//------------------------------//
// Chapter 8 
// Story: Revenge 
// by Teq 
//------------------------------//


Chapter 8


Refuge was quite an impressive feat of engineering. I remember seeing it for the first time and thinking ‘What is this? A fortress?’ The city was completely surrounded by a wall of brick, well-constructed by some pretty skilled builders. There were towers every one hundred metres or so, likely erected by some very powerful magic users. In each tower were three guards, a sniper, a machine gunner, and somepony to operate the searchlights that had been hoisted up. The gate was constructed of what appeared to be several smaller gates welded together, operated by two pulley systems that ultimately made them swing inwards. Outside the gate were two sentry positions, composed of several walls of sandbags, with barbed wire strung along the exterior to stop invaders getting too close.

The Wanderer captain (as I shall now call him, I wasn’t sure if the Wanderers had a rank structure and I’m still not) stopped at one of these sentry posts. In a chair on the other side of the wall of sandbags was a mare, a rifle over her lap. Also in the post were two other ponies, one pony operating a field telephone, the other cooking on a small stove. I mean a really small stove; it was like a small cuboid with a fuel that looked suspiciously like cocaine, but probably wasn’t. I don’t think cocaine is that flammable. Anyway, the captain flashed identification and the mare nodded, “How many in your party, sir?”
“Five, including me, plus two casualties.”
“Okay, can you count them in for me? Let me know if there’s anypony you don’t recognise. Sparkplug, can you get on the phone and let the guards on the pulleys know that we’ve got ponies to come in?” The stallion on the phone nodded and began to speak into the headset.

The captain stood to one side of the sentry post, counting in each member of his crew. He’d laid me on the floor next to him so he didn’t have to hold me whilst he did so. He first counted the medical pony as he walked past, letting the guard know that the Scavenger was actually a friend and not a threat to them. The guard nodded, but didn’t seem overly convinced. He counted the grenade totting mare as she walked past, then the sniper pony, then his 2IC. He finally counted himself. He turned to the mare, “All present and accounted for. What of the survivors from the scout party?”
“Still patching up in the medical ward last I checked. What of the commanders? Any sight of them?” The captain bowed his head. He removed his helmet, holding it to his chest.
“There shall be mourning to do tonight.”
The mare sighed, removing her helmet too, “That’s a shame. I’ll notify their families.”
“That would be kind of you. Thanks.” The mare waved a hoof as if to say ‘no problem’.

The gates opened slowly, creaking slightly as they did so. When they’d been fully opened, the mare nodded, “Okay, you’re good to go through. Remember to sign in with the Border Office.”
“I won’t.” The captain picked me up and flung me back over his back. I wheezed as I hit his armour. I was seriously more worried about my ribs than I was about my bullet wound at this point. It was a wonder I could still breathe. He let the rest of his crew walk in first. I noticed that Wraith had had his shoulder wound patched up by the medic. He also had a makeshift bandage over his back, stemming the blood flow and holding off infection. The captain carried me through, and then the gates closed behind us. The ponies that had rescued me milled around waiting for orders. The captain sighed once, “Shrap, can you take this one to the medical ward? You take that one too Truman. The rest of you go back to your duties. I’ll sign you all in at the Border Office.” There was a chorus of ‘yes sirs’ before everypony went about their duties.

The mare with the grenade launcher handed her weapon to the sniper pony, before accepting me onto her back. She smiled, “You okay up there?”
“Yep. Try and walk a little smoother than you captain. I’m not sure my ribs can take it!” She chuckled.
“I’ll try. That’s quite a nasty wound. You’re going to need to get that patched up before it goes septic.”
“Thanks genius.” She chuckled again and then set about taking me to the medical ward. The ride was a lot smoother on her back, with less jostling and bumping about to be done, and more chilling and focusing on the pain in my rear, which was getting quite bad. My haunch had moved on from feeling like stone to feeling like steel. The pony carrying me I assumed was called Shrap, whilst the medic supporting Wraith must have be Truman. I tried to remember those names.

The medical ward was thankfully quite close to the entrance. Outside were several ponies, stallions and mares, in white clothes with red crosses adorning their chests. They were all either milling around, carrying medical supplies on their backs or bearing stretchers between two of them, a wounded pony laying upon them, or just empty and waiting to receive more. I noticed that the building looked like a professional hospital, and decided that there must be some very skilled ponies living there. The hospital had full electricity as well and they looked to be stocked up to the eyeballs with medical supplies. They likely had a few professional doctors on campus too.

Shrap carried me through the main doors and placed me in a chair. I yelped in pain, so she quickly lifted me up again and lay me on a sofa to one side. That was far more comfortable, and I sighed as I relaxed on the fabric seat. The main lobby was large, with doors and corridors leading off to several different departments. Shrap went over to a desk and a receptionist wearing what in my opinion was a very sexy nurse’s uniform smiled at her and said something I couldn’t catch. Shrap gestured over to me and the receptionist nodded, picking up a telephone and dialling a number. A different receptionist (wearing a much less sexy nurse’s uniform) spoke to Truman, who was still supporting Wraith.

