Chapter 18:
We’re Gonna Have a Party, Fuck You
"I've been talking to dead rabbits and feeding bloody walls. I've done horrifying things with salad tongs. It's really eaten into my social life."
Johnny The Homicidal Maniac
“The world is, generally and on balance, a better place to live this year than it was last year. For instance: I didn't have this gun last year.”
Spider Jerusalem
Doctor Whooves (DW) “Dare I ask what today’s project is here, [REDACTED]?”
Interviewer (I): “What do you mean?”
Doctor Whooves: “The interviews, Colonel. The way you’ve been experimenting using technology that only I would know how to make.”
Interviewer: “Why would…. Yes. I stole them.”
Doctor Whooves: “Thought so. Because we both know what that could mean.”
Interviewer: “What’s this visit about, Doctor?”
Doctor Whooves: “Oh, nothing much. It’s just I know the kind of research you’re pursuing. Vorodin in Russia. Elias Selberg and Alejandra Torres at Crowe Labs. Erika Kraber at the beginning of the war. But especially Chalcedony, just last May. Tell me again… exactly what is it that you’re studying?”
Interviewer: “Newfoal-ology, or so the Boys from Brazil, Fort Wainwright-”
Doctor Whooves: “And some of the other PHL like Nurse Redheart, Presley, and Dovetail would term it. Even Caduceus. She makes the most wonderful Chinese tea. Ah, the benefits of having a tiny horse body! Anyway. I’m here to warn you about pursuing newfoal-ology. Either you lose sight of your original goal-”
Interviewer: “I haven’t. I know exactly what I’m doing.”
Doctor Whooves: “That’s one of the things I’m afraid of. Terrible thing, knowing exactly what you’re doing. How’s that quote that Kraber likes go? Ah, yes: ‘Oh, Cecily, it is a terrible thing for a man to learn he has been telling nothing but the truth his whole life!’ Who would’ve guessed a sociopath had such an appreciation for Oscar Wilde?”
Interviewer: “Is there a point buried deep within what you’re asking? And what did you mean about Vorodin and Chalcedony?”
Doctor Whooves: “I mean that those studying an aspect of newfoals - their connectivity, their minds or facsimiles thereof - huh, sounds kind of like fake smiles the first way I just said it - their biology, everything… they come to a bad end. Either they play with things they don’t understand, or they go mad. Studying totem-proles is what made my friend Chalcedony-”
There is a rise of breath from [REDACTED], the Interviewer.
Doctor Whooves: “-form the EHS. Create that amplifier, which, I might add, you seem to have been looking over. A little too intently.”
Interviewer: “I’m not studying the Necronomicon-”
Doctor Whooves: “I have little doubt you would if push came to shove. And right now, we’re rather close to shove. Also, don’t touch the Neighcronomicon, that’d just be silly.”
Interviewer: “Maybe. It’s a science like any other, Doctor.”
Doctor Whooves: “But it’s dedicated entirely to destruction. The study of how something can be broken, then broken even more for a change of pace. What you’re planning… I don’t doubt it could hurt a lot of people.”
Interviewer: “Fine. Let’s say I am going to do something that’ll hurt a lot of people. Let’s assume that. But what else will I do?”
Doctor Whooves: “You realize command - Marcus, the UN, the Ethics Board - would hate it.”
Interviewer: “That’s why I have to do it. Either I make my move during Barrierfall, or we all die. If we allow the Solar Empire to have bases here - on one of only a few landmasses untouched by the Barrier, let them have the thousands if not millions of newfoals they’ll take during Barrierfall...” Sigh “This is the only way.”
Doctor Whooves: “A lot of bad things in history have happened because someone said they had ‘the only way’.”
Interviewer: “I’ll stop working on it when you tell me another option.” (Pauses) “That’s what I thought.”
Recorded message found in a bunker in Montreal, surrounded by at least eighty-one tapes.
It was just about dark by the time they got back to the museum. They were a motley crew, Francis Strang, Aegis, Brighthoof, Amber, and Rivet.
But up here, right now, they seemed to fit. Weirdly enough, Francis was the only one armed, carrying his stolen ACR, shotgun, and two large pistols.
Aegis felt safe knowing this. There were rough-looking men and women giving them a wide berth. Four guns were a hell of a deterrent.
The lights were going up behind the museum. A passenger train was roaring over the nearby bridge. Popover, a pink mare with a blue and pink mane, was carting a towering stack of food past the side of the musem. A pegasus named Blossomforth was hanging up the strange glowing jar-lights from the forest on the side of the train bridge.
Sarah Ruyter, Nny’s cousin, waved over to them.
“Finally here, eh Aegis?” She called over. “And the famous Mr. Strang.”
Sarah let her rifle hang off her, and held a hand out to Francis. “Sarah Callista Ruyter. I’m Nny’s cousin.”
“An’ why th’ fok’m I famous? I shot PER,” Francis said. “Isnae anything special.”
“Well, you…” Sarah looked down. “People say good things about you. Came out of nowhere, saved a synagogue...”
“It wisnae me,” Francis said. “Aegis here, Yael Ze’ev, Heliotrope, Nny, Fiddlesticks… If ah went uptae PER alone, ah’d be dead if ah wis lucky.”
“But you did something with the rest of them,” Sarah said. “Something good. And that’s for the best. Don’t be so modest...”
As it happened, modesty was the last thing on Kraber Francis’ mind. If HLF found out about him, if they saw his face, he was fokked. Like Farnowitz… he wasn’t here, was he? That miserable ratlike little kontgesig?
This is fokkin’ stupid, Kraber thought. ‘I’m near the HLF - the people from the synagogue didn’t recognize me, but just barely. This’ll all come crashing the fok d-’
Aegis looked up at him, grateful. “Thanks, Mr. Francis. For keeping an eye on my foals.”
‘And like that, it’s worth it.’
“It wis naething,” Francis said, scratching his ragged stubble. “They’re good bairns, an’ practically took care ay themselves. Even went tae the museum t-”
“They showed you the severed testicles of Elvis Presley, didn’t they?” Aegis interrupted.
