Fallout: Equestria - Rolling Bones

by Honey Mead

Chapter 3-2: Baggage

Fallout Equestria: Rolling Bones
Chapter 3-2: Baggage

A mussed up grey mane tickled my nose, filling it with a faint scent of roses and dander. For a time, content to simply hold her in my forelimbs, breathing deeply of her scent, I didn’t move and enjoyed the peaceful quiet. My wing began to shift of its own accord, feathers moving across her barrel, lightly stroking her soft hairs, following the curves of her body. Still asleep, she twitched, and I smiled, sliding my feathers out, questing for another sensitive spot further down, below her ribs. She twitched again, her hindleg pawing at the open air as my pinion dusted over her belly. I stretched my wing just a little further.

Gray squealed in surprise, attempting to jump from the bed and only held down by my grip around her barrel.

Her escape foiled, Gray spun in my grasp, burying her glowing face in my barrel. I responded in kind, pulling her in tighter and using my wings like a cape to shield her from the world, sighing as I rested my chin atop her head and let my eyes slid closed.

I felt more than heard her speak, mumbling incoherently into my collar, and I returned the gesture by mumbling just as unintelligibly into her mane. She took away my pillow, pushing away until we were muzzle to muzzle, bleary but beautiful grey eyes staring into mine brought a smile to my lips.

“It’s time to get up, Love,” she whispered, so close that her words played across my lips.

Lazily, my eyes drifted away from hers, seeking and finding the morning sun flitting in through the unsecured tent flap. As if seeing the light was a wake up call to the rest of my senses, I started hearing the faint sounds of other ponies busy with their own morning rituals and tasks. I must have zoned out, because the next thing I knew Gray was giving me an odd look.

“Lucky?”

“Five more minutes?”

She shot me a smirk, a twinkle in her eye. “Sure, Love, five minutes.”

With that, she squirmed that much deeper into our embrace, nuzzling into the hollow of my neck. I just lay there, too asleep to get up, too awake to nod off, too content to want to risk thinking, but too amazed not to. Of all my fantasies, all the perversions and idle daydreams that found their way into my mind, sneaking in and setting up shop whether I wanted them to or not, all the dark desires and fetishes that I’d conjured up, this had been one I’d cast aside without more than a passing glance, secure in the certainty that it was simply impossible. Yet here I was, Nurse Gray curled up against my barrel, the taste of her a ghost on my tongue, without a clue as to how I should feel about it all.

Excited? Oh yes, there was no doubt about that. Worried? Perhaps a little, the Watchers were a tight knit group and I could name a few who’d not be at all happy with the… whatever this was, which led straight into the next emotion. Confused? Very.

Regardless of my own proclivities, I was having a difficult time reconciling it all. I’d already decided to ride it out and see where things went, but that wasn’t really the issue. As I saw it, there were two issues and one question for which I needed answers.

The first issue was that the mare who’d, for all intents and purposes, raised me was curled up in my forelegs after a night of great sex—really great sex—and I wasn’t sure how to feel about that. Secondly, there was the question of where this was going. If this was a serious relationship, the timing couldn’t be worse with the expedition on the horizon; if it was something less, well I wasn’t wholly opposed to that, either.

More importantly, I wanted to know where she learned to preen like that, because, speaking from experience, non-fliers don’t know the first thing about preening and it’s really embarrassing to have to correct them at every turn when they screw it up trying to give you a nice birthday present. My last coltfriend dumped me after I wouldn’t even let him try, because, seriously, it’s a pain.

Gray stirred, pulling away again, and planting a soft peck on my lips. “Times up.”

“But it’s so nice and cozy,” I pouted.

“Sorry, but I’ve got responsibilities and,” she paused to sniff herself, “I really need a shower. And don’t forget that you’re due for a shift in the tents today.” I opened my mouth to respond, but she rolled right over me, stomping my complaint flat before I could even voice it. “No more ‘five more minutes’. As much as I would love to indulge you, you know—Mmmff!”

Caught unawares, she only fought the kiss for a moment before letting herself enjoy it, until she decided that enough was enough and pulled my head back with her magic.

“Cute. Now would you kindly let me go?”

I grinned evilly, tightening my grip. “Eenope.”