I was surprised when, in a few minutes, a nurse poked my shoulder and asked, “Are you the mare called Bucky?”
“Yes. What of it?”
“I’m here to take you to a room where you can have your wound treated. Can you walk?”
“No.”
“Okay, I’ll carry you.” I was thrown onto the nurse pony’s back (I was beginning to miss independent walking) and carried down a corridor with a sign over it saying ‘Combat Wounds’. I was a little shocked to see how densely populated the wing was. In every room we passed (the nurse and I) there were rows and rows of bunks with wounded ponies lying on them, groaning in pain or resting and letting their bodies recover after their surgery. The majority of the ponies were Wanderers, with wounds ranging from concussions, bullet wounds, stab wounds, burns and shrapnel damage all the way to missing legs, mangled wings or horns, missing eyes or shredded flesh. It was quite a ghastly sight. I also saw, amongst the Wanderers, some black clad LRSA personnel, most of which had minor wounds compared to some of the Wanderers that were close by. I saw two ponies standing talking to each other, one on crutches and one with a patch over his right eye, who both wore the iconic blue berets of the NSA. I wondered how they’d come to be out here so far from any established NSA compound. Maybe refugees like me, but I didn’t think I recognised their crests. I only caught a quick glimpse of them as the nurse carried me past, and all the NSA crests looked the same anyway, at least from a distance. In one room, a mare standing over him treated a rather bad burn all along his left side, was a stallion in a khaki tunic which dangled loosely from his right shoulder. I was quite surprised to see the Wanderers treating Scavengers here.

The nurse took me into a room which was only about half full and laid me on a bed. It was rather comfortable (deceptively comfortable actually, the mattresses looked like slabs of marble) and I felt quite relaxed. It was just like the sort of medical beds you see in television programmes, with the clipboards on the end and the low tables to one side. I was disappointed when I realised I didn’t have a heart rate monitor or one of those long pole things with the blood bags hanging from them, but hey, you can’t have it all.

The nurse smiled at me, “We’re quite under staffed at the moment and we have a lot of casualties to treat, so expect quite a wait before a doctor comes to look at you. In the meantime I’m going to treat your wound to stop it getting infected, okay?”
“Whatever you have to do, you’re the medical expert.” I felt quite exposed, lying on the bed whilst the nurse prepared a rag of antiseptic, gazing at the hole in my rump and humming softly to herself as she worked. I yelped in surprise as something cold touched the (very painful) bullet wound and stung like crazy.
“Oh, sorry, I forgot to mention; this is going to sting quite a lot.” I chuckled. As if I wasn’t used to pain. It did sting quite a bit though, and I winced as the nurse stroked the cloth gently over my wound. After a minute or two she smiled at me again, “All done! You should be okay for now; I’ve also put a patch on to stop it bleeding too much. Wait here for about an hour or two and a surgeon will be with you. If you need anything, ring the bell and somepony will come to help you. Okay?”
“Thank you. For everything, thank you.” She smiled.
“Just doing my job.” She turned her back on me and walked out of the room.

As I lay waiting for the doctor Wraith was brought in and laid on the bed next to me. The nurse helping him was a little less friendly than mine, and she didn’t add any of the smiles or ‘are you okays’ that mine had. It was probably on account of his uniform, and I’d heard several Wanderers refer to the Scavenger uniform as ‘Bastard Khaki’. When she left, Wraith fell asleep almost immediately, which was fine by me. He needed rest. I decided to take the opportunity to scope out who else I was in the room with.

The room was about half full with ponies, medical staff and patients alike. There were two doctors in the room, who were scanning the ranks looking for ponies that needed more urgent aid, before pointing them out to some stretcher bearers who would carry them off to an operating theatre to get treated. The room smelt strongly of antiseptic, but that wasn’t much of a surprise. There were nurses scurrying about conducting various duties. After a while I managed to figure out who the head nurse was, a young stallion who had a red armband on his left leg, as well as the usual white garb with red cross. He was patrolling up and down the room, monitoring the activity of each nurse under his command and directing them where they were needed. Most nurses were busy either helping patients who had already been treated back into their bunks or provided basic first aid to those who needed it. There were a few that sat in chairs and happily chatted with their patients, but they usually weren’t there for long before the head nurse redirected them else were.

In terms of patients, there were quite a few. The ones closest to the door had already been treated. Most of them had bandages on, around their waists, chests and heads, stemming the blood flow after bullets and shrapnel had been removed. Some had slings around their forelegs, supporting broken bones whilst other had crutches for broken hind legs. Some had eye patches where they’d either lost an eye or been blinded by gas or shrapnel. It was actually quite a well-known fact that the Scavengers had previously deployed gas and other chemical weapons in combat, and several ponies had been harmed for life by the weapons. Some ponies had bandages covering whole sides of their body, encasing half their face or wrapping around their entire leg where they’d been burned by incendiaries. One poor mare had a set of crutches and a bandage around a stump where her right hind leg had once been.