“Yes,” Rivet smirked.
Aegis facehoofed. “Of course.”
“They always… I don’t… gaaaaawd,” Sarah sighed.
“Guard duty again, huh Sarah?” Brighthoof asked her.
“Somebody’s got to,” Sarah said.
“Your loss, then!” someone called over. It was a man in a leather coat, t-shirt and jeans, hair short and spiked, on a corner near the front of the building, strumming a guitar. Near him, another man, smoking a cigarette and wearing a tan trenchcoat, was tapping a foot. He nodded at Francis absently as he walked by. As he did so, the guitarist started singing.
“Come here often, love?” the man in the trenchcoat asked.
“Ah, piss off, John!” Sarah called over, tossing her hair back.
“Ah, well,” ‘John’ said, acting faux wounded, “at least Keith still loves me - don'tcha Keith?”
But Keith - the guitarist - was too far into his song.
“#Miss Macbeth has a frightening face that all the children know. She must have been something else, a long time ago. You can’t look her in the eye or else your face will crack. She talks to statues on the shelf, although they never answer back…”
“Pretty,” Amber said, whistling, and dancing along. Rivet, ears flattened back a little, gingerly joined in, swinging from hoof to hoof.
Francis stopped, turning to look. He frowned, wondering what the lyrics might have meant. Something just felt uncannily like the weird newfoal Beatrice Hatch had kept, the one she called Richard that had been her son. The one that had only come out half-baked in the same sense that the brownies he’d cooked with Anka that came out as sludge had been “a little undercooked.”
The one with the speaker sewn into its chest. Francis was no expert on pony health, but mange, thin limbs, jaundiced eyes that seemed to follow you wherever you walked, and being anywhere near Beatrice Hatch were probably not signs of being ‘healthy as a horse,’ so to speak.
Beatrice Hatch. A woman bosbefok enough he looked like a model fokkin’ citizen.
Maybe they don’t mean anything: it's just a Costello song.
Kraber sighed. Yay - hallucination wanted a conversation. You’re not a fokkin’ music critic.
How do you know?
You’re a hallucinatory demon Space Marine from the proverbial Bad Future. What part of that description implies that you spend time listening to music?
I can see why you’d think that. I know what I like, though. Costello’s ok on a rainy day.
… you know Costello?
I killed a Costello, once. So yes.
Alright, Mr Fokkin’ Music Critic. Then what’s my favorite band? Or my favorite opera? I mean, it started this op’ra shit?
Oh for the love of… do you have to make everything an argument about what I remember from before?
No…. Oh… Oh no, ohhhh, nooo, no…. Pffffft. Ja. Though you didn’t answer the question. What. Is. My. Favorite. Opera. Or my favorite band. Either or.
Kraber’s hallucinatory self seemed to sigh slightly himself. You know that - quite apart from being from a different world than you anyway - I’m like three hundred and fifty years older than you, right? Bands have changed. Like you wouldn’t fokkin’ believe. You’ve never heard of The Demon Sprites of Caladon, have you?
... You made that the fok up.
Nah. Imagine Death Metal mixed with dubstep mixed with a tiny bit of acoustic, then add some choral stuff. It melds… surprisingly well. It's up there with ‘Ode to the Eternal Nothing’ and ‘My Father Was A Paladin’.
Fok off. That’s the craziest thing you’ve ever fokking said.
Really.
Kraber considered this. Ok. Maybe not. You didn’t answer the question, though.
There was silence on the other end.
...It made my favorite music video? There was a German Shepherd getting thrown out a window? He’s fine now? It was just a CGI’d load of bricks that wrecked the car? Teleporters?
Carpenter Brut?
Okay, Le Perv was awesome. Still wrong, though.
Well, I can’t be bothered to remember everything, alright? Eish, the other him snapped. Three hundred fifty years - most of that shooting things, some of which were actually, I shit you not, not very fokking nice.
Uh huh.
You don't believe me? Tell you what. When you spend forty days and forty one nights stuck in a trench fighting the Sand Sprites of Ra-Abaddon as they keep marching at you, using the bodies of men you've known most of that time for cover, and then go straight from that to fighting the nineteenth Japhet the Firebird with nothing but a malfunctioning rifle, a broken combat blade and three toothpicks -
Three what?
Lost a bet with Hill, long story. Point is, when you've done half the fokking shit I've done, fought and bliksemmed half the crazy things I've managed to bliksem, and dealt with some of the absolute kontgesigs that result from that kind of career - seriously, do not get Lyrium talking -
Who?
- then you can fokking call me out on not remembering a band from six of your fokking miserable lifetimes worth of time in my past.
There was a brief pause as Kraber processed this.
Wow. Some fokker's touchy.
Mange de la merde. If you had to deal with you, you’d be touchy too.
I do have to deal with me.
And you're saying you're not touchy?
Point.
Anyway, when we finally come there, I can probably find out what your favourite band is. Hell, I can bliksem the konts. Maybe that’ll stop you tryin’ to fokkin’ one up me every time we talk.
Kraber's face paled. When you come here? What do you mean?
What? Of course we’re coming there.
Fok off.
We come everywhere, eventually, Viktor. It's just a question of time.
Didn’t you hear me?! Fok right off, or didn’t the traveler tell you to stop?!
“You alright mate?” a new voice asked.
Kraber blinked, and the man in the tan trenchcoat, his spiky blonde hair messy and greasy, was staring at him with a frown.
“Er, yeah,” he said. “I’m fine. Just, ah… reminded me of an old friend.” He looked at the guitarist. “Good playing.”
“I liked it,” Aegis said.
“You keep some interesting company,” the blonde man said.
The guitarist shrugged.
“Want a cig?” the blonde man offered, holding one out. Kraber held up a hand.
"Nah," he said. "Tryin' to kick some bad habits."
The blonde man chuckled. "Trust me, mate, I've been tryin' to kick my bad habits for years. Some of them just don't want to be gotten rid of."
Kraber's smile soured slightly. "Yeah. Hope mine are easier."
"Hope so, mate, for your sake," the blonde man shrugged. “I don’t know what yours are -”
“You don’t want to,” Kraber said.