She looked at me with a single eyebrow raised and horn aglow. I didn’t stand a chance.

My own feather settled on the ground beside my head as I slowly recovered from the involuntary full body spasms, breathing in short gasps. Gray, only half visible between the cot and the floor, paused at the exit before taking her leave. “Have a good day, Love. I’ll see you later.”

“Bye,” I said, relaxing back on the rough ground, smiling.

A few seconds later I finally decided to get up, rolling to my hooves and stretching, wings flared and back arched upward before pushing my haunches up, withers down, and forelegs out, like a cat just wakeing up from a nap, joints and spine popping with each movement. Twisting my head from side to side set waves rippling down my coat, throwing the most of the dry dirt off into the air.

Gray’s tent had a much more lived in feel than mine. An old aluminum desk filled the back, covered with papers and a small reading lamp. The cot, not designed to be shared, sat in the center, sticking out from the side wall, with a hooflocker at its dock-end. A number of posters adorned the walls, nothing really that interesting to me, scavenged from the walls of hospitals, designed to comfort and inform patients while they waited. There was also a bookshelf, half-full, mostly medical reference texts, though a few novels had found refuge there, near the entrance. It was the nightstand beside the bed that drew my full attention, or rather, the doll sitting on the Canterlot Medical Journal atop the nightstand.

Jumping over the bed with a beat of my wings, I retrieved Dash, threading my head through the aging necklace, its weight reassuring against my collar and neck, and with that I was ready to face the day.

It was only once I’d sat down for breakfast, raw spinach with a dusting of lily petals, that I realized my mistake and slammed my forehead into the table, grumbling about showers and mares being coy too early in the morning.

Dise was a surprisingly large city. Surprising mostly for those unfortunate members of its transitory population who managed to wander beyond the central square that housed the four major casinos. Outside of that most populated area, the buildings grew progressively more and more decrepit, if no less numerous, to the point where only the foolish or desperate would dare set hoof within.

Carrot didn’t let that bother him too much; he had a mission after all, an important mission even. Little orange hooves snuck into the derelict inn with nary a sound, rubber shodding proving far more sneaky than steel or iron.

The lobby was small and well lit by Wasteland standards. A pair of couches, pushed back-to-back, were the only seats provided for waiting guests. The receptionist’s desk on the right side was broken, and the office door missing, though Carrot couldn’t see over the counter to spy what lay inside.

The Wasteland’s greatest spy scoffed at the telltale scuffs across the floor, obvious signs of a pony who hadn’t thought to cover his tracks. They could’ve at least tried to hide. Not that it would’ve mattered much. Carrot’s team had already scouted out the room they were using, number 242, however, navigating to it through the interior was a more difficult proposition with such a run down mess of a building. Having such a blatant path laid out for him would undoubtedly save a lot of time trying to find a route that hadn’t been blocked off by debris or broken floors.

Carrot stuck close to the walls, both because he didn’t trust the floors—wood and carpet were not well-known for their longevity in the best of times—and to reduce the inevitable squeaking of the floorboards. Or he would have, if not for the broken walls and holes in the floor that littered the hallway. It was like somepony had drawn a squiggly line down the corridor and put as many obstacles as they could everywhere else.

He bypassed the first set of stairs, there were signs of somepony having gone up that way, but they lacked the repeated use of the ones going further down the hall. At the second set of stairs he paused. They didn’t look particularly sound, many bowing at the center. Still, the trail went over them, and the ponies who made it were certainly larger than Carrot.

As carefully as he could, Carrot climbed the steps, his groans matching the stair’s.

Stupid stairs.

Fourteen stupidly loud steps later saw him slipping down back toward the center of the building, his eyes scanning each door for the desired number.

And there it was, or what was left of it. A good sized chunk of a lower corner was missing, and it looked to have been kicked a few times by the hoof shaped gouges near the knob. Still, the brass placard showed 242, which meant that this was it.

Standing before the door, Carrot slicked back a lock of his green mane, making himself as presentable as possible. Then, with forehoof raised, he struck the door.

Knock, Knock, knock-knock-knock

A half second later he heard the reply, sounding like a hoof on tile.