I did find it quite amusing when I noticed a Scavenger and an Equestrian LRSA soldier in adjacent beds. One (the LRSA soldier) had a bullet wound in his shoulder which had been bandaged; the other (the Scavenger) had several bandages along one leg where he’d been hit by shrapnel. They seemed to be having a rather heated debate, and after eavesdropping for a few minutes, I found out that they’d actually been in the same firefight before being wounded. They were both insisting that their respective sides had won the fight, but none of them seemed to be making any head way.

I lay in my bed for about two hours, watching the other patients or just relaxing with my eyes closed, letting my imagination flow. I hadn’t slept in a while, but the pain in my rear was preventing me from drifting off, so I just dozed. I couldn’t get over the fact that I’d finally kissed somepony. It’s childish I know. I shouldn’t go on about it but it was so exciting at the time and it was dominating my thoughts, demanding my attention. And I was more than happy to devote all of my attention to it. I’d always known it would be fun, that it would feel good, but I’d had no idea that it would have been that good. I recall in my early adolescent years (after I’d started to become really interested in stallions) sitting watching the colts about my age walk past, going about their daily duties. Some of them I liked and had a bit of a crush on, most I didn’t. In an NSA compound, most of the colts aren’t anything special. A lot of them end up joining the militia or the guard, and they were the really boring ones. I always fancied the ones who planned to be merchants, scientists, architects and so on. Most of all I liked the ones who insisted that they were going to go and explore Equestria, searching for wonders that had been lost after the Revolution.

Actually there was only one stallion like that, and his name was North Point. Oh, he was such a dreamy stallion. He was a pegasus and he was the colt that all of the fillies my age were really in to. He was good looking, smart, charismatic and adventurous. His father was in the guard and had actually been a member of the Engineering Corps of our town. As an engineer he’d travelled to several NSA towns to do maintenance work and every time he came back to our district he would tell North stories about his travels. North would then pass those stories on to anypony that would listen. I can remember sitting on a bench one afternoon and eavesdropping as he told a group of three fillies about his father’s trip to Canterlot (which was the biggest and best NSA town; anypony who got there was either minted or very good at their job), “Apparently all the houses there are three stories tall! There are shops on every street corner and the streets are so clean they shine! The guards there where gold uniforms and they carry guns bigger than any we’ve got here. The ponies there are all very wealthy and spend their time oblivious to the horrors of the wilderness, instead looking though shop windows or sitting in cafes sipping coffee.”
“That sounds wonderful,” said one filly.
“Will you take me there someday?” said another. North smiled.
“Someday, fillies, I’m going to take you all to Canterlot! I’m going to go out there into the wilderness and carve a path straight to the city and you can all join me!” He was so cocky, but he could afford to be.

The fillies would swoon as he cast them a coy wink and I would feel my heart flutter. I wondered if he’d ever take me to Canterlot too. He never really noticed me, far more interested in daydreaming about the adventures he’d have than mares. Still, I can remember imagining what it would be like to kiss him. I didn’t know much about kissing, but from what I’d seen on park benches I knew enough to fuel my fantasies. I can remember talking to one filly who’d actually been privileged enough to get to that stage with him. I remember asking, “What’s it like?”
“What?”
“You know,” I winked, nudging her shoulder. “What’s it like to make out with North?”
“It’s like eating the most delicious and passionate ice cream in all of Equestria,” she’d replied going all dreamy eyed. I remember feeling all fuzzy after that. Had I had wings, they’d have pompfed.

I’d listen in to his stories, listening intently as he went on about great cities like Manehattan, Canterlot, Fillydelphia, Trottingham and so on. I would remember choice phrases that he’d say to other mares like, “I can only dream of how wonderful you’d look in their clothes.” Or “I’m sure that that would suit you marvellously.” He was so refined in the way he spoke. Then when I was alone in my parent’s house and all I could think about was him, I’d cast my mind back and remember those phrases, imagining he’d addressed them to me. “Yes, Bucky, someday you and I will see all of Fillydelphia!”
“Someday, Bucky, we’re going to Canterlot! First Class, all expenses paid, we’re going there and we’re going to have a blast!”

Oh, but I shouldn’t dwell on past crushes and fantasies. If I just went on about all the things I conjured up and all the stallions (and admittedly a few mares) I wanted to make out with, I’d be here for months. I was awoken from my rather pleasant doze when a doctor shook my shoulder, “Hello? Are you awake?”
“I am now.”
“I’m ready to treat you now. You’ll be taken to my theatre on a stretcher. Try not to worry. It’ll all be over soon.” I nodded, confirming that I’d understood. The doctor stepped out of the way of the two mares carrying a stretcher between them. The doctor picked me up gingerly and placed me on the stretcher, which felt a lot less comfortable than the bed. The mares began to move me out of the room. I looked back at Wraith. He’d already been treated and was now fast asleep again, fresh bandages on his wound and the gash down his back sewn up. I hoped everything had gone okay.