“So?” the Guitarist said with a smirk. “Any requests?”
Do I Wanna Know by the Arctic Monkeys, the Dark Kraber said at once.
What?
Just say it. Just this once, listen to me. You're not going to for the rest of this story.
Did you just break the fourth wall?
The green abomination isn't having all the fun in this story, Nameless-dammit. Say it.
Deciding it couldn't hurt, Kraber repeated the request. The guitarist grinned, and so did the trenchcoat-wearing man.
“Good shout,” he said. He started stamping his foot, and the guitarist tapped his guitar in time, before playing a guitar riff.
#“Have you got colour in your cheeks? D’you ever get that fear that you can't shift, the kind that sticks around like summat’s in yer teeth…?”
Kraber blinked, and though the song was nice enough, he couldn't help but feel there was another message to it.
Maybe it's just a song. Or maybe, if nothing else, this is about violence?
Violence?
“#Are there some aces up your sleeve?Have you no idea that you're in deep? I dreamt about you nearly every night this week. How many secrets can you keep?”
Do you know the one thing I can guarantee if nothing else?
“#'Cause there's this tune I found that makes me think of you somehow and I play it on repeat, until I fall asleep, spilling drinks on my settee…”
What?
You could be me, you could be the green kont, you could be the Captain of a Spaceship in the 29th Century…
Others who knew the song were joining in. The trenchcoat man, a few of the girls, a man in the back of the bar with goggles and a fur-lined leather jacket, a tank top and a grin, another man in a green greatcoat…
“#Do I wanna know?”
“#If this feeling flows both ways?”
“#Sad to see you go.”
“#Was sort of hoping that you'd stay.”
“#Baby we both know.”
“#That the nights were mainly made for saying things that you can't say tomorrow day…”
… but violence is part of what you exist for.
Fok off.
Maybe it isn't a coincidence that things happen around you. Maybe you're part of some plan.
“#Crawling back to you. Ever thought of calling when you've had a few? 'Cause I always do.”
There is no plan.
Sure there is, kontgesig. The Albino bitch is part of it. She knows it. She knows that you're not part of her part of the plan. She even told you.
There. Is. No. Plan.
What would you do if you met the thing that made you? If you learned that you were born to suffer? Created to milk your pain? That violence was your destiny? That someone out there thinks it’s funny to drive you into ever-more homicidal rage until you snap and write your resignation letter in the blood of others, then make some sort of off-color joke?
“#Maybe I'm too busy being yours to fall for somebody new. Now I've thought it through. Crawling back to you…”
...I fokkin’ smaak the sound of that!
The song might be about you. Might even have been picked because it's about you. Crawling back to you - crawling back to violence, always and forever.
“#So have you got the guts? Been wondering if your heart's still open and if so I wanna know what time it shuts. Simmer down and pucker up. I'm sorry to interrupt, it’s just I'm constantly on the cusp…”
Battle is where you feel most at home - didn't you ever wonder why?
“#…of trying to kiss you. I don't know if you feel the same as I do. But we could be together if you wanted to…”
Its why you're here. You can't escape it -
We’re done. Fok off.
Ah, now who’s touchy. Take heart, brother - if nothing else, you're popular enough that the things deciding our destiny think that you should get to live on.
FOK OFF.
The voice became silent, but the song continued, and down the alleyway just out the corner of his eyes, Kraber almost thought he could see a shadow, like the silhouette of a great dark figure…
“#Do I wanna know?”
“#If this feeling flows both ways?”
“#Sad to see you go.”
“#Was sort of hoping that you'd stay.”
“#Baby we both know.”
“#That the nights were mainly made for saying things that you can't say tomorrow day…”
Give that kont something, he thought. It’s a good song.
They’d done a lot in the space behind the Museum.
Pegasi - including an interesting-looking mare with a white coat and a pink-and-green mane - hovered above the third story of the building. As Francis watched, one mare was placing what looked like a string of christmas lights and jar-lights from one pole to another. There was a stage being set up on the porch.
“We were sitting over there,” Rivet said, pointing at the porch. It wasn’t too far from that Chalcedony sculpture.
“Huh,” Aegis said. “Really?”
“Yeah, we ran into a Reaver,” Rivet said, ignoring the look on his father’s face. “Apparently, he was getting maple syrup from Nny, and…”
“I don’t know what you’re thinking,” Francis interrupted. “But it wasn’t my fault.”
“I wasn’t even mad,” Aegis said, surprised. “The kids are still here, and Rivet’s got that look on his face.”
“The shit-eating grin?” Amber supplied.
Aegis gasped. “Amber!”
“It wasn’t me this time,” Francis said.
“...What is with you,” Aegis said. “Francis, just… you need to relax here. Please. I don’t know what you did… and I don’t want to… but please. Just do me a favor and forget about it for tonight. You’re even twitchier than normal.”
“Fair enough,” Francis said. “I…” he shrugged. “Sure. Why not? I mean what else would I do?”
Aegis nodded, his great slab of a head bobbing up and down in the light summer breeze. “That’s the spirit.”
There were more PHL or PHL supporters than Francis had yet seen here. On one side of the lot behind the building, someone looked to have set up a still. A man and a batpony were sitting under a sign reading “John Peters and Moonshine.”
They’d had great booze so far. So… many… people! A Finn with a bald, tattooed skull that looked to have stolen his look from Yarrow, a big hunting rifle on his back. A PHL forest scout with one of those repeating flareguns underbarrel. And, most incredibly, a stand offering Southern comfort food.
Which was being manned by Johnny C and Fiddlesticks. The sign advertised shrimp and grits - thank fok! - and a wide variety of vegetarian foods, on account of meat being expensive.
“Honestly,” Francis said. “I think I’ll just sit back and reeeeeee-”
“Hey Aegis, what’s up?” There was a pink pony suddenly standing in front of Francis Kraber.
HER.
Bright, eye-searing pink. Blue eyes. Slightly darker mane. Peter and Anka screaming as the pinata must have exploded.
“Where’s dad?!”
