//------------------------------// // Harder Than A Coffin Nail // Story: Severed Roots // by Bad_Seed_72 //------------------------------// Harder Than A Coffin Nail Knock, knock, knock. Officer Rustler fidgeted his hindhooves, shifting his weight back and forth aimlessly. In his forehooves, he clutched his finished incident reports and other paperwork. Barely a week past two gruesome discoveries left him with dark circles under his sunken eyes. He felt hollow, lifeless. Tossing around the question of why yielded no answers. All he possessed were the facts—plain, simple, worthless. Now, nearing the end of his shift, he was ready to offer up his meager reports, to dispose of the imagery they summoned along with the parchment. From behind his mahogany door, Chief Brutus grunted, “Come in.” Rustler opened the door cautiously, mindful of his Chief’s temper. Brutus leaned lazily back in his favorite chair, hindhooves on his desk and one forehoof swirling a glass of scotch absentmindedly. “So, youze finally finished dem reports fo’ me, did youze?” Rustler nodded and stood beside the desk, his papers shaking. “Y-yes, Chief. I-I did.” “Good. An’ what did youze conclude, Offica Rustla?” “Well, ah, Chief…” Staring at a clock hanging on the wall, Rustler said, “I think dat the two incidents were related.” Brutus wrinkled his snout. “An’ what makes youze think dat?” “Well, youze see… Both the two mares near the general store an’ the stallion at the bottom o’ Manehatten Lake were sorta... connected—“ “How so?” asked the Chief, sipping his liquor. “Surely, youze know by now dat there is lil’ rhyme o’ reason ta our fair city.” He chortled at his own jest, motioning with his glass towards the darkening streets outside his window. “Manehatten is a beast, lil’ colt, an’ nopony can break her. She’s a vagabond an’ a destroyer, wild an’ ruthless. Nopony can stop her. Jus’ ask youze marefriend, Detective White Dove—“ Stomping a forehoof, Rustler snapped, “She’s not ma marefriend!” Chief Brutus blinked in disbelief. Then, when he realized his lesser’s insubordination, he slammed the glass down onto his mahogany, rising slowly from his seat. Rustler waved his forehooves apologetically, backing slowly away from the desk. “I’m sorry, Chief! I-I didn’t mean ta snap at youze! I jus’ thought dat, maybe—“ The overbearing stallion snatched the paperwork from the other’s forehooves, pinning it to the desk. “Don’t youze waste ma time wit’ youze petty drama, Rustla!” he snarled, retracting his lips involuntarily into an enraged display of perfectly-polished molars. “Jus’ do youze job, an’ do as I say. There’s nothin’ connected ta a pithy lil’ Manehatten Mafia thug gettin’ what he deserved, an’ two mares who had nothin’ ta do wit’ it. There are no connections in dis hellhole, jus’ random horseshit! “Now,” Brutus said with a scowl, “get the buck outta ma office befo’ I fire youze! Go an’ do some paperwork o’ summat useful—don’t come cryin’ ta me! I've got a very important meetin' wit' a representative o' Celestia next, an' I can't waste anymo' time wit' the likes o' youze!” Defeated, Officer Rustler nodded and mumbled his gratitude to his better. On his way out the door, he brushed past a haughty, prancing Griffon dressed in a tuxedo and tie. The Griffon strode towards Brutus’s office confidently, winking at the investigator as he passed, something that could only be eerily described as a smile blaring on his beak. ~ “Here ya are. Thank ya kindly,” Apple Bloom said, pushing a glass of Applejack Daniel’s towards a familiar patron. The recipient tipped his Stetson and hopped from the barstool, stumbling hazily towards a nearby poker table. She added the bits into one of the jars concealed beneath the counter and grinned. Carrying several new bottles of Daniel’s, Babs Seed returned to the counter from the stockroom and set to work restocking. Nightfall had brought in the best of the West tonight, filling the wasteland’s bar with joyful piano music and more games of poker than the bartenders could count. And with business came the bits, half to Applejack, half to themselves. “Pretty full tonight, ain’t it?” Apple Bloom said, wiping down the counter. Babs nodded. “Eeyup. Seen Turner yet?” Apple Bloom shook her muzzle. “Nope, can’t say Ah