I was carried down a well-lit corridor, the lights blinding me as I looked at them. I looked to one side instead to save my eyesight. The doctor held a door open for the mares, who thanked him and carried me inside, resting me on an operating table before leaving the room. There was only one other pony in the room, a stallion with a surgical mask. The doctor thanked the nurses and shut the door, before turning back to me, “My name is doctor Blood Drop, but a lot of patients find that a little intimidating, so you can just call me doctor, or Stan.”
“Why Stan?”
“I like that name. Don’t worry, I do have an actual doctor’s degree, and I’m perfectly qualified. Now, I see you’ve suffered a bullet wound to the flank. We get that quite a bit. It seems a pretty good place to aim if you want to cripple somepony. Now, let’s have a look here.” Stan (I’m calling him that because I think it’s funny) donned a surgical mask and carefully removed the patch from my wound. It was a little sticky, but came free relatively painlessly. Stan nodded, “Okay, it doesn’t look infected. You’re very lucky. Most of the time a wound like this wouldn’t take long to turn bad. Okay, would you like me to apply an anaesthetic, or are you okay to just bite down on a rag?”
“I’d much prefer the anaesthetic.”
“Very well. Um, Silence, could you knock this pony out for me?”

The last thing I remember about the operation was a mask being placed over my muzzle, then everything going blurry, then blackness. When I woke up, I was back on my bed, only a slight ache in my flank. I glanced down at it. Stan had done a god job, removing the bullet, cleaning the wound and finally stitching it up with orders to ‘let it rest so it can heal properly’ (that’s what the nurse told me he’d said). There was also a dish on the table next to me. Not a big one, it was quite small, so I picked it up and looked inside. I laughed. Stan clearly had a sense of humour. Inside the dish was a small, rounded lump of metal, washed clean. It was the bullet from my wound, and next to it on a separate piece of paper was a small note reading, “Be careful next time! Regards, Stan.” I kept that bullet. I still have it. I’ve kept it to this day, as a reminder of my first real war wound. The funniest aspect of my situation? North never did get to explore the wilderness. He never went to Canterlot, or Manehattan, or Fillydelphia, or Trottingham, or even Appleloosa. He joined the guard when he reached the right age, and only after my surgery did I recognise the NSA stallion on crutches, with his perfect mane, flawless coat and stunning smile. It was all rather ironic really.

***

I spent the rest of that day, plus the entire of the next letting my wound properly heal. Stan had come to visit me on the second day to check on my progress and said that I should be able to walk by morning the next day, albeit gingerly. I would have to wait another one or two days for my walking ability to be fully restored, at which time I was to come back to have the stitches removed and any remaining wounds healed by some magic. Why not use magic to treat the wound as it was? Because it was found out during the Revolution that magic was only a temporary fix for larger wounds. It would heal over the visible areas, but put too much strain on the wounded area and it would split open more severely than the original wound and several revolutionaries had been killed through such faults. As a result, it was agreed that proper medical equipment would be used first, and then once the wound had almost fully healed, magic would be used to tidy up and trim round the edges.

When morning came the next day, I carefully hauled myself out of the bunk, immediately noticing how stiff my wounded leg was. It hurt to move it, but with some effort I managed to make a few lengths of the room, only twice getting in the way of the head nurse. I was relieved to be able to walk again, even if it was a little painful. I looked over at Wraith, sadness striking me like a baseball bat. There had been some bad news. Wraith’s back had become infected, and there was a chance that the infection would leave him paralysed. The thought of Wraith being unable to move for the rest of his life hurt me more than any bullet wound. The doctors had treated it to the best of their ability and had given Wraith a powerful dose of antibiotics, but now only fate would tell. He was still resting, his wounds far more severe than mine. He had made a huge sacrifice. I only wished I could repay him in some way. Short of throwing myself in front of a moving train to knock him out of the way, though, I wasn’t sure precisely how.

I decided I’d had it with this hospital, with its sterilised rooms and smart arse doctors (all though it did have some nice nurses). I asked to be discharged that very day, and after Stan came by to check on my condition, he authorised the discharge. He said I would be okay if I was careful and didn’t put too much strain on my leg. He advised against strenuous activity, and suggested I took it easy for a few days, perhaps visit one of the town’s bars, of which he said it had many. I thanked him for all he’d done and he smiled, bowing his head and modestly putting it down to his brilliant skill as a doctor, and not even mentioning the fact that it was hardly a severe wound.

I waited a few minutes whilst a Wanderer brought all my equipment over from the store house, and I happily accepted it off him, glad to have my saddlebags back on my back (despite how heavy they were) and my belt around my waist, my Glock at my side. I limped out of the hospital and took in a breath of unsterilized air. The Wanderer that had brought me my gear put a hoof on my shoulder, “You’ll need a place to stay. If you have the bits, you can rent yourself out a room in one of the inns or a hotel if you’re really well off. If not, you can always go to the Immigration Officer and they’d be happy to accommodate you. If you’d rather stay in a room of your own and not share with thirty or so other refugees, you’re always welcome to stay with me, should you need to.” I thanked him for the advice, now glad that I’d scooped up those bits at the café.