Kate screaming, clawing at the purple goo from that was boiling her ebony skin. Fur ripping out from under her skin. Did she use a knife to cut it off? Could she even hold a knife when her fingers touched potion and began to turn into hooves? Children screaming. Pinkie laughing hysterically, looking darker than anyone that pink ever should.
A horn bursting through a child’s skull. Bones contorting. Children screaming everywhere. Pinkie and that clown he’d fokkin disassembled practically bouncing all over the room, telling them how Kate, how all the children he’d invited had gotten the bestest present ever.
Kate screaming.
“VIKTOR?! WHERE ARE YOU?!”
“He’ll be coming along soon!”
“DADDY!”
“Oh, I’m sure your husband will be perfectly happy as a pony, miss… Kate? Or is it Cirrus? Your choice!”
“I’ll always be Kate!”
“You’ll choose whatever makes you happy! Or whatever we decide makes you happy!”
Somewhere, Kraber was drawing his gun.
Chasing this fokkin’ mank genaaide bergbok down south. Rumors of this varknaaier through Israel, only by the time he got there, she’d been in France. Trying to make his way up through the Mediterranean, towards the madness, but failing miserably.
And here she fokkin w-
Aegis was reared up, holding Kraber’s arms downwards.
“Mr. Francis?” Rivet asked, standing back a little. “What’s… are you…”
“Nothing happened,” Aegis said.
Popover was cowering just the slightest bit. But there was… disappointment in her and Aegis’ eyes. Resignation.
I could blow myself up! Kraber thought. Ja! I could… The train of thought derailed. Wait. Wait, no, that’s fokkin’ dof. The fok was I thinking?
One of the voices asked:
The fok is wrong with you?
It was him this time. Thank fok.
Always trying to get out. Always trying to run away. What the fok’s the point here?
“Put the piece down,” said a man with a gun that looked like a Browning Automatic Rifle. Some tacky, ‘modernized’ thing. He had an old tac-vest reading Weiss. Kraber had seen him around. Jack… Weiss. Someone that had recruited ‘special constables’ from the lost and homeless. Another man, Burt Gransvoort, armed with the same rifle as Nny.
Kraber had quite literally killed the moment. Just not this mare. Whoever the fok this glue… no, this fokkin’ person! was.
Seemingly everyone armed was pointing weaponry at Francis no, no fokkin’ way out of it… Kraber. The Finn with the sniper rifle. Even Johnny C, for fok’s sake.
AEGIS!
“Lose the iron,” Nny said, revolver to Francis’ head. “Nice. Sl-”
Why would he do this?! Aegis thought, frantic. Why would he do it?!
Then he remembered. Right. HLF. I’m buckin’ stupid, Aegi thought. And a terrible father.
And then, something strange happened. Francis only obeyed the first part of this sentence. The .45 dropped out of his hand, not nice, not slow. It bounced.
“...Is the trigger guard supposed to do that?” The pony asked, a little frightened.
“Does it matter?” Francis asked. He looked reproachful. He was giving everything odd looks.
And then, to everyone’s surprise, so gingerly, so slowly that by the time he was halfway to the ground did Nny or Aegis really comprehend the event:
This ex-HLF man was kneeling. Bowing.
To a pony.
“I’m sorry,” Francis said.
The pony - Popover - staggered back a little. “Um… wha…”
...Why am I doing this, anyway? Kraber thought to himself. She’s just a fokkin’ gluestick, probably never met me…
...But she could have. Kate’s voice. She could have.
‘Why are you doing this, anyway?’
‘Eh, why not.’
“I’ve done bad things. To most of you gl...," Kraber said. “No. You ponies. I left fir here tae git away from it. So ah could dae right by…” he sighed. “Dinnae ken. Dinnae ken whae ah’d dae right by. Lord knows there’s enough.”
“I’m used to people trying to kill me,” the pony said, despondent. Kraber Francis could see he’d been fokkin’ stupid to believe it was Pinkie. She was a darker shade of pink, and while her mane and tail looked similar, there was a scar through one ear and…
Jou fokkin’ bliksem! Her mane is blue! How did jou not fokkin’ notice this?!
“Thinking I’m Pinkie…” the pony said.
“...I was gauntae say that’s bullshit, but considering I just did…” Francis said. “I was fokkin’ radge and fokkin’ stupid.” He held up his hands. “It was fokkin’ stupid of me nowt tae notice the differences, fokkin’ stupid to-”
“To think you’d get away with killing my friend?” the Finn with the big rifle asked.
“I didn’t think,” Francis said. “That’s the problem.” He was still knelt over. “I’m… sorry for what I nearly did, Ms…”
“Popover?” the scared mare asked.
“Popover,” Francis said. “Huh. Is there anything I can do to make it up?”
“Grits,” Popover said.
...What the fok? Francis thought. How… I don’t… what? Whatever he’d expected here, ‘grits’ were not it. “...What?” he managed to ask through the contextless haze that was his mind.
“Grits,” Popover said, tossing a hoof through her blue mane streaked with pink. “Nny-” she pointed to Johnny C, who’d since holstered that monster revolver- “Said he was making grits, but apparently he’s busy with…” she looked up at the stage. “Something or other. I forget.”
Francis licked his lips. “I can help with that.”
“Phew,” Nny said. “And that’s one less thing I gotta call Cousin Yael about.”
“I wonder how she’s doing?” asked a somewhat overweight woman with a mane of blond hair. She was wearing a buttoned-up shirt that was half red and half black, with a black stripe through the red half.
“Probably just resigned to grunt work, Linda,” the Finn grumbled.
“Eh,” Nny said. “Cuz lives for this shit.”
LATER!
“I wasn’t serious!” Popover protested, holding up both forelegs. The pot of boiling cheese grits rested on the stove.
“Yeah, well, I didnae ken,” Francis said.
Popover just stared at him. “Yes you did.”
“Did ah say ‘ken?’ I meant ‘care,’” Francis said. “Ah wanted tae dae somethin nice. Ah nearly shot ya. I owe you. So. Here. I. Am.”
“Nearly shooting me isn’t something to be proud of!” Popover protested.
