes good care o’ his team. Dyea said cheerfully, “Glad to hear! Now, Babs, Bloom, in case you ever wanted to hike out and see us—maybe even stay for dinner—I’d be pleased to give our coordinates.” “Right now?” Babs yawned and rubbed her eyes. Meh, maybe I should start drinkin’ coffee o’ summat. O’ stop goin’ ta bed in the twilight. “But we don’t have any—“ “What are they, Dyea?” Apple Bloom asked, the gears within her mind already set to full whirl, no caffeine necessary. Dyea recited perfectly, “Thirty-three degrees north, one-hundred-fourteen degrees west. About five miles south of here, so maybe an hour’s trot if you’re really taking your time.” “Got it. Ah won't forget.” Wrapping her forehooves around Turner, Apple Bloom vowed, “Now, if we don’t see ya ‘round every sundown, Turner, Ah’m gonna go hike out an’ find ya!” The group burst in a fit of hearty chuckles. Babs added as she hugged her father, “O’ maybe I should jus’ call the Guard afta youze!” “Hah! Maybe youze should! ‘Ey, Soapy, are there lots o’ pretty mares in yer camp?” Looking away for a second, Soapy coyly replied, “Well, actually, there’s this one real pretty unic—“ “Oh, for Celestia’s sake!” Dyea rolled her eyes and playfully nudged Soapy in the shoulder. Then, in a more serious turn, she focused her gaze on Babs Seed. “You are always welcome with us, Babs. I’ll never began to thank you enough for what you did for us. Or for this fool here,” she finished, poking Soapy. Another round of laughter. Then, Turner set his hooves towards the wild, following two new friends and leaving two behind. Though distance was no obstacle, easily surmounted, he couldn’t help but allow a little tear accompany his smile as he looked back. Babs Seed and Apple Bloom watched him go, until he was a mere shadow against the horizon. ~ The Big Orange was Manehatten’s premiere bar among the working-class. The Big Orange, akin to all other bars, restaurants, and liquor stores in the city, sold primarily orange-flavored or orange-derived beverages. Gin, vodka, rum, and even beer were infused with the zest of citrus. Orange juice proved to be the mixer of choice to accompany all plain spirits. A far less-popular drink called hooch was made entirely of fermented oranges and yeast. A terrible, sour drink, only the most hardened of alcoholics could stomach it. Nevertheless, there were enough in the city to keep it stocked among the liquor-shelf of The Big Orange. Another maddening shift having passed him by, Officer Rustler ordered a simple orange-wheat beer and took a seat at a table in the corner of The Big Orange. Still in uniform, he ignored the prying eyes that followed his every move. This bar was rumored to be controlled by one of the warring street gangs in Manehatten, but Rustler didn’t care. It was five o’ clock, finally. He could relax. He could forget. His peace proved to be an illusion. Officer Lucky Toss entered the bar, chatting up a beautiful white mare with a curly black mane. The mare wore the same uniform as Lucky and Rustler, only with higher accolades. She was Detective White Dove, the head of Manehatten’s laughably-named “Anti-Gang Unit”. “C’mon, Dove, please!” Lucky Toss whined, following White Dove to the bar counter. “Let me buy youze a drink.” “How many times do I have ta turn youze down befo’ youze get the point?” she growled back, slamming a few bits on the counter. The bartender accepted them and began fixing her drink. It was the same every night. It had been so these past two years. Vodka on the rocks. Straight up, but not enough. Lucky Toss ordered a wheat-orange beer, tapping his forehooves impatiently on the counter. The detective broke free of him for a few seconds, drink in hoof. Her eyes scanned the establishment and rested on a table in the corner. Officer Rustler faked a smile as she pulled up a stool beside him. “’Ey, Detective. How goes things?” “I could ask the same o’ youze.” She sipped on her drink and unbuttoned the collar of her uniform as she slumped into her stool. “I hear Chief’s gave youze a nice talkin’-ta dis afternoon. No leads on the shootin’ o’ the mares by the general store? O' maybe the body dat was found in Manehatten Lake? The stallion?” Rustler sneered and replied with a rhetorical question of his own. “Any leads on the tattooed gang?” White Dove locked her pupils onto his, not backing down. Still staring at him, she took another sip of her vodka. “’Ey, where’s the party at?” Lucky Toss joined the two, to the groans of both. He opened his forehooves as he asked