Click, Click

Followed instantly by muffled cursing.

Carrot nickered, making a mental note to thank Spoon for that one. He waited for a bit, but, to his annoyance, nopony came to answer the door. Knocking again, he said, “I know you’re in there. Come on, open up.”

The door swung open to reveal a towering earth pony stallion. Blue coated and a seafoam mane, he was no less than twice as tall as Carrot and four times as heavy. He growled around the machine-pistol gripped between his teeth, nostrils flared.

“‘Oo da fock ‘re you?”

Carrot grinned, pulling his lips back as far as they would go to display all his teeth, nearly bouncing as he said, “I’m the distraction!”

“Whot?”

It was late morning when I finally made my way to the first-aid tents to start my shift. First stop: Tent One, to find out where I’d be working for the remainder of the day, patching up idiots and the occasional intelligent pony who actually had a decent excuse for being sick or injured.

As I entered the large thoroughfare, just inside the front gates, I couldn’t help but notice the large group of ponies near the back, more than twenty, busy stacking and filling crates and boxes, prepping for the coming expedition.

The emotional high I'd been floating on since the previous evening shriveled and died like a deflating balloon as doubts I'd managed to drown out and ignore reignited from glowing embers.

It was really happening, I had all of tomorrow, and then, one way or another, I'd be leaving. My options were more limited than a jenney in heat.

I was already barely staying airborne by the down of my wings, Clean Cutt made that perfectly clear after the last time: as though it was my fault Echo couldn't take a prank. The Watchers didn't 'disown' ponies often, the last had fallen afoul the Mustangs, never saw her again. Compounded with Dise's citizenship laws and I'd be left choosing between finding a new city or joining the Remnant, which was even less exciting than it sounded.

They’d tried to press gang me at least once before. I only managed to avoid military service by the grace of the Watchers and Nurse Gray.

My mother had been one of them until she was discharged for reasons I never knew but could guess. The Watchers took me in before the Remnant ever knew I existed. They found out somehow and there was an attempt to ‘reclaim’ me. Nurse Gray would have none of it though. I don’t know how she managed to get them to back down, but I am eternally grateful for it. 

I'm a lover, not a fighter after all.

I started moving again.

The trick was to get out of the caravan without getting kicked out of the Watchers. And there was the stitch, Clean Cutt was a dead-end, Gray'd already tried, Caps Worth lacked the authority to override him, and I doubted Tracker carried any more weight than either. I couldn't fane sick for obvious reasons, and I wasn't willing to do anything severe enough to guarantee success.

“Oh joy, it’s you.”

Lost in thought, I’d reached the tent without noticing and stepped inside. It was by far the smallest of the tents, barely enough room for the ancient metal table and folding chair that served as the front desk. The first stop for every potential non-emergency patient, it was where they went to get queued for the next available physician and where the daily assignments were kept. And because my day wasn’t bad enough, Echo was the lead for the day.

"I love you too, Echo."

He laid his forehooves on the table, the assignment sheet hidden beneath. "So, to what do I own the pleasure of your company?"

“The pleasure is all yours, I’m sure. Unless, of course, you want to change that,” I said, waggling my eyebrows suggestively.

His lips curled like he’d just bitten into a lemon. “You’re disgusting.”

“And you make asses look pretty, but you don’t see me throwing it in your face.”

“Some of us can’t afford to take beauty rests.”

“And some of us need them more than others.” He leaned back, crossing his forelegs and glared at me. Pouncing at the opening, I snagged the sheet and dragged it closer, searching for my name.

“Why are you bothering, it won’t change anything, nothing you do now will get you out of it.”

“A conscience is a terrible thing,” I said, spotting my name beside Tent 5, “how blessed you are to not be burdened so.”

“More so than the poor sods who draw your tent, perhaps.”

I turned to leave, not looking back as I slipped out of the tent. “Anything to keep them from suffering your face.”

It wasn’t my best parting line, but at least I got the last word, a victory in its own right. A quick trot later and I shimmied into my designated tent, ready to burn away the hours performing all the menial tasks of stitching wounds, diagnosing the common cold, and prescribing placebos.