have. Don’t’ worry,” she assured, a frown spreading across her mare’s countenance. “Ah’m sure he’ll be here soon. Soapy might jus’ have ‘em workin’ late.” “I hope so.” Exchanging empty bottles for full ones on the shelves, Babs mumbled, “He shoulda stayed in Appleloosa.” Wringing out the rag, Apple Bloom raised an eyebrow. “An’ why do ya say that?” “Jus’… he was makin’ Ma so happy. Well, mad too, but happy in the end.” Babs got down from the shelves and took a stool behind the counter, busying herself with a cleaning rag and a beer mug. “She deserves ta be happy. Been through so much, her, Brae, Citrus.” An’ I hope dat dis is the end o’ dis madness fo’ ‘em. Posse can hate on me an’ Turner all dey want—I’ll take it, long as dey are safe. “Ah know. Don’t ya remember what he said?” Apple Bloom stashed away the cleaning rag and trotted over to the other side of the bar, offering a slight smile. Climbing up on a stool opposite Babs Seed, she explained, “Turner said he’ll only be here until he’s stable, an’ then he’ll be goin’ back ta Appleloosa. Which won’t be too long. Soapy’s good on payin’ times.” “Yea, I guess youze is right,” Babs conceded, deciding not to argue. Since last night’s strange chain of events—Apple Bloom seemingly concealing something from her, then dismissing it, then erasing it from discussion entirely—there was a strange, curious tension between them. Babs Seed surmised this was mostly her emotion. Don’t wanna start a fight wit’ youze, but… I jus’ got dis feelin’. I jus’ want Ma ta be happy, ta be happy wit’… him. “So,” Babs began, steering the conversation towards a new direction, “what’ll it be, beautiful?” She lowered her eyelids and flirted, reaching across the counter to take Apple Bloom’s forehooves in her own. “Haven’t seen a pretty mare like youze on dis side o’ the counter befo’. Tell youze what. Anythin’ youze want, it’s on the house.” “Silly filly,” Apple Bloom teased back, giggling, her cheeks burning slightly. “Actually...” She brushed her mare’s fetlocks with hers. “Ah think Ah’m gonna turn in early.” Glancing at the desert’s clock—the slowly rising moon beyond the window speaking of a time far earlier than midnight—Babs asked, “Really? So soon? Youze feelin’ alright?” Yawning, Apple Bloom nodded. “Ah'm jus'... tired... Babs. Ah think Ah’m gonna head back ta the room an’ lie down.” Dismounting from her stool, she trotted around to kiss the confused bartender on the cheek and whisper, “Wake me up when yer ready fer bed, alright?” “Heh. A-alright.” Returning the kiss, Babs watched her trot over to the double saloon doors, taking her sweet time in doing so. Apple Bloom winked and grinned, catching her mare in the act. Babs ducked behind the bar and busied herself with the bit-jars, mercury rising within the saloon. Dammit! She saw youze starin’! Perv. Bits of gold and silver rattled around in the twin Mason jars. Money and materialism were of no interest to either mare, and they sent half their profits to Sweet Apple Acres without reservation. Babs lifted one jar to the moonlight and swirled the coins around, caring not if her patrons saw. The revolver strapped to her left shoulder issued a challenge to thieves and worse. So much… so many… horseapples, iffa we decided ta close, we’d have enough ta travel fo’ at least a year without workin’. Maybe longa. Hmm… A hoarse voice stated, “Heh, youze sure rollin’ in the dough wit’ dis place.” Looking over her shoulder, Babs Seed's muzzle upturned into an instant grin. “Turner! ‘Bout time youze showed up.” Placing the jar back where it belonged, she rose up on her hindhooves, grabbing a glass and a bottle of Equestria’s finest whiskey. There was no need for the approaching stallion to place an order; she would only pour, and he would only accept, his favorite. Turner took his favorite stool, pulling himself up slowly. Several joints popped and his forehooves burned from a long day’s work. Grasping the fresh glass of whiskey, Turner took a deep gulp before saying, “Sorry. Had a lot ta sluice ta-day. Got a lil’ bit o’ silver dust dis time.” “Really? Horesapples. Youze must be close ta strikin’ it, then.” Topping off his glass, Babs re-corked the whiskey bottle and placed it behind her. “How’s Dyea an’ Soapy doin’?” Turner smirked. “Dem walls