innocently, “What? Was it summat I said?” “Toss, please, I told youze fo’ the hundredth time. Youze have a betta chance o’ winnin’ a beauty pageant than goin’ on a date wit’ me,” Dove mumbled, breaking her gaze from Rustler. “But ain’t I jus’ the prettiest stallion youze eva seen?” Lucky teased, shining his pearly whites to an unimpressed detective. “Awww, c’mon! Alright, I’ll stop. Let’s jus’ be friends, right? Dove? Rustla?” Officer Rustler snorted and drained the last of his beer. “Ain’t no friends in dis city. ‘Specially wit’ a stallion who used ta bully innocent foals an’ run wit' gang-ponies. Gang-ponies dat probably still wreck havoc in dis city.” Both White Dove and Lucky Toss felt a wave of sickness pass through them. Both said nothing, becoming intently interested in their drinks. To his own surprise, Rustler sighed and confessed, “Those two mares in the alleyway… dey… dey were ma friends, when I was lil’. When we graduated, dey moved away ta Canterlot o’ summat, I think, fo’ a while. Only heard from ‘em once, but I was hopin’ dey would write back, o’ I’d see ‘em again. An' the stallion... anotha colthood friend gone down the wrong path. I hoped someday he'd change, he'd see the light, an' I'd see him as he truly was.” Rustler's grip on his empty beer bottle was nearly tight enough to shatter the glass, righteous rage surging in his veins. “I neva thought I’d see dem… dat way…” Reaching over to pat him on the shoulder, Officer Lucky Toss attempted to console him. “Wow, Rustla, dat’s rough, buddy. I’m really sorry.” “Aww, what do youze care?” Rustler huffed, shoving his forehoof away. “Youze were no betta than the gangstas who probably murdered dem! An’ as fo’ youze,” he said, turning his attention back to White Dove, “what’s youze excuse? Two years youze been workin’ at savin’ dis city from its demons, an’ fo’ what? Nothin’!” He slammed a forehoof on the table, hard enough to send their drinks skywards. Luckily, Toss and Dove caught theirs, while Rustler’s empty bottle fell to the floor, shattering into a hundred pieces. All eyes within the bar turned to the corner table, chatter and clamor seizing. Leaping off his stool and kicking it to the side, Officer Rustler stomped out of the bar, his badge feeling unusually heavy against his heart as he exited into the night. ~ “Get outta our town!” “Yer not welcome here!” “City-slickin’ varmint!” Three stallions pinned a fourth to the floor of the Appleloosian saloon, mocking his pained cries. The fourth stallion—meek, frail, tears streaming down his cheeks—squirmed and thrashed with all his might. To his dread, three figures entered the hushed saloon, all with silver stars pinned to their clothing. “What seems ta be the problem here?” Braeburn thundered, stomping towards the madness. “Lookit what we’ve got here, Deputy!” Pickaxe, one of the captors, whooped. “Got a right ol’ troublemaker right here!” Grinning impishly, he slammed the stallion’s muzzle into the floorboards once more, his laughter reminiscent of demons of old. His captive sobbed through his agony, “P-please! L-Let me go! I-I didn’t do anythin’ t-ta youze!” “What’s the meanin’ o’ this?!” Silverstar trudged over to the group and shoved Pickaxe off the wailing stallion. Glaring at the others, who hastily complied with his unspoken edict, Sheriff Silverstar helped the stallion to his hooves. The third law-pony, a gray, black-maned stallion named Deuce, failed to conceal his rage. “What is the matter wit’ youze?! What did he do?! O’ are youze jus’ playin’ youze sick lil’ games again o’ summat?!” All three turned their muzzles away from the former Manehattenite. “Ah don’t have nothin’ ta do wit’ the likes o’ ya,” Pickaxe snarled, spitting on the floor. He’d loathed Deuce from the moment Silverstar deputized him, over six cruel months ago. Rounding on the other two, he explained, “This one here tried ta start a fight wit’ me!” Both his companions clenched their forehooves and glared at Deuce in agreement. Braeburn, however, narrowed his gaze, seeing straight through Pickaxe's deceit. This was far from the first time he’d caught the grimy stallion attacking one of the visitors or refugees from the infamous East. Braeburn shoved his muzzle into Pickaxe’s face, staring straight into his wild, maniacal eyes. “Ah don’t buy that fer a damn second, Pickaxe. Don’t make me kick yer lyin’ ass inta the sands, again, ‘cuz Ah’ll do it, again.” One of his forehooves hovered above his holster, steel itching and poised to wipe the smug stallion clean of his superiority. Silverstar