To my great joy, there was a pony already awaiting my attentions, an ice blue unicorn stallion with a mane of silver, sniffing back a river of mucous that made every attempt to drown him in his own fluids.

Rule number one, always smile, it puts the patient at ease.

“Oh thank the goddess, finally!” he shouted as I walked in. “Ya’ve gottta help me Doc, I’ve got Lupus!”

It was going to be a long day.

It wasn’t Lupus. It’s never Lupus. He wouldn’t listen though, because a five minute search through a Canterlot Journal of Medicine is more reliable than the professional opinion of somepony who actually understands all the big words. After five minutes of trying to explain that to him, I finally gave up. The pills I gave him were red and marked with ‘M-6’ on one side. They were made from crushed and dyed Sugar Bombs that we compressed to look like pills. I gave him instructions to take two every morning for a week and then come back for a follow-up. He finally left a half-hour later.

The next pony to enter was far less agitating, despite spraying blood all over my muzzle when he showed me the gash along his neck. It was while I sewed the wound closed, the catgut strung between my pinions and muzzle like a game of cat’s cradle, that Hurdles decided to show up.

I caught sight of him in the corner of my eye as he strode in like a judge ready to pronounce judgement. After sliding the needle into place, I left it there so I could turn and greet him properly.

“Hey Big Se—”

That was the first time I’d experienced ‘Time Drag’, where everything seems to slow down, giving you the chance to admire the just how much shit is hovering over your head before it all comes crashing down. He was missing two nails out of his shoe, and the spot of rust just forming at the bottom edge.

Then I was blinking up at the tent’s ceiling and the unlit magelamp hanging from the support. I didn’t try to get up for a minute or two, just laid there, admiring the canvas fabric, a sky blue color with, I noticed, a slight rip that would need patching before the next rain came.

“Are you alright?”

It was the stallion I’d been sewing up. He held a cotton pad to his neck, covering up the half finished job, the suture getting tangled as it hung from his neck.

“I’m just peachy.” I tasted blood.

“Are you sure? Cause that looked like it hurt.”

“Hurt? Nah, that was just a love tap, you know how colts get when they like somepony and don’t know how to show it.”

I tried to sit up. It worked about as well as to be expected. That tear really needed to get fixed.

“Should I go get somepony?”

“What? No. I just need a minute to think. Just sit tight and I’ll finish up, and you can be on your way.”

My tongue fished around for a moment, isolating the cut in my cheek and poking it tentatively, making me wince.

I didn’t really worry about the why of it. I could list off at least five things I’d done to provoke him recently, and there was always the possibility that it was something I’d set up weeks ago that only just recently triggered; there was nothing quite like a long game prank. No, I was much more concerned with how I was going to explain it away to everypony else. I mean, I very probably deserved it, so their reactions could easily go either way. Tracker would reserve judgment until he knew enough. Aloe would get mad at Hurdles more than at me, especially if was in response to a prank, after all, the only proper response to a prank was another prank. Gray… I wasn’t really sure about Gray anymore, honestly. A few days ago, it would have been a simple thing to predict her behavior. I’d get a talking to and Hurdles would get the same, though perhaps to a lesser extent. Now though… things had changed.

Eventually, I did get off my back and back to work, finishing the suture and giving him some antibiotic cream to apply every morning and instructions to come back and have it re-inspected in a week’s time. He left, and it was a few minutes before the next patient arrived.

While I waited, I did something I’d been putting off. I thought about the previous night.

It had been wonderful. Exciting. Nudging up on taboo, which only made it that much more fun. I’d go so far as to say it was the best sex I’d ever had, whether that was because of the aforementioned reasons, or simply because Gray knew what she was doing was debatable. We hadn’t talked about it, but I had difficulty believing that it was a one time thing, both because Gray was not like me and the way she’d spoken this morning. If it had been ‘just sex’ we’d be able to go on as if nothing had happened; nopony else need know. A relationship though, that couldn’t be hidden, which meant that others would know about it, and I wasn’t a fool enough to think that everypony would approve.

I didn’t regret it, after all, great sex was great sex, and I definitely wasn’t going to do anything that would get in the way of having more of it, great sex was, after all, great sex, but did I love Gray that way, enough to commit to a relationship days before I leave for months? Sex was never just sex, after all.