“Compared to what I-” Francis started. “Nah. It really isnae, and ya dinnae want tae ken whaire ah wis gaun wi’ that.”
“I’m not sure where you’re going with this, and I don’t want to,” Popover said. “Are you…. Are you proud of what you’ve done? Are you regretful?” she tousled her mane, irritated. “I’m, uh, I’m getting mixed messages here.”
“Well, Ah’ve done things I thought were fun,” Francis said. “But, ah…. They werenae. Ya wouldnae ken em as such. An I hate mahself fir sayin’ so. But nah, they were all pretty awful. So... ” he shrugged.
“Are you ex-HLF?” Popover asked. “I heard, y’know, uh, things.”
“None of them good,” Kraber Francis said.
“Nope,” Popover said. “Did you… torture ponies? Kill PHL?”
Francis was downcast. “I dinnae want tae talk about it. But….” He was surprised at his improbable confidence. “I’m here cause I’m not putting up with that kak anymore. And also cause Aegis apparently has free room and board.”
“Hey, if you can’t appeal to someone’s better nature...” Popover sighed.
“Fok my erse and call me a stukkie, I have one of those?” Kraber asked. “Thoat it was shot off. Seriously though… Aegis is great. A pony treats me that right... then I owe him some kindness.”
“Same goes for the humans like Nny over there-” she pointed to Nny, wearing fishnet gloves and a wholly incongruous leather coat, his hair twisted into dreadlocks. “-who helped Fiddlesticks out, then took me in,” Popover said. “...admittedly, he’s either pushing himself too hard or too little, but he’s a great guy.”
“Don’t I ken,” Kraber said. “I’m telling you. Aegis’ foals, living with them, saving them... It’s been great. I’ve been fokkin’ radge the past few years, and Ah want tae make the best of it. This is the last of that sortae thing, I’m going straight and choosing li-”
“Trainspotting,” Popover said. “Really.”
“Hey, why nowt,” Kraber shrugged. “Cultural landmark and all that shite.” He sprinkled a bit of honey-ginger barbecue on the shrimp and sausage in a frying pan.
“Shame the Palace censor board will blacklist it,” Popover said. “Call it decadent, too human…”
“You po-” Kraber started. “Can I… can I start over?”
Popover was looking at him like someone who’d been about to sneeze, but suddenly wasn’t. “...suuuuuure? Question mark?”
“That was outae line what I would’ve said,” Kraber said. Okay, hadn’t intended it to come out like that, but…. I’m showing that I’m changing, I guess. Moving oan. “The Solar Empire-”
Popover nodded approvingly.
“Actually thinks there’s something worth saving in us?” Kraber asked.
“Sure,” Popover said. “Gelded newfoals. Fodder. Cautionary tales. Better ways to slaughter and ponify. Monsters under the bed to scare disobedient foals.”
“So… no. I’m nowt Catholic, but…” Francis looked downwards. “Jesus.”
“Yeah, they don’t see much value in that, either,” Popover laughed.
“I don’t either, what wi’ being Jewish,” Francis said. “But, it was the only swearword I haven’t run intae the ground. Quite a mooth ya got thaire.”
Popover raised an eyebrow. “More people telling me how to be…”
“I ain’t complaining,” Francis said. “Rather talk tae someone like that thin someone whit agrees wi’ me every step ay the way. Reminds me ay my waff. God, ah miss her.”
“Is she dead?” Popover asked.
Francis didn’t answer, and made a vague, uncertain shake of the head. “Why d’ya think ah wis so fokkin’ radge? There’s gravestones aw roond. Thit give a birthdate, then ‘P.2019’ or something. I’ve sat Shiva for people thit were… thit were ponified. Ah huvtae wonder wha’ our bairns, if we ever win, will think in the years tae come. ‘Da, what’s the P stand for?’”
“...Oh,” Popover said. “Well. Ffffffffffffffuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuck.”
“She’d be pissed oaf at me if she could ken what ah dae,” Francis said. “Same wi’ the bairns.”
No I wouldn’t, Kate said. We did kinda meet after I asked if you ate your roommate…
Kate, I have tried to garrotte a man with his own prosthetic eye like in the movie, and beaten people into bloody pulps. And mayyyyyy have left a rat in someone’s small intestine.
That’s disgusting!
Or was it the large intestine? I can’t remember. Seriously, Kate, if you’re a figment of my imagination you can be honest with me.
...Okay, okay, Kate said. Point taken.
“You have kids?” Popover asked.
“No,” Kraber Francis said.
“Well, that...” Popover started, and abruptly tried to distract herself by taking a whiff of the honey-ginger barbecue on the frying pan of shrimp, sausage, peppers, and onion. It apparently worked. “Eee crow, that smells good.”
“Disnae excuse it,” Francis said. “Wait, what? Thought….” He bit his tongue to avoid the slur. “Ponies didn’t eat meat.”
“We can digest it,” Popover said. “But…. grass, salads, pastries, those are better for us.” She took a whiff. “I could almost forgive you for nearly shooting me for how good this smells.”
“And Kate said I couldnae make grits to save my life when I started,” Francis chuckled.
“Well, clearly you picked up some things,” Popover said.
“Hell,” said the blond woman in the black and red shirt, “Almost considering hiring you.” A brown earth pony stallion with white patches and a reddish mane stood next to her.
“You’re making better grits than Nny!” the brown stallion whistled.
“HEY!” Johnny C called over. A strip of braided hair fell over his eyes, and he blew upwards, pushing it out of his eyes.
“Let it go, Nny,” Fiddlesticks sighed. She’d switched out her gray stetson for a black hat with a skull on it, and studded wristbands.
“...Are ya daein a gothic cowgirl look?” Kraber asked, confused.
“Sort of?” Fiddlesticks sighed. “It’s, uh, for the act we’re doing. Most of this is live music, but Nny wanted to do some other act and tried to do rock-paper-scissors...”
“You do realize he tried to kill me,” Popover said flatly.
(“No I didn’t,” Nny said. “We were drunk, and you don’t have hands! How does that even work?”)
“I thought you said you could almost forgive me!” Francis protested.
(“Maybe it was a coin-flip?” Fiddlesticks asked.