o’ his tent ain’t thick ‘nough. Dat’s all I have ta say.” Babs snorted. “Heh. Glad ta hear it’s workin’ out, though. Dey deserve it.” “Mmhmm.” “An’ strikin’ it rich will only make it worse.” Turner laughed and sipped his whiskey. “Heh. I could tell youze some stories from the casino I worked at. There’s a reason most o’ ‘em are hotels, too. Sell mo’ rooms when ponies are winnin’, dat’s fo’ sure.” “Heh, I bet so.” Turner chuckled and wiggled his eyebrows. “An’ I bet the inn owna heeya can tell me lots ‘bout thin walls too, kiddo.” Her ears and cheeks flushed scarlet, Babs turned away from him and watched a nearby poker game, laughing as one stallion threw his cards to the table in disgust. “Heh, heh. I don’t know what youze talkin’ ‘bout. ‘Ey, look ova there! Somepony got a full house!” An’ dat otha poor bastard’s goin’ home broke. “Babs…” Turner said sternly, nudging her in the shoulder. Attention caught, she glanced back at him, although reluctantly. “Yea?” “There’s summat important I wanted ta talk ta youze ‘bout." He drained the last of his glass. Wiping his muzzle, he added with a sly grin, “Though, I need some mo’ Daniel’s, first.” “No problem.” Refilling the glass, Babs was grateful to have attention shifted back to the stallion. Apparently, he was no fool, and, though he did so politely, couldn’t help but indulge in a little harmless prodding. Dammit. Buckin’ cheap inn. Babs Seed passed the drink to Turner and leaned forward, expectant. “So… what’s on youze mind?” “Well,” he mused, smiling down at his glass, “I saw how full youze bit-jars was when I was trottin’ in. Youze savin’ up fo’ summat special?” “Hah, no. Actually, half o’ dat we send ta ma cousin Applejack every month. It’s her products dat bring in the bits, anyway. Vodka, gin, beer an’ wine we import from othas, but the Daniel’s, cider, an’ apple juice sell the most.” “I see.” Turner leaned forward, smirking. “Dat still doesn’t answa ma question, kiddo.” “Hah… well… I guess I don’t have an answa, Turner,” she admitted, sensing his question probed deeper than mere curiosity. What youze gettin’ at? “We jus’ do dis because we want ta help Applejack. Things were bad on the farm fo’ a while, youze know.” Again, he simply said, “I see.” Turner downed the rest of his whiskey and patted his stomach, warmth spreading through his veins and chasing away his headache. Light and friendly, he nudged her again and hinted, “No big purchases planned?” Pouring him a third glass, Babs Seed gave him a skeptical sideways stare and asked, “Since when do youze speak in riddles?” The stallion stretched and sighed. “Ahh, well, I think I’ve said too much anyway. Iffa youze know what I was talkin’ ‘bout, youze woulda answered me. Anyway—“ “Wait. What are youze talkin’ ‘bout?” Turner swept the saloon, peering into every noisy corner. “Where’s youze mare?” “She went back ta our room. Why?” He shook his muzzle. “Nevamind, then.” “Alright,” Babs relented, distracting herself with a cleaning rag and another rack of glasses. First, Bloom’s hidin’ summat from me, an’ now youze are? Horseapples, are youze all plannin’ a surprise party o’ summat? Ma birthday’s not fo’ months… Silence passed between bartender and vagabond. The saloon did not comply, rising to a zenith of laughter and curses and drunken ramblings, midnight looming and the parties just beginning. Furiously wiping away at a shot glass, Babs ignored Turner’s stare. The stallion eyed her curiously, contemplating and puzzled. Finally, he asked, “Are youze a heavy sleeper?” She nodded and grabbed another dirty glass. “Always have been.” Turner simply replied, “Ah,” and moved on to a different topic. “So, I think I should be able ta return ta Appleloosa soon. Might be as soon as a few weeks.” “Really?” Babs turned towards him, beaming. “Ma would like dat.” “I know she would, kiddo.” Turner smiled and pushed his glass forward, nodding in request for more. “I wanna make up fo’ everythin’. I wanna make her happy. A mare like her deserves it.” Knowing this full well, Babs Seed smiled back. “Yes. Yes, she does.” ~ Harsh gusts of wind kicked up the sand, entwining with tumbleweeds and skeletons of unfortunate field mice and other critters. The wind sent this fetid combination skywards, tunneling towards the East and the