I reached no conclusions before my next patient entered, an earth pony with a broken foreleg, a member of the Galicians.

The relationship between the Wachters and the gangs of Dise was the best definition of irony I’d ever found. Each of the gangs controlled a section of the city, divided into quarters where the businesses had to pain patronage to the controlling gang, for protection of course. The Watchers turned that system on its head. Operating as a, more or less, free clinic for the average citizens left much to be desired. So, in order to pay the bills, the gangs were required to provide a monthly donation to the Watchers or their members would be turned away. This allowed them to treat most problems without requiring any payment from the individual ponies, unless of course something more drastic was required, limb replacement for an example.

Setting bones was not fun for anypony involved. Fortunately, it was a simple fracture, barely a millimeter out of place. I still gave him some painkillers before setting the bone. He only screamed a little. It was while I set the splints that Tracker showed up.

Our greeting was formal and unobtrusive, which was normal for the old ghoul, as he took a seat in the corner and waited. At first it was fine, he sat there with his unreadable expression, saggy, torn flesh being what it was. My patient wasn’t too thrilled, sitting a little straighter and very much not looking in the ghoul’s direction as I finished up.

It was my first marefriend all over again. A week into our relationship, Tracker had come by as I was doing something, homework I think. He sat and watched me for two hours before saying anything, and when he did it was to critique my work. Not surprisingly, we devolved into an argument until he managed to steer straight to the topic he’d wanted to talk about in the first place: sex. Most. Awkward. Talk. Ever.

That was the first time I really understood how he saw our relationship, though I can’t say understand why. My best guess is that I always listened better more intently than everypony else, not for the reasons he’d have liked—it’s amazing how many survival skills translate into prank fodder. Having somepony listen to him must have meant a lot, because he took a shine to me quickly enough and began inserting himself into my life, and, if I’m completely honest, I was grateful to have a stallion in my life who cared.

That didn’t mean we got along all that well though, or that I appreciated his constant involvement in what I considered my private affairs.

It’s easy to imagine my surprise when, three hours later, he stood and left, mumbling a goodbye in his gravelly voice before exiting the tent. I watched him leave in silence, too stunned to say anything, he hadn’t even commented on my swelling cheek!

I had no idea what to make of that, and it bothered me for the rest of the day, making it hard to focus on being polite to my patients, especially when they were responsible for their own suffering. Nothing else of note happened for the rest of my shift, the sky darkening before I cleaned up for the night and set off toward my tent.

Landing just outside my tent, I paused. The lamp was on, a soft white glow flowing through the cracks. I was certain that I hadn’t left it on the previous day. Different scenarios ran through my mind, from the almost impossible of Echo waiting for a second round of sniping to the fear of Hurdles wanting to take another swing at me. If most of my day hadn’t been so disconcerting, I like to think I wouldn’t have been surprised to find Gray curled up on my bed with a book propped up between her forelegs.

She looked up, and, just for a moment, her lips were spread in a soft warm smile that did more to light up the tent than any lamp could hope to match.

Then she saw my face.

The arrival of the NCA, and its stabilization of the region, was one of the only reasons that Dise was able to prosper. Before then, like the rest of the Wasteland, any area without sufficiently large centers of population were at the mercy of Raiders and whatever horrors came crawling out of the irradiated woodwork. The NCA, through sheer force of will and bullets, took it upon itself the inenviable task of clearing away the unwanted chaff and made the roads between cities and towns, if not safe for individuals, then at the least traversable by caravans and larger groups, and reinvented tourism. Whether this was a good thing or not depends largely on one’s perspective.

Even though Dise was not, in the strictest sense, part of the NCA, it did accept their currency and was more than willing to open its gates to anypony with enough of it to last more than five minutes at the roulette tables.

At first the NCA citizenry came in trickles, then word spread, and the masses came in pastel waves of color and coin. Even though the casinos contained myriads of rooms for visiting guests, they simply did not have enough room.

To take up the slack, and make a few bits in the process, one entriperuial pony decided that it would be a worthwhile venture to reopen an old hotel. After months of scheming and back-room dealing, the one and only Stable 00 opened its unassuming doors.