“Yeah, that would make much more sense.”)
“Look,” Popover said. “You’ve got… You’ve got something good to you. But don’t think this means we’ll get along-”
“DAMN WE ARE GETTING ALONG SO WELL!” Popover crowed, throwing her hooves up into the air.
“And Sixstring just saved this lame-ass party, WUBBA LUBBA DUB DUUUUUUUB!” Johnny C was yelling, both arms in the air, wildly throwing himself from side to side.
“SHUM SHUM SHLIPPIDY DAP!” Fiddlesticks added, randomly.
“-GONNA HAVE A PARTY, FUCK YOU!” Sixstring was belting out onstage. He was just shredding the guitar with his forelegs, somehow. “I CAN THINK OF NOTHING BETTER TO DO!”
The crowd of once-sedate partygoers was thronging, everyone dancing, everyone active. Someone was swimming in the river nearby, and pegasi were streaking through the air with wild abandon. Because they could, presumably.
Aegis was drinking from an honest-to-god oil drum nearby, alongside the Finn with the sniper rifle. Amber and Rivet were….well, they were downstairs in the basements of nearby buildings, away from the noise, with other kids, playing videogames.
“Can’t believe it’s been this long since I felt this good!” Francis called out. And nobody’s even getting hurt, either! Wait… shit… how much of his fun had come at the expense of others? How long had he-
No. Not now. At the very least, he deserved this amount of time to cut loose, enjoy himself, belt out the lyrics to the song along with Sixstring, and just have a befok time. Torture himself later, but enjoy himself.
He threw out one leg, stepping forward, twirling slightly. He’d never quite been a good dancer. Taken classes to take the heat off (and to stare at people’s butts) but some things had never really clicked with him.
It was at that moment he bumped into a girl who smelled like patchouli. Her hair was in bright, almost Equestrian, neon pink and green colors in strips.
Francis decided that he liked her hair.
“Wow,” she said. She wasn’t drunk. She was sober, yeah, but she was here, in the moment with him. She looked on the verge of crying. “You look like a dancing coyote.”
Francis thought back to Mianda, the long-legged puppy with huge ears that they’d adopted. She was… kinda coyote-ish? It seemed like a fair comparison. “Not far off,” he admitted. “Been awhile!”
“Cool!” she said. “Huh. You’re not drunk.”
“I’ve been trying,” Francis joked. It was weird - he could drink a pitcher of beer, several, but nothing bad would ever happen.
“You too, huh?” she asked. Held out a hand. “Name’s Falyn, by the way.”
“Francis,” he said. “You, uh… ya dinnae look tae good.”
“Apocalypse does that to you,” Falyn said, interrupting him.
Francis stared for a second at her, and for a moment, his hand was inching towards Falyn’s shoulder. “Don’t I fokkin’ ken it. But, y’know what?”
“GONNA HAVE A PARTY, EAT SHIT!” Sixstring was yelling. “WE’RE ALL ABOUT TO DIE SO MAKE THE MOST OF IT!”
“Celestia wants us to be miserable,” Francis said. “Wants to show everyone how fokkin’ right she is about all us. Wants us to feel so fokkin’ low that we think maybe being in something like that peyote trip where my friend Strychnine thought he didnae exist-”
“You know a pony named Strychnine that does peyote?” Falyn asked. “Huh, I’ve met him too.”
“Nah, this was before the war,” Francis said. It was… it felt like something in him wis slipping away. Like he was…. Fok, actually fokkin’ relaxed! What was this fokkin’ madness?! “You don’t want to know why he got the name and why the fok do you know a-”
It was befok.
“Let’s not talk about it,” Falyn said sheepishly.
“Anyway,” Francis continued, “Best thing we can dae at a time like this? Try to enjoy ourselves. Out of spite, or cause…” he held out his hands. “Well, what else will we do?”
“Things’ll get worse later,” Falyn sighed, leaning against Francis.
“Then why not enjoy them when they’re the best we’ll get for the rest of the war?” Francis asked. “Ah wasted most ay the war oan glorified civvie street whin ah couldae been helping. Whin ah couldae been enjoying mahself. Don’t make the same fokkin’ awful mistakes I did, yeah?” he asked, holding Falyn’s chin up.
“...Alright,” she sighed. “Wait. Aren’t you the guy who paid for Sixstring’s train ticket? Saved that girl in Bethlehem? Donated the reward money for finding McCreary to Bethlehem?”
Francis nodded. He’d honestly been surprised Preacher didn’t bring that up. It had honestly been more of a spur of the moment thing, but the people around here had probably needed the money more than him.
Also, he took the wallets of the PER that he’d killed, and that worked too. It was less than the reward money, but giving the bounty to the towns had… it’d just felt kwaai.
“Sweet as,” Falyn said. “Back there, we think the world of you. You’re… you’re a good guy, Francis.” She flashed him a coy look. “Wanna dance?”
“Fokkin’ yes!”
Aegis
Aegis had come down to the basement to see what had been happening to the foals. They were doing alright. None of the kids were hurting them, which was good. Though the fact that he was bigger than most of them helped.
In fact, all the human fo - no, the children actually seemed too interested in how Amber and Rivet could play videogames without hands. It was… nice. But, they’d come back up with him, wanting to see some of the acts on display tonight.
It was nice that they’d gotten on so well. Especially after all that his foals had said about being bullied during the make-up classes at the local school. Since the foals had to go close to a year without schooling, so Aegis had decided they were entitled to a bit of an education.
As he came up, he saw Francis dancing with a girl with half her head shaven, the other half in pink and blue, (kind of like Popover’s mane, actually) looking like he was having the time of his life.
Good, Aegis thought. I don’t know what happened to him, but that man deserves a break.
“Ya doin’ good?” Aegis called over.
“Better,” Francis said, face split by a wide grin that looked unfamiliar on him. “Falyn, this is Aegis, I live in his house. Aegis, this is Falyn, we just met.”
“Pleased to meet you,” Falyn said. “I’ve… seen you around.”
“Nice to meet ya,” Aegis said, one hoof to his chest, bowing slightly.