beast. Card Slinger, coughing frequently enough to set his stomach churning, raised a foreleg to shield his eyes and cursed. Beside him, Boone pressed on, his long, sand-dusted mane halting the sand from irritating his eyes. Behind the leader and his right-hoof stallion, eleven assorted mares and stallions—Kings all, thankfully—followed. All but one were Earth ponies. The odd stallion out was a unicorn, one whose special talent (per his bragging) was sharpshooting. Slinger despised seeing such arrogance among his company’s ranks, but given the haste of their task, wasted little time on snide remarks. Twelve of the thirteen experienced newfound strength and agility once their hooves met the Appleloosian sand. They'd been careful to jettison to the city limits with as much haste as possible, avoiding many passerby and the prying eyes of the wishful law. That was three hours ago. Now, it was near midnight, and per their maps and instructions, the company was only ten miles or so from their destination. Still, the wasteland impeded their journey, mustering sandstorms and howling coyotes and suspicious shifting shadows on the horizon. “Buckin’ hate dis place!” Slinger barked over the relentless breeze, slamming his eyelids shut. “How much furtha, Boone?” Boone coughed, expelling dust from his mouth before answering, “Should only be a few mo’ hours, Slinga! The Masta’s map says it’s southwest o’ Yukon, an’ dat ain’t too much fartha!” “Good!” The leader of the company snapped his muzzle around and opened his eyes to glare at his troops. “Keep a move on, youze mothabuckas! Ready youze weapons in case the coyotes come ‘gain!” The eleven gave weak nods, mindful of the torrent of sand raining down upon them from a multitude of angles. The winds intensified their fury, churning the desert plains. The wind was a beast, snarling, snapping, trying to drive away the stomping company of Knights. Card Slinger and Boone, on the night of their final mission under King Orange’s rule, pressed on, determined, strong, invincible. ~ Three glasses, four glasses, five glasses, six… Turner wasn’t sure how many shots of splendid whiskey escaped their vessels and churned their way down his throat, settling happily in his stomach. By the time his daughter—strong and steadfast, bowing or backing to none within the saloon—chased the final vagrant from her establishment, all he knew was flight. A wingless, ground-bound Earth pony, he nonetheless soared inside his mind, inside his soul… “Turner? Youze alright?” Babs had teleported to his side, crossing the distance from front door to bar counter in a blink of a hazy eye. The stallion nodded and chuckled, free, careless. “Heh… I’m fine, Babs… really fine…” No “kiddo,” eh? An’ youze muzzle is matchin’ ma mane. Heh. Shoulda known I was pourin’ too much an’ too fast fo’ youze, ol’ stallion. Slinging a forehoof across his shoulders, Babs motioned for him to dismount his bar stool. “C’mon, Turner, let’s get youze inta a room. Youze aren’t gonna be able ta get back ta Soapy’s like dis.” “Like what?” He blinked slowly, peering around the empty saloon. “’Ey, we’ve got the whole bar ta ourselves. Hah! I know!” Shaking out of her grip, he jumped to all four hooves and stumbled drunkenly over to the piano. Smirking, he turned towards her and said, “Youze know how ta play?” She chuckled and shook her muzzle, trotting to meet him. “No, Turner. Musical instruments neva been ma special talent. I ain’t no nerd like Feathaweight was!” He slapped his belly and chortled heartily, baritone echoing off the empty walls off the bar. “Hahaha! I guess not! Haha!” After he seized a chance to catch his breath, Turner suggested, “Well, iffa we can’t play, how ‘bout we dance instead? Fatha-daughta dance?” Babs ran a forehoof through her mane, displeased to note how long it had become. “Uh, um, heh, Turner, youze is drunk,” she deflected, wishing Apple Bloom was with her. She would best know how ta handle him… I’m neva good wit’ drunk ponies, mostly jus’ throw dem outta heeya. But I won’t do dat ta him. “No, I’m not!” Rising on his hindhooves, Turner leaned against the piano, resting his muzzle there. “I’m jus’ tired. Youze should know! Minin’ work makes youze tired!” “I am tired,” she admitted, turning towards the