Referred to by most as the ‘Double Ought’, Stable 00 was designed like most genuine Stable Tec stables, with an exterior that, were it not for the neon sign above it, would be mistaken for a small diner, complete with full sized pictures in the windows to support the illusion.

Stepping through the door quickly dispels the illusion, however, as it contains all one would expect to find in a hotel lobby, from divans to couches for guests awaiting their rooms, a counter behind which sits a clerk ready to assign rooms and dispense keys and two or three bell-hops on hoof at all times, just in case a guest requires their luggage to be carried for them. A single door, mimicking that of a naval hatch, at the lobby’s back leads to a small room with a stairwell, that in turn leads down to a small cavern of unfinished rock walls. Directly opposite the bottom of the stairs is the great cog, a mass of rusted iron with two large zeros painted in yellow at the center, standing open, welcoming the newly arrived ponies into its stainless steel walled depths. The Double Ought houses all the amenities one would expect of a hotel, a lounge, rooms, a buffet and separate restaurant, even a miniature casino with slots and two game tables, all fashioned after a Stable’s sterile steel aesthetic.

Just as with the exterior, however, it’s an illusion, the doors were hollow, crafted of polished sheet metal which also makes up the walls, ceilings, and floors, and the great cog, naught but painted wood.

Oracle had noted all of that the night before, filing it away with the locations of each doorway and exit, along with which patrons were likely to cause trouble. He did not particularly like the Double Ought, being underground and having only a single exit did nothing to comfort the old soldier, but it was better than lodging in a casino.

He was short for a stallion, just barely eye level to a mare, with a teal coat and fiery mane, tinted by streaks of grey, and wore a simple military harness with a large caliber pistol holstered at his left wither. A stone could learn a thing or two from the hard angles of his muzzle, weathered by age and abuse. The simple cross-hatched radio tower that adorned his flanks belied his profession.

Sitting at the small desk in the corner, his lieutenant, Solder Iron, a mint green unicorn of average height but slight of build, fiddled busily with a dismantled revolver held in a soft auburn aura, cleaning and inspecting each piece in-turn before setting it aside.

Just as he entered the apartment through the vertically sliding door, a unicorn mare stepped out of a similar door leading to the bathroom, pained groans following on her fetlocks.

She might have been pretty once, but the myriad of scars twisting her coat ruined any chance she had of winning a beauty pageant, the bruise on her left eye not doing her any favors. Wet splotches of red dotted her otherwise pristine blonde mane tide back in a tight braid, her tail similarly styled. In her blue magic aura she carried a long combat knife, wiping it against her coat, the blood disappearing amid red hairs. It was the thick silver collar, however, with a glowing red light at the hollow of her neck, that encouraged most ponies to take a step—or ten—back.

Their eyes met, and the mare stepped aside, allowing Oracle to pass by and enter the bathroom, the door closing behind him.

The bathroom was small, barely large enough for a pony to turn around, with toilet and sink on one side and the porcelain bath and shower combo against the far wall.

A stallion, a blue coated earth pony, lay on his back beep inside the porcelain bath.

Off the rack, held in a magenta field, a towel floated to the floor, settling down behind Oracle before he took his seat, eyes never leaving the other pony.

He was big, even by earth pony standards, with muscles of iron rippling beneath his coat and supported by bones as strong as steel; the Double Ought’s walls would have folded like paper against his onslaught. In his current state, however, he wouldn't be ripping aluminum foil, much less a wall or a pony. His right wither was disjointed, while his left eye swelled shut and each breath instigated a wince. Splotches of black marred his coat, leaving vibrant red streaks where they touched the glossy porcelain. His right ear was missing.

After letting out a long hiss, he opened his good eye and slumped back at what he saw. “Oh, fock me.”

“It is good that you understand the severity of your situation.” Oracle said. “It’ll make this go that much faster.”

“I guess dis means I ain’t gonna to be collectin’ dat bounty den, ay?” Oracle didn’t respond as the stallion hissed and cursed, shifting, trying to find a more comfortable position. “Whadda ya feed dat bitch, ay? A focking gallon of Med-x or some shit? Fock! I’d to’ve broken ‘alf ‘er damn ribs afore she pinned me.”