“You’re a formal pony,” Falyn said. “Howsabout that.”
“Mom taught me well,” Aegis said. “Hey, Nny’s coming up on stage soon!”
The stage was blue. The lighting was low. Everything was deliberately subdued as Fiddlesticks, dressed halfway between goth and cowboy, trotted on stage.
“This will be quick.
It's in my sight
I'll capture it
Then run back inside
And be back home in time,” Fiddlesticks sang. Her fur glistened in the blue light above her.
It was weird, to say the least. And not quite as good as the last production Francis Kraber had been in, the one with Nny. His old mates from back in med school loved it ever since a drunken binge-watch with Kate. Even Strychnine had contributed a bit. If Kraber remembered correctly, he’d been screaming something in the audience about Geneco fixing his spleen.
The set was minimal. Bits of scrap wood and cardboard cast shadows all over the stage, as Fiddlesticks trotted in between the “gravestones”.
A figure was kneeling in front of one of them. Not tall, not intimidating. Obviously Nny.
A silhouette of an airship floated over the stage.
Whoever is doing the puppetry and set design here, Francis thought, is fokkin’ kwaai fokkin’ braw.
“Ponification has crippled the globe,” Nny sang from behind a grave. He was carrying a shovel.
“Enjoy Celestia’s day. And. Nighttime formulas. Of. Potion,” the words issued from a speaker that looked to be hidden behind the zeppelin. Or skyliner. Potioneer? Francis wondered.
“Cities failed as the barrier spread,” Nny sang.
“Ask a Bureau. If. Potion. Is right. For you,” the loudspeaker voice said.
“And in our wake, a market erected,” Nny sang, his voice almost unnaturally deep. He was pulling a mannequin out from behind one of the ‘gravestones,’ pawing at it.
“Taking. Potion. From an. Unliscenced source. Is. illegal,” the loudspeaker said.
“An entire culture built on top of your death!” Nny snarled.
Fiddlesticks was crawling on her barrel, trying to hide behind a tombstone. The spotlight shone down on the two of them. He was pointing at the tombstone Fiddlesticks was crumpled against, reading only ‘P.2021’.
“As you’re turned away from Celestia’s halls[i/],”
Even as she makes monsters of us all!
But best you be punctual with taking the potion,
Lest you be turned away with a firm NO…~”
Nny’s voice descended into a firm baritone as he took out a battered, scratched medical bag.
“It's quick! It's clean, and it's pure!”
It kills your imperfect self, rest assured!”
Nny punctured the mannequin’s face with one syringe, and everyone stared as the syringe glowed purple.
‘That… is a fokkin’ kwaai trick,’ Kraber thought. ‘Wait, why haven’t I tried this? Seems like it’d pay well.
Nny cut open the mannequin’s head, retrieving several glistening threads.
‘Alicornal tissue harvesting,’ Kraber thought. ‘damn.’ He hadn’t done that sort of thing, partly on account of not having enough left of the body to work with, and partly because only crazy people actually paid for it, and naw, fokkin’ stoap. Yuir Francis.
As for why it was purple… well, Nny wouldnae handle that crap, and… this was Nny. No fokkin’ way he’d be sympathetic to PER.
“It's the 21st Century... Cure!” Nny said, voice growing quieter. Fiddlesticks was cringing against the tombstone.
“And it's my job, to steal and rob…” Nny whispered.
A hush drew over the audience. The pegasi above fluttered ever-closer, intrigued.
Francis was struggling not to laugh, watching Aegis’ foals listening in intently, as their friend grew quieter and quieter…
“GRAAAAAAAAVES!” Nny roared.
A siren roared, and men armed with pieces of pipe swarmed onstage.
“JACKPOT!” Nny crowed.
“So why care for these petty obsessions?
Your new self’s still born from human blood!
And what if you could have ponified perfection,
Would you change who you are?! If you could?
'Cause it's quick, it's clean, and it's pure! (All you really need is)
It kills your imperfect self, rest assured. (All you got to have is)
It's the 21st Century Cure! (All you need is surgery! )
And it's my job, to steal and rob...
Gra~ves!
Gra~ves!”
The audience cheered.
Nny and Fiddlesticks held their respective forearms and forelegs together and both curtseyed.
But then, that didn’t surprise Francis. That was… Nny.
“Last time I did something like that,” Nny said, “Viktor Kraber was there.”
Oh, the horrible fokkin’ irony! Francis thought, trying not to laugh.
“I think he’d totally hate that,” Nny said. “I mean, here we are, with a production of his favorite opera on, him AWOL, and we’re using a lot of pony talent.”
Murmurs spread through the crowd.
“Fiddlesticks, thanks for getting dressed up like Nisha and playing my victim,” Nny said, rustling her mane.
“Marefriend,” Fiddlesticks said, playfully.
“There’s a difference?” Nny asked, stifling laughter.
“Oh, you,” Fiddlesticks laughed. “Anyway, Reclaimed Beauty was behind the sets. Give her a hand! Or hoof, or talon.”
A mare with brown fur and white… streaks? There was a stripe of white down her nose, and white fur around her fetlocks-
“A blaze,” Vinyl says. “It’s called a blaze.”
“Huh?” Elena asks, confused.
“Aweh, so that’s what it’s called,” Kraber says, as if this has bugged him for more time than he’s willing to admit.
“Neither of you seriously bothered to ask that?” Heliotrope asks, confused.
“I was busy with, uh…” Kraber says.
“Showing off your brushwork?” Yael asks.
“I’m not apologizing,” Kraber says.
“That is sick and wrong,” Babs Seed says.
“Look,” Kraber sighs. “I was a kontgesig. I’m seriously surprised that the time I died, I didn’t see a vision of hell.” He pauses. “Seriously, how did I not…. Fok, that’s beside the point. Just… just let me have this one, please?”
“Fine,” Yael sighs, burying her face in one palm. “You are a goddamn handful and I wish I was the one keeping you in line.”
Kraber just gives her a Look. He looks surprised, disgusted, disturbed at that. “Uh… Me too?” he asks, confused.