stockroom. “I’m tired, Turner, an’ I’m gonna be closin’ up shop. Now, do youze want me ta get youze a room? I’m sure the owna has a few left. O’ do youze want me ta escort youze back ta Soapy’s camp?” “Escort?” He blinked, confused. Turner returned his hooves to the floor again, amazed at how smooth the floorboards were. Not one splinter prickled him. Not one board had been hammered haphazardly out of place. Art. This bar was a work of art, and it was modeled after his bar. A torch had been passed, little to his knowledge, lit aflame eight years ago from one simple act of kindness. It was incredible. His bar had become his daughter’s bar. Mesmerized, he stared at the walls, at the counter, at the shelves. His daughter’s bar… His daughter stood before him, placing a forehoof under his chin. “Youze sure youze alright?” she asked, forcing a chuckle. “Yes, I said escort. It’s dangerous out heeya now, youze know. An’ youze don’t have no revolva ta protect youze.” He guffawed and leaned back against the piano. “An’ youze ain’t no good shot, neitha! Did youze an’ Bloom practice ta-day?” “Sorta. We tried shootin’ some tumbleweeds. Apparently, I can shoot cacti real good, but can barely hit summat movin’. She’s a lil’ betta,” Babs explained, feigning bitterness and sticking out her tongue. Turner let loose a loud, booming laugh, almost in tears. “Haha! Dat lil’ mare can outshoot youze, huh? Oh, maybe I should get her ta take me back instead!” Babs laughed with him and strode over, nudging him in the shoulder to move. “C’mon, Turner, take youze pick. Camp o’ inn are youze choices. There’s no way I’m gonna let youze—“ “’Ey, why don’t youze call me ‘Da’?” Babs stepped away from the stallion. Sure that she had misheard, she hesitated before asking, “What did youze say?” Turner rose slowly to his hooves, the saloon beginning to spin around him. “Why don’t youze call me ‘Da’?” he repeated, staring into her, eyes brimming with sad suspicion. Oh, shit. Not dis. Not now. Blaming it on his intoxication, Babs Seed left his words to the silence. She wrapped a forehoof up and around his shoulders, directing him towards the door. “Heeya, why don’t youze go ta the inn an’ tell the owna who youze are, she’ll give youze a room an’ I’ll take care o’ it in the mo—“ “So, youze ain’t gonna answa?” Turner sighed and hung his muzzle low. “Guess I shoulda jus’ kept dat ta maself. I shouldn’t expect youze ta do dat…” “It’s fine. Youze is drunk, youze’ll forget. Hay, I’ll forget. It’s late, youze know,” Babs rationalized, burying the hurt. His question was a jab in her chest, a palpitation she couldn’t write off as anxiety. Pointing her hooves towards the door, she urged, “C’mon, Turner, jus’ get some sleep, an’—“ He flopped down on his haunches, brow furrowed, eyes shining with darkness. “No.” He grunted, staying put. “I want ta be alone fo’ a while.” “Turner, youze can’t—“ “I need a drink.” Babs shot back, irritated, “Youze is already drunk.” Horseapples, don’t make me do dis. “Not enough. Give me anotha,” he demanded, voice low, muscles tensing, hooves planted firmly into the perfectly-sanded wood grain. Even in his irrational state of mind, Turner knew his natural inclinations. The temper of his colthood—a demon following in his hoof-steps—had never truly been exorcised. Age, and thus wisdom, had slowly eroded it. Alcohol could beckon it to return with a vengeance. Tonight, it whispered in his ear, longing for its forgotten friend. Feeling anger brewing in his bloodstream, Turner repeated, “Give me anotha. Please… Babs. Please.” Exasperated, she stomped over to the bar, snatching a bottle off the wall and a glass from underneath the counter. Youze want anotha buckin’ drink? Fine, have anotha buckin’ drink. Youze startin’ ta piss me off royal, an’ I don’t wanna deal wit’ youze right now. Silently, she filled a glass full of whiskey and left it on the counter, returning to the stockroom. In the dim room, lit only by the moonlight, Babs fumbled for the lock to the back door. A click of strike and tumbler secured the door, her task easily completed. Fuming silently beneath her coat, Babs Seed gritted her teeth and emerged from the stockroom. Turner was already at the counter, sipping sloppily at his whiskey. Striding right past him, she called