I waved the stallion goodbye before slowly but surely setting off down the street, looking for a good inn. I stopped a mare in the street, who said that there was an inn called “The Flamethrower” just around the corner that had good food and drink and had modest prices for some pretty good rooms. I thanked her by sliding a packet of cigarettes into her chest pocket. She smiled and thanked me for the gift that I was only too happy to pass on. Like I have said before, I hate cigarettes.

I found The Flamethrower after a brief scout about. It was hard to miss. It was quite a large building, the name of the inn scrawled over a large wooden sign that hung over the door. It also had a picture of a Wanderer pony wielding a menacing weapon spewing flames in a wide arc, what looked like an oxygen tank on his back, but which was likely fuel for his weapon. I pushed open the door and was immediately greeted by a glorious smell of proper food and the sound of upbeat music reaching my ears. It had been a while since I’d been anywhere this hospitable (apart from the hospital, but that was cheating) and I was excited at the prospect of actually having a good time.

The inn was full of ponies, mares and stallions alike, sitting around circular tables with mugs of drink in their hooves, drinking and laughing together. The bar was on the far side of the room, behind which stood a mare with a bright red peaked cap on her head, slanted sideways. She was attracting a lot of looks from hopeful stallions, but she paid them no heed. She must have received a lot of tips. There was a stage on the left side of the room, relative to the door, upon which stood a mare in a drab green uniform with a tin helmet on, singing into a microphone. To one side of the stage a stallion with a hat that made him look like he was directly out of the seventies played a slightly out of tune piano with the help of his horn’s magic. There was a fire in the room too, or more accurately there was a fireplace, but no fire. It was far too hot for that.

I made my way through the packed inn, eventually reached the bar, sitting on a stool and waiting patiently for the barmare to pay attention to me. She had just popped out from behind the bar to deliver a tray of drinks to a group of four young stallions sitting around a table near the stage, one of whom made some form of either sexist or immature comment, which warranted a slap in the face. The mare placed the tray on her back and said, “Excuse me, sir, you shall not refer to me in such a manner, or I’ll have you barred.” There was a chorus of ‘ooooh’ and the other three stallions began to tut and waggle their hooves at their friend, who fended them off by shoving his hoof in the face of the nearest stallion. The barmare turned around and shook her head, rolling her eyes before returning to the bar.

I raised a hoof to try and attract attention, but she was distracted by a different mare who ordered a drink. I sighed and waited my turn, watching as the barmare filled a mug with a frothy liquid, before passing it to the mare and charging her two bits. There was an exchange of coins, a ching from a cash register and then a call of, “Who’s next?” A field of hooves went up, but the barmare decided to pay attention to me first, “Hey there. How can I help you? I haven’t seen you before.”
“I was just brought here. I have a hell of a story to tell, but I’ve just recovered from a rather painful wound and I’m a little tired. I was just wondering if I could get a room here and perhaps a drink?”
“If you’ve got thirty bits then I can get you a room key. As for drinks, we have a wide selection on offer. If you’re a softy you can stick with a simply tap water, or perhaps a soft drink. If you’re a real pony, you could go for one of our many ales, or if you’re seriously hard core then consider ordering out strongest cocktail, the appropriately named ‘Flamethrower’! So what’ll it be?”

I was a bit flustered from the long list of drinks I could potentially be ordering, but I blinked myself back into reality and said, “Oh, uh, yea I’ll have a room please, and maybe just a tap water.”
“Really? Come on! For a mare who’s survived in open combat, you really want to be stepping up to an ale! We’ve got a wide selection on offer. Our ale of the day is an old brew, ‘Hearthswarmer’, but that’s only for serious ale drinkers. A novice like you would probably be safer with a ‘Remedy’. That’s an ale brewed right here in Refuge. It’s not very strong but it’s got a kick to it, with a heart-warming effect and a good taste. If you like I can get you the drinks menu?” I was again blown back by the diatribe of drinking vocab, but eventually came round again. I glanced off to one side awkwardly. I’d never had alcohol before. I’d never even touched a drop of the liquor in my father’s bar at home after both my parents had died. I took a deep breath as I made my decision.
“Okay. One room and a Remedy, please.”

The barmare smiled, “Thata girl! I knew I could convert you! That’ll be thirty two bits in total.” I fished around in my saddlebags looking for the bits from the café. Locating them, I counted out thirty five bits and placed them on the bar. The mare counted them, “You’ve given me three extra bits. Is that ‘keep the change’ or a calculation error?” I winked at her and flashed her a smile.
“Keep the change.” She smiled back at me and added my change to the register. She fished a key off a hook and placed it on the bar in front of me, before cleaning a fresh mug and filling it from a tap with an admittedly rather delicious look, before slamming that down next to my key.
“Your room is the first on the left as you go up the stairs. Enjoy your ale.” She winked and I smiled back.