“That explains the ear.”

The stallion conscientiously reached for the stub, wincing at the light touch. “Fock. You donna fink it’s gonna ruin me luck wif da mares, ay?”

“I think you have more pressing concerns.”

“Hmm? Oh, nah, ifin you was gonna knock me off you’d’ve gone an’ done it.” Oracle snorted at that, but before he said anything, the stallion continued, “Uh, I ‘ate ta ask, but ifin you found me, did ya find me partner too?”

“Green, thin, likes knives?”

“Aye.”

“Yes.”

He slumped. “Ah. Shit. ‘Is ma’s gonna ‘ave me ‘ead, she is. Tried to warn ‘im I did, wouldn’t listen though.” After a moment of silence, he asked, “So, what now? Torture? I gadda say, gettin beat by dat bitch was embarrassin’ enough for one day, I don’ fancy anoder round.”

“Nothing that isn’t absolutely necessary.”

“Ain’t ‘xactly reassurin’.”

“I’m not in the habit of reassuring assassins.”

A spark of indignation burned behind the stallion 's words. “Oi, jus’ one damn—”

“I’m also not in the habit of splitting hairs with prisoners,” Oracle said making his annoyance plain. When no further protest came, he continued, “Admirable. Now, you are going to shut up and listen, or I will leave this room for exactly thirty minutes, during which time my associate will likely amputate as many of your limbs as she can before I get back.”

The stallion’s eyes dilated, his hoof shooting back to the jagged remains of his ear. Certain that they’d reached an understanding, Oracle continued.

“Good. The next part is just as simple. You will go to your employer in two days, and you will repeat these words to him. ‘Farsight has fled. He has left NCA territory forever and will not be coming back.’ Do you understand?” The stallion nodded. “Good, now, repeat it.”

“Farsight ‘ave fled. ‘E ‘ave left NCA territory forever and won’t be coming back.”

Oracle had him repeat both the words and instructions three more times before he was satisfied. He then stood and left, the hollow door sliding closed behind him.

Back in the apartment, Cross lounged on the bed, staring at a book held open in her hazy blue aura, while Solder sat frozen, staring at him with three bullets hovering over the empty chambers of his revolver. Oracle ignored them, focusing on the newest occupant, a zebress with a mane of tightly woven dreadlocks, whose stripes had gone grey with age.

“Forty-eight hours,” he told her with a tone of respect. “And, if you would, see to his wounds. It wouldn’t do for them fester.”

The zebress nodded, stepping around him without comment and into the bathroom without a word.

The other two fell in behind Oracle as he left the apartment; Cross slipping the book into her saddlebags as she hopped off the bed, while Solder, a few seconds slower, quickly holstered his revolver as he moved to catch up. Fluorescent lights illuminated the hallways as the trio moved toward the hotel's exit.

“Uhm... Commander?”

“Yes, Irons?”

"I... What... Are you sure about this?"

"No, I'm not."

The tempo of hoof beats changed, the hextet beat dropping to a mere quartet as Solder stopped. Oracle’s ear twitched back before he followed suit. A heavy intake of breath seemed to expand his whole body, only making him look all the smaller as he let it out.

When he next spoke, he sounded tired and drawn, like an old record played far too many times. “I’m not psychic.”

“I know that, Commander,” said Irons, recovering from the initial shock that had brought him up short. “It’s just… you...” He sighed. “You know he is going to follow us.”

“Very probably.”

“Then—”

“I don’t understand why we don’t just kill him,” Cross said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “If you had done that in the first place there would have been many fewer deaths.”

“Your opinions on this have already been noted.”

“As you say, Master.”

Oracle had to resist the urge to rub his temple. “Irons, find Locke and Stock, make sure they are at the funeral.”

“Comm—”

“Just do it. We’re having a meeting aftward and I want everyone present. Now go.”

Irons saluted before moving past the other two, cantering down the hallway. It wasn’t until he disappeared from sight, turning the first corner, that Oracle started moving again, Cross a half step behind.

“I’m getting too old for this,” he said with a grunt. “And not a damn word out of you.”

Cross’ teeth audibly clicked as they snapped shut.

*************************
Footnote:
Chapter 3 Progress: 66%