out, “Bang on our door when youze is done an’ I’ll come an’ lock up.” “Oh,” he began, turning around in his seat, “so youze won’t give me the keys? I used ta run the bar youze built dis one off o’, youze know. I know how ta lock up a bar.” Babs stopped in her tracks, glanced over her shoulder, and sneered at him. “What?” He threw up his forehooves and crossed them across his chest. “Is dis because I asked youze why youze don’t—“ “Goodnight, Turner.” Before he could get another word in edgewise, Babs galloped out of the bar, her hooves meeting the sand. Though the distance between inn and bar was miniscule, it seemed to drag infinitely, her mind taunting her with its question. Why don’t youze? Why don’t youze? Why don’t youze? Why? ~ Once the dust settled, Card Slinger kicked up his hooves, prompting the others to do the same. Boone churned his muscles, life flowing through them in a way he'd never experienced. They galloped mostly, cantering occasionally, needing only the crisp, clean air in their lungs. The same breeze--now hesitant, gentle—slicked away their sweat, and brought them closer, closer, closer to their destination. His troops were mostly silent, all obedient. Most carried simple pistols or revolvers. The unicorn was equipped with a double-barreled shotgun. A few others brandished rifles. Along with his trusty pistol holstered to his left shoulder, Card Slinger brought along his loyal black blade. It was freshly sharpened and sheathed to his right shoulder, poised and thirsty for blood. And blood there would be, staining the sand crimson forever. His jaws clenched and his nostrils flared at the thought. So much blood. Blood that would make his Master happy, distracting him, satiating him. He would never expect such a loyal minion to commit the ultimate mutiny. "Youze ready, Boone?" he hissed, looking towards his companion, their hooves thundering against the plains. Boone smirked and yelled back, "Always have been, Slinga!" Card Slinger chuckled and stared at the horizon, drawing closer and closer to its boundary. There, in the distance, he saw a flicker of flame and rising smoke. "Dat must be Yukon," he said, raising his voice to be heard over the rhythm of thirteen sets of hooves. "Yea," Boone agreed, gazing towards the southwest. "An' our target must not be far off." ~ Apple Bloom was waiting for her, wide awake and on her haunches. “Bloom? What youze doin’ up?” Closing their door and locking it, Babs strode over to her mare, sitting down beside her on the bed. “Summat wrong?” Leaning into her mare, Apple Bloom didn’t answer right away, closing her eyes. When she opened them a few seconds later, Babs was muzzle-to-muzzle with her, close enough that she could count her freckles and trace the patterns they created. The smile on her tired muzzle was visibly forced, stressed. Tense. No. Now was not the time. Far from the time. “No,” Apple Bloom said finally. “Nothin’, sugarcube. Ah jus’ was waitin’ fer ya ta get off work so we could talk.” Well, maybe it wasn’t so much a lie as a half-truth. There was something she wanted to talk about, although she decided it would have to wait for another night. She could see right through her Babs Seed, and her Babs Seed was not herself tonight. Talk? “’Bout what?” asked Babs, holding her now. “Tell me.” Apple Bloom shook her head. “No… Ah… Ah think Ah should wait ta talk ‘bout it. Ya look real stressed, Babs. What’s wrong? Talk ta me...” Babs sighed. “It’s… it’s summat Turner said ta me. He got drunk—kinda ma fault, really—an’ said some things I know he didn’t mean. An’ so did I. I jus’ hope he doesn’t rememba in the mornin’.” “What did he say?” Apple Bloom leaned against her, looking up into her emerald eyes, which were conflicted, a tempest in themselves. This time, Babs was the one to motion in the negative. “I don’t wanna talk ‘bout it.” Although she was certain she could place a hoof on the cause, Apple Bloom nodded and decided not to press the issue, falling into her mare’s forehooves. "Alright, sugarcube. Ya don't have ta unless ya want ta." Silence. Babs Seed suppressed a curse and sighed again, angry, angry at herself, her father, her mare, everything. She determined a sort-of-tension in the atmosphere between them, between them all. Something… something