I picked up the key and put it in my hat. I didn’t have any pockets in my jumper and I didn’t want to put it in my saddlebags. I’d just have to fish it out again later. I wrapped my hoof around the mug, gazing into the liquid inside. On second thoughts, maybe I should have started with a simple cider as opposed to this ale. I felt a little nervous having never drank alcohol before. I’d never even had a sip of champagne at weddings. I picked up the mug and swilled around the liquid. Oh well. I’d paid for it already, I might as well drink it. I placed my lips around the edge of the mug, tipping my head back slightly and letting my first sip of alcohol slip down my throat.

It had a bitter taste, which I didn’t like. But it had subtle fruity undertones which I did, and the bitterness took on a rather appealing taste after a while. The liquid wasn’t very thick and quite mild, but it was refreshingly cool and made me feel fuzzy. I smiled to myself. This stuff was good. Why’d I never had any of this before? I took another sip of the ale, relishing in the oral cacophony of flavours before settling down again, ready for my next taste. I was aware that alcohol was addictive, but it was nothing I couldn’t handle.

The singer on the stage bowed to a round of applause from the drinkers, several wolf whistles going up as she re-joined a group of mares at a table towards the back. The barmare went over to the stage and spoke into the microphone, “That was a wonderful performance there. Does anypony else want to come up and share their talents with us? What about you lot at that table there? Yeah, come on, you look like you’ve got some skill! Hey, if you don’t you’ll at least give us all a laugh! Come on, get up here!” The group she’d pointed out stood up and made their way to the stage to a round of applause. They were all dressed in the standard wanderer outfit, but they all had the same golden pin on their shirts. The group consisted of four ponies, two stallions and two mares.

One of the stallions (who had a sky blue coat and black mane) requisitioned an acoustic guitar and quickly tuned it. One of the mares took the place of the pianist, making a few test taps at some of the keys. The other stallion picked up a bass guitar from the back of the stage and checked it was tuned, whilst the remaining mare set up behind a makeshift drum kit, producing two sticks from under her tunic. The lead stallion walked up to the mike. I would have joined in in the next round of applause but I had my ale at my muzzle and was enjoying its flavours once again. I’d already drank about half of the mug. The stallion put on a charismatic smile, “Hey chaps. Um, well we’re not exactly brilliant but, we hope you enjoy our performance.” The stallion had an accent that definitely wasn’t Equestrian. He sounded British, but I couldn’t tell where exactly from. He was well spoken, and seemed to know how to win over a crowd. He quietly counted to four before strumming softly on his guitar and singing into the microphone.

I finished my ale and slammed it down on the desk, licking my lips. That had tasted great. My head felt like a bubble bath and my vision blurred slightly. I blinked and it cleared but I definitely felt a little dizzy. It was nothing, surely, I was just tired. The perfect thing for me was another ale, just to take the edge of my fatigue. Yes, that sounded like a good idea to me. I signalled for the barmare and asked for another Remedy. When I went to say ‘please’ I was a little amused when it came out as ‘pleashe’. The barmare chuckled, “Wow, this isn’t even a strong ale. You’ve only had one mug and you’re already tipsy. You really are new to this. There you go, but that’s your limit, okay? No more after that.”
“Trusht me! I’m fine! I’ve been through a lot, I know what I’m doing.”
“Mmm. Sure.” I forked over another two bits and received another mug of the delicious beverage, immediately sipping from the top, foam clinging to my nose. I snorted and giggled, licking the foam from my muzzle.

The British pony had picked up the song a bit. Now he was jumping up and down and strumming enthusiastically on the guitar as the pianist stood up and strummed out a kick ass solo whilst the drummer bashed away and the bass player stood there casually plucking at his strings. I threw my free hoof into the air and yelled a loud, “Woooooo!” The stallion looked over at me and winked, as the piano solo ended and he went back to singing. He had a heavenly voice, so rich and soothing. He was pretty hot too. No, I was loyal to Wraith. Wait, were Wraith and I… going out? Were we marefriend and coltfriend yet? Is that what one kiss made us? Was I ready for commitment like this?

Who the fuck cared? I had my ale and some pretty killer music and I was pretty damn pleased with myself for no reason at all. The song ended and I joined in the applauding, letting out a wolf whistle as the four of them bowed in unison. They left their instruments at the back of the stage (where applicable) and a rather disgruntled pianist re-joined his rightful place at his piano. Three members of the group veered off back to their table whilst the sky blue stallion who I fancied came over to the bar and sat next to me, ordering four drinks. The barmare smiled at him, “That was a pretty cool performance.” The stallion shrugged.
“I’ve been playing guitar for a long time. It’s second nature to me.”
“I love your accent by the way. Where are you from?”
“Cornwall, southwest England. Do you think my accent could get me a discount on this lot? It’s my turn to buy this round and I’m not doing too great on cash.”
“Tell you what, they’re on the house. Consider it payment for your performance.” The stallion gave a very crisp thank you which I found very posh and I leaned on the bar. Or I attempted to lean on the bar; my elbow missed and I slipped.