gently patted the victim on the shoulder and led him aside to the double doors of the saloon. Whispering, he assured, “Now, don’t ya fret. We’ll take care o’ these three. T’ain’t nothin’ ta do wit’ you. They’re jus'—“ “Assholes?” guessed the stallion, rubbing his bruised snout. Silverstar laughed. “Well, Ah was gonna be a might more polite than that, but yer right. Ah’m sorry fer what happened. Ah hope ya don’t think we’re all like this,” he added, frowning slightly. The stallion sighed and brushed dust from his coat. “Not youze fault, so don’t apologize. I think I’ll go check out the salt-bar instead.” He gave the Sheriff a meager, forced smile and strode towards the door, refusing to look at the three riff-raff corralled in the corner. There, Braeburn, Deuce, and Silverstar began a polite discussion with the three locals regarding the ramifications of their continued prejudice towards immigrants into Appleloosa. When that proved insufficient, there was a cloud of fresh dust kicked up from the saloon floor, six sets of hooves struggling for dominance, and, when it was over, Pickaxe and his two drunken friends found themselves muzzle-down in the sand. “An’ stay out!” called the saloon owner, clicking his tongue and crossing his forehooves. He shook his muzzle and glared out his doors, no feelings spared for the three groaning on the ground. Snapping his neck towards the three law-ponies, he said, “Thanks, y’all. Ah’m mighty sorry this keeps happenin’.” “It’s alright,” Deuce said, adjusting his shoulder holster, his weapon almost knocked loose during the tussle. “Everypony will settle down once dey jus’ get mo’ used ta the sound o’ us Manehatten voices, heh.” Braeburn bit his tongue. He had nearly three years of desert patrols tucked under his belt. Unlike the promises of old, the best had not been the last. During this past year, he and Silverstar had fought off two gun-toting stallions who’d set to assault this very bar. Once Deuce had made their duo a trio, there had been no more tattooed, cloaked assailants. He wondered if the addition of a third law-pony spooked the criminals enough to keep them at bay. Perhaps that was true. Unfortunately, even with a thick Manehatten accent guarding Appleloosa, many ponies still didn’t trust those from the East. Even Deuce. Even, Braeburn acknowledged with gritted teeth, his own family. “Ah s’pose so,” Silverstar said, though he disbelieved his own statement. Rage rushed through his veins when the civilians he’d sworn to protect and defend spoke ill of Manehatten, Trottingham, and Canterlot ponies. Some were so bold to speak ill of Citrus and Libra. Those ones, of course, often emerged from such conversations bruised, tripping over their own words. The saloon-owner nodded, thanked the three, and offered a free glass of Applejack Daniel’s or cider. His offer, although enticing, was politely declined. Daylight burned on the horizon. Soon, night would blanket the settlement, requiring the sharpest of senses. No room for depressants. Braeburn, Silverstar, and Deuce exited the bar. Braeburn was delighted to see that Pickaxe and his cronies were now nowhere in sight. Presumably, they'd gotten the message, galloping off with tails tucked between their legs. “So, which one o’ us is gonna be doin’ night-patrol, Sheriff?” Sheriff Silverstar adjusted his Stetson absentmindedly. “Actually, Brae, Ah was thinkin’ Ah could. Y’all been workin’ hard,” he reasoned, nodding approvingly towards his deputies. “Why don’t y’all take the night off? Go home, git some good rest. Ah’ll see ya bright an’ early, an’ Ah’ll get ma sleep in, then.” “Youze sure?” Deuce asked, concerned. “Youze look tired, Sheriff.” The gray in Silverstar’s mane seemed more prominent than it had in recent months. His forehooves seemed clumsier, not as proficient on the quick-draw. Of course, Silverstar denied their prior concerns, and this one as well. “Ah’m fine.” He stretched his hindhooves and chuckled. “Jus’ a lil' rusty on the hinges, but Ah’ll be fine. Ah’ll see y'all tomorrowa mornin’, alright?” Braeburn shook his head. “But, Sheriff—“ “Ah said go home, Braeburn.” Silverstar placed a forehoof on Braeburn's shoulder. “Ah’ll be fine. Ah reckon this lil’ tussle’s worst ta-day has in store fer us. An’ you've been workin’ too hard. Go home ta Citrus an’ Libra. Ah heard Citrus is gonna be makin’ apple cobbler ta-night,” he said with a wink. “Homemade apple cobbler?” A wide grin streaked across Deuce’s face. “Oh, aren’t youze a lucky stallion! Wish I had somepony ta