wasn’t right. Something was off. It scared her. “Babs?” Her mare's gentle voice shook her from her daze, and she peered down into her eyes, mustering a slight smile. “Yea?” Apple Bloom reached up and kissed her chin, stroking her mane with her forehooves. “Are you gonna be alright?" Babs nodded. "Yea... What 'bout youze? Youze gonna tell me what's on youze mind?" Because youze'll neva be as good a liar as me, an' I can see summat weighin' on youze mind. Caught, Apple Bloom knew she couldn't escape. Babs would chase the truth now, hounding her until she revealed it all, weighty as it was. She gulped. Nervous, Apple Bloom kissed her mare again, buying a few precious seconds. Her heart made its presence known in her chest, accelerating rapidly, soon to be a crescendo. It wasn’t the right time to discuss this. She knew it wasn’t. Her letter had yet to meet its destination—she'd paid a traveling merchant to ensure it would reach the right hooves, but its recipient was yet to offer advice in return. Without that trusted advice, she wasn't sure how to best approach the situation, how to bring up the subject without sending everything to ruin. Not all the cards were on the table. Still, here she was, placing her bet before the dealer passed the action to her. After a nerve-wracking, deep breath, Apple Bloom tested the waters. ~ Soapy tugged at the brim of his Stetson, one-hundred-percent certain that his eyes betrayed him. He removed his hat and clutched it tightly, squinting through the dark, the wind, the sand. Several hoof-fulls of figures galloped towards the unnamed settlement, the uncharted territory where two of the bravest mares he knew tended bar and braved the sun. The place where an old vagabond sought to rebuild his life, to atone for the sins of his past. The place where many found their tabula rasa, where hope was not so much a dream as it was a livable reality. And in the hooves of the shadowy figures were the unmistakable, threatening shapes of steel and lead. The stallion spun on his hooves, almost tripping, and rushed back to his camp, drawing his revolver. Even if he were young and spry, even if his vision was perfect, and even if his hooves did not ache with each momentous step, he would be powerless to stop them alone. The seasoned sourdoughs and reckless greenhooves slumbering within their tents, however, might tip the scales in their favor. He had to try, if nothing else. Though the settlement in the distance was not his wards', Skagway the prospector—Soapy to his friends—would never allow innocents to suffer. And the sight of an approaching onslaught of outlaws only spurred his ancient blood, and wiped away his fatigue, and gave thunder to his voice. "GET UP! GET UP! EVERYPONY, GET UP!" ~ "Sugarcube, do ya ever think 'bout... the future?" "Apple Bloom...." Babs pulled her close. "We've talked 'bout dis befo'." "Right! An' when we do, ya say that you don't know what you see yerself doin' in five, ten, fifteen years. Right?" "Right." "Well..." Apple Bloom swallowed, her words trailing off into nothingness. "Do ya at least... see yerself as... Ah dunno... a family mare?" "Family mare?" Babs raised an eyebrow, confused. "Youze know how much ma family is important ta me, Bloom. Why else would I have wanted ta build dis bar? Ta gallop off ta Appleloosa at the drop o' a hat?" "That's not what Ah mean!" Apple Bloom shook her muzzle, fear and frustration battling for dominance in her voice. "Ah... Ah mean... do you ever want—" A sudden cacophony of pounding hooves and victorious whoops outside the inn bolted them to their hooves. Scrambling, Babs Seed reached the windowsill first, Apple Bloom joining her. Together, through the glass, they watched a tight-knit group of ponies storm towards the settlement, kicking up a torrent of dust. In their forehooves were weapons of all sizes and shapes—knives sharp and guns loaded. Hot on their heels galloped a familiar prospector, several of his workers trailing behind them. Soapy was screaming at the top of his lungs, challenging the invaders and rousing the slumbering wasteland, firing off his revolver into the sky as warning. Visions of black flame danced before Babs Seed and Apple Bloom. Here it was. The darkness was upon them. And it was cold.