The stallion grabbed hold of me and helped me back up, “Careful there chap! Watch where you’re putting your limbs.”
“You’re pretty hot.”
“I’m flattered. What’s your name?”
“Bucky,” I hiccupped.
“Charmed. I’m Francis. You’re that mare from the NSA aren’t you? The one crusading around the wilderness fighting the Scavengers?” I was only half listening to that. I swallowed my final drop of ale and slammed the mug back onto the bar. I stared blankly for a second as my vision swam a little, then brought my bubble bath brain back to reality.
“Yea! Yea, I’m that mare. How’d you know?”
“It’s my job to know things.”
“What are you, some kind of spy?” I said with a chuckle. “Have you been stalking me or something? ‘Cause I’m flattered, I really am!” I went to take another sip of ale before I remembered I’d finished it. Francis chuckled.
“Sort of. I prefer Intelligence Officer. I get paid to know everything important that goes on in the wilderness, and that means you.” I looked to one side, my head spinning and making it hard to focus.

The barmare was taking her time with Francis’ drinks, making sure to clean each individual mug several times before slowly filling it, adding little drops very slowly to the top as the liquid slowly filled. She was watching me talk to Francis, obviously quite amused. Francis tapped the bar, patiently waiting for the drinks to finally arrive. He returned to talking to me as he waited, “You just got out of hospital. Was you’re wound bad? Did they fix it okay?” I thought for a moment about what he’d said, trying to remember how to speak English. When I’d figured out what it was he’d actually asked and remembered that I had indeed been wounded, I burped loudly before answering him.
“Uh, yea. No it wasn’t that bad. Hurt like shit, though. I’m glad it’s gone. That hole was ruining my beautiful ass.” He chuckled.
“Mmm. It is quite a beautiful ass,” he said, returning his attention to the barmare and tapping his hooves on the bar in annoyance. The mare smiled benignly as if nothing was wrong. I stifled another belch before yawning widely. I looked back at him.
“Are you any good at kissing?”
“I like the think I know my stuff.”
“Wanna give me a few pointers?”
“Are you hitting on me?”
“Shut up and give me a kiss handsome!” I forced my lips onto his aggressively. He recoiled backwards in surprise before pushing me away gently, chuckling nervously.
“No, ta. I’ve already got a marefriend. I think you need to go up to bed. Come on, I’ll escort you upstairs if you like.”

I yawned again, giving a slight hiccup before swinging myself off the barstool and yelling a little louder than I probably should have, “I-I can make my way up the shtairs perfectly well, taaaaaa!” I stumbled towards the stairway before looking back at Francis. “I don’t need you to show me how to climb shtairs! Good night!” I threw myself onto the stairs, missing a step and tripping slightly before righting myself. Eventually (after much stumbling) I made it to the top of the stairs, where I promptly struggled to get the key into the lock. Once I finally managed it, it took several attempts to get it twisted in the right direction before the door flung inwards and in I stumbled. I pulled the key out of the door, slammed it, locked it again, then threw myself onto the bed where I laughed to myself. It felt good to be alive. I threw my newly fixed rump into the air and stared at it, “I’m all better,” I slurred. “All… all… b-better.” With that I fell asleep, my rear high in the air.

Most of this I was told by the barmare, but the last bit I recall from what little memory I still possess of the night.

When I at last did wake the next day, I had a splitting headache. I clapped a hoof to my forehead (which actually made it worse), and swung myself off the bed lethargically. I didn’t want to get up, but I felt I had to. I gazed at the wall clock in the room. It was one o’clock in the afternoon. I groaned. When I’d mustered the energy to move again, it was very slowly and unsurely. I pushed my way into a side room which turned out to be a bathroom (with a full bath and everything). I nodded, this was good. I promptly threw my head over the toilet and threw up violently. After some seriously painful retching, I gathered my senses. Last night I’d felt on top of the world, this morning (afternoon) I felt like the world had kicked me in the forehead. I cleaned up lazily before leaving the room (after only just remembering to pick up the key before I did so). I locked the door before going downstairs.

The inn was slightly less packed now than it had been the night before. There were far fewer ponies sitting around tables and next to nopony sitting at the bar. A few of the ponies were in a similar state to me, clutching their heads or rushing into the nearest water closet to empty the contents of their stomachs. I saw that Francis and his friends were still at their table, now all feverishly scribbling on pieces of paper which looked like official documents. I wondered briefly how they were all still awake after evidently not sleeping (their manes were rather dishevelled and their eyes were bloodshot), but then quickly stopped thinking as my head throbbed angrily.