make me a good home-cooked meal. Youze betta treat dat mare right, Brae!” “Uh, it’s not like that, Deuce,” Braeburn mumbled, a slight blush on his muzzle. Changing the subject, he offered, “But hey! If ya want some, there’ll be plenty ta go ‘round. Why don’t ya come wit’ me an’ have supper?” “Really?” “O’ course! Ah know Auntie an’ Citrus won’t mind.” “Well, sounds like y’all have some great dinner plans, jus’ like Ah hoped.” Silverstar slung a forehoof around each Deputy’s shoulder, chortling so deep his mustache shook. “Now, Ah’d best be gettin’ on night watch. Take care!” The two waved their forehooves in a rapid farewell before taking off towards Braeburn’s cabin, the thought of cobbler removing all prior fatigue. Sheriff Silverstar, despite his protests, couldn’t defy his biology. A few hours past sunset, the grizzled stallion sat on the porch of his office, taking his favorite seat. He put his hindhooves up on the railing, as he always did. He checked the chambers in his revolver, ensuring that they were loaded, ready to fire if need be. Appleloosa was beginning to tuck in its hooves for the night. The towns-ponies were scurrying to their cabins, hotels, tents, and other shelters. Soon, only the tumbleweeds and coyotes in the distance would be his companions, here out in the West in the best. His hometown, his love. “The most beautiful town in Equestria,” Sheriff Silverstar muttered, resting his eyes. Soon, he found himself drawn into the hooves of the Sandmare, unable to resist her grasp. ~ A mare crawled out of her tent in the barren wasteland. She and her comrades were camped just outside the Appleloosian city limits. All day, they’d battled the heat, sweating buckets and drinking even more. City-ponies they were, unaccustomed to such temperatures. She looked up into the sky and checked the position of the moon. It shone, radiant, highest point in the heavens. A devilish smile on her muzzle, she jumped from tent to tent in the tight-knit camp, awakening her fellows. “Dammit, Switch, what is it?!” one half-asleep stallion growled. Switch recognized his voice instantly; he, too, was a Manehatten King. The others crawling out of their tents and readying their weaponry were a mix of Mafia, Kings, and ponies with no gang affiliation at all. Other than the true army, of course. Their tattoos kept them united on this hour, delaying the war that would be inevitable otherwise. “Time ta ride,” Switch hissed, adjusting her shoulder holster. Many of her fellow Knights brought rifles or shotguns for this mission. She, however, would rely only on her trusty pistol. It was this gun that had seen her through tens of battles on the Manehatten streets. Overall, she was unenthusiastic for this mission. It would be an excellent chance to prove herself--here she was, commanding both equals and lessers, among both her fellows and her enemies. The mere mention of the Manehatten Mafia made her sick to her stomach; fighting alongside their members was truly an exercise in tolerance. Regardless, here, she ultimately served the only colt she’d ever loved—even if she was only a mere pawn to him. Slinga, she thought to herself. I’m doin’ dis fo’ Slinga. “Get a move on, youze mooks!” she ordered, galloping from tent to tent, stomping her hooves on the cold sands. With minimal opposition, the others shook sleep from their eyes and readied their weapons. Chambers were checked, cartridges were loaded, holsters were adjusted. Knives were sharpened and sheathed. Thirteen of them they stood, eyes towards the settlement in the distance. Switch strode back and forth in front of them, hashing her rehearsed speech. “The Masta’s plan fo’ us ta-night is simple: take down the three law-ponies heeya, an’ then destroy both the saloon an’ the salt-bar. Breach the back stockroom an’ destroy everythin’. Then, set the whole place on fire. Suffer nopony ta live. Five o’ us will go afta the pigs, four ta the saloon, an’ four ta the salt-bar. Any questions?” Silence. “Good.” Switch grinned, emboldened and swelling with pride. If only Card Slinger could see her now! Commanding troops—some of whom were his—into the first raid of annexation, the first wave of what was surely to be a new rule in the West. Surely, then, he would feel the same... She drew her pistol, spurring the same motion from the twelve. On her signal nod, they pivoted their hooves, breathing one last, deep breath. Rifles, shotguns, and hoof-guns at the ready, they bolted into the darkness, led by the light of the moon towards Appleloosa.