I sat down at the bar, and the same barmare as last night greeted me with a kind, “Good afternoon. What can I get for you?” I looked at her, annoyed by her cheery personality. She didn’t look like she’d been up all night; if she had then she was good at hiding it.
“What’s your ale of the day?”
“I don’t think that alcohol is the best thing for you now.”
“Look, if ale made me feel good, then that’s what I need now, ‘cause I feel like crap.”
“Say hello to the hangover, nature’s way of grounding you. And whilst I would be legally bound to sell you our ale of the day, we don’t serve ale before 5pm. So, what can I get for you besides that?” She smiled annoyingly again.

I hit my head against the bar with a loud thunk (bad idea) and winced. So the alcohol had induced this. Okay, I wasn’t going to drink too much ever again; this was worse than getting shot. I pulled myself back to attention (in a way) and sighed, “Fine. I’ll have a tap water please.”
“Coming right up!” She made an artistic twirl, picked up a glass and promptly filled it with clear water. She slid it over the bar towards me. I nudged it with my hoof and promptly inquired as to how much I owed her. She smiled, “Tap water’s free of charge.”
“I wish you’d told me that last night!” I groaned, very annoyed. I downed the glass quickly and asked for another, which she provided.

Fifteen glasses of water later I felt a little better. My headache had subsided a little and I felt a bit more hydrated, in that now I wasn’t scared that my piss would be a darker shade of brown than my fur. I promptly returned to my room, where I splashed my face with water to try and wake myself up a little, grabbed my belt with Glock in holster, shoved about ten of my remaining eleven bits into a pouch and then left, shutting and locking the door behind me. I walked down the stairs and straight out of the inn, sunlight flooding my vision. At least now it was definitely looking a lot nicer. On the downside, I was rather sensitive to bright light in my current state and so I cringed and had to push my hat down almost over my eyes to make seeing bearable again.

I walked down streets of ponies happily chatting or buying things, with foals playing in the street and the occasional armed Wanderer walking past. This was so much more pleasant than the almost fascist ways of the NSA. Back in my old compound, the streets were relentlessly patrolled by Militia or Guards, there was no such thing as a ‘nice café’ and playing in parks was discouraged as it ‘spoilt the pleasant silence for other ponies’. Here young foals could chase each other all they liked. There were ponies sitting in buildings with large front windows sipping on hot drinks and the armed Wanderers were actually friendly. They would occasionally stop to chat with other ponies in the streets or occasionally they would be stopped by a group of foals who wanted to stare at their armour or weapons, marvelling as the Wanderer would place a bit into the pocket of one of them before striding off on their duty. I actual dare to say it; this place was… nice. It was just generally nice. I actually felt safer here than I did in the LRSA compound.

Eventually I arrived at the hospital, where I promptly asked to see Wraith. The receptionist (a stallion with a brilliant purple mane) nodded and called for a nurse to escort me. He arrived promptly and walked alongside me down the lengthy corridor, passing rooms full of wounded ponies. We reached Wraith’s room and I couldn’t help noticing that, after one night, what had previously been a half full room was now completely full of wounded ponies. My bed was now occupied by a Russian LRSA soldier. He’d already been treated, but judging by the nature of his dressings I assumed he’d received a nasty spray of shrapnel to the face. If he’d been a looker before, he certainly wasn’t now.

I took my attention away from the pony I didn’t know and turned it on the pony I did. Wraith was still asleep, sleeping in the way he always did, with Stan standing at the end of his bed, reading the chart. He noticed me and smiled. I smiled too when I realised he was the bearer of good news, “Good news!” yes he started like that. “Your friend has managed to beat back the infection to a level where it doesn’t seem too serious. Once his wounds have healed up he’ll just need a course of antibiotics to clear away the infection, but we’re no longer worrying about that. We expect him to be ready to go back to his normal life by the end of the week, if not sooner. You must be relieved.”
“Yes, quite. Thank you, Stan.”
“Not a problem at all. This is what I’m paid to do! That and stab already wounded ponies with my surgical instruments. Good day!” He called, as he left the room behind a set of stretcher bearers. Upon the stretcher was a wounded Wanderer, clutching a vicious bullet wound in his shoulder. The entry hole itself was nothing special, but the fur around the wound had burnt off, as had his clothing, and his flesh was now bubbling and hissing painfully. He was gritting his teeth hard. I was kind of surprised to see such catastrophic damage from a single bullet wound. The bullet had likely been laced with something; a toxin or chemical of some description. I winced, pitying him.

I pulled up a chair next to Wraith’s bed. Despite his uncanny ability to fake sleep, I knew he was truly knocked out. His breathing was heavier than usual, and there was a small strand of saliva hanging from the corner of his mouth. I found it rather amusing, so I chuckled softly. He’d been through a lot. I could see it in his persona. His reluctance to speak to others, his secluded personality, his wounds both physical and mental. It was a miracle he was still breathing at all. I knew he couldn’t hear me, so words were useless (as was everything else, really), so instead I simply kissed him gently before rising to leave. I left a message with the receptionist, basically saying that when Wraith was discharged he was to go to the inn called Flamethrower, where I was lodged. The receptionist made a note of this and assured me that it would be passed on to him when he was discharged from care.