“No, seriously,” Heliotrope says. “It’s like your crazy bal-”
“They were dicks, anyway,” you point out.
Mommy gasps and holds one hoof over your mouth. “Dancing Aphelion Day!”
“...Aphelion?” Scootaloo asks, confused.
You sigh. You’re not proud of it. Your middle name was the subject of lots of taunts back in school.
Cheers rang out all around at the brown mare with the white blaze and fetlocks, at Fiddlesticks, at Nny, and the assortment of other ponies and humans behind this.
“Just like to say?” the brown and white mare (evidently named Reclaimed Beauty) said, rearing up to the mike. “Nny as Grave Robber? Not PER, not harvesting potion,” she said.
“That would’ve made a lot more sense!” someone called from the audience.
“Well, that’s not really…” Fiddlesticks said. “Yeah. It would. But we just didn’t want to go there.”
“Honestly?” Reclaimed Beauty added. “Nny just wanted an excuse to yell ‘GRAVES!’ at strangers. Which is silly. He doesn’t really need an excuse.”
“...I’ve wasted the last 7 years of my life,” Nny groaned, slumped over.
“Come on,” Fiddlesticks said, tapping a foreleg against Nny’s back. “I can make it up to you later…”
The man in the tan coat, the one who’d taken a request from Kraber Francis’ evil doppelganger from another dimension-
Merciful fok, my life is weird, Francis thought. That’s… That’s seriously a fokkin’ sentence. What the actual fok.
-Anyway, whoever he was, he was on stage. He held a guitar, and his friend Keith was with him, playing bass.
“So!” he called out. “This one’s for all the lads and lasses who miss a damp little shit of an island more than they care to admit! Here's to the fuckin’ Gallaghers!”
And then he and Keith started playing.
“#I sold my soul for the second time, ‘cos the man? He don't pay me. I begged my landlord for some more time, he said son, the bill’s waiting…”
Meanwhile, Francis was having a good day, dancing with Falyn. It’d been too long since he danced at all. His long, gangly legs, under ripped jeans he’d stolen from corpses in Portland, whipped to and fro.
“When was the last time you did any dancing?” Aegis asked, nearby, throwing himself side to side with the subtlety, finesse, and kinetic energy of an avalanche.
“College,” Francis said. “So… bout 8 years ago. Usually I was drunk, but... “ he sighed. “I felt like everyone was fokkin’ judging me. I needed something to loosen up. Booze… drugs… a punch to the jaw…”
“I’m afraid to ask,” Falyn said, her half-mohawk dancing in the light summer wind.
“It wisnae my jaw,” Francis said, shaking his head. “Isnae worth it, though. Just…” he sighed. “It’s good tae loosen up.”
“Well,” Falyn said, rolling her eyes, “I guess an old man like you deserves it.”
Kraber stared at her, aghast. “Auld?! I’m twenty-eight!”
“Seriously?!” Amber Maple asked, from a nearby table .She had her bowl of root beer to her mouth.
Falyn stopped dancing and stared at him. “...Huh.”
“He has this whole ‘carry-himself-like-an-old-man,’ thing, Falyn,” Aegis explained, inclining his head slightly as he saw Nny and Fiddlesticks dancing, flinging themselves around with wild abandon.
“Okay,” Falyn said, stepping back. Framing Francis in a rectangle of her thumbs and pointer fingers. “I was getting confused about that. Cause, y’know, you’re carrying yourself less like one right now.”
“All day,” Rivet confirmed, as he threw himself about not too far from Aegis.
Francis thought on that for a second. He stopped dancing. He leaned against the wall. It was true, wasn’t it? He had felt pretty fokkin’ kwaai. He’d kept his weapons at the lockup in the Main Street Museum’s basement, save for the big magnum riding his hip. But he’d barely felt that.
“I’ll be right back,” he said, heading over to John Peters and Moonshine’s stall.
They were an odd pair. A man with a thick, braided beard, sitting next to a batwinged pony with gray fur and lime-green eyes. Clearly, the latter was Moonshine.
Francis recognized the man. He’d been one of the best brewers in Defiance, then one day he simply left. No letters to the people who worked with him, no warning, just gone. Then he’d turned up making booze with a pony.
“How’d you leave?” John Peters asked. He didn’t seem to recognize Francis. The shaven chin, trimmed hair gone a little lighter thanks to time spent outside with Aegis on one of the farms, the fair bit of muscle must have thrown him off.
Or maybe it was the fact that Falyn was right. He was carrying himself completely differently.
“I stole a vehicle, and left them marooned,” Kraber Francis said, trying to keep his voice neutral. The fokkin’ kontgesigs deserved it.
“I’m glad you got out,” Moonshine said. “It was doing awful things to Johnny-”
“Please tell me you don’t mean Nny,” John Peters sighed, running his fingers over the braid.
“Well, yes, but no,” Moonshine said pushing a bottle to him with a foreleg, one that looked to have once been a Corona bottle. “First booze for a deserter.”
“Can I have some whiskey instead?” Francis asked.
“Fiiiiiiine,” Moonshine sighed, pulling the bottle towards her with one wing, replacing it with another.
“I can do it if you need,” John Peters said.
“Thanks, but… nah,” Moonshine said, with an odd shrug. “I’m good.”
Francis looked at it uncertainly, then his friends dancing, drinking, talking over by the porch. Rivet unsteadily dancing, trying to puff himself up like an adult, Aegis nearby, Falyn waving at him and calling to bring more beer. Johnny C and Fiddlesticks dancing together. Brighthoof, the light glistening over her crystalline fur. Even Popover, who was shaking her mane back and forth. And Yael and Heliotrope….!
Well, they weren’t there. But they were definitely friends.
“How much?” he asked, looking at the bottle of whiskey, as Moonshine distantly said something about ‘pn the house’.
My friends, he thought. People who don’t keep me around cause they have use of me, but cause they fokkin’ like me. A welcome change of pa-
“Wait, what?” Francis asked, train of thought derailing.
“You’re a deserter like both of us,” Moonshine said, pushing the whiskey bottle towards Francis again, pointing with another foreleg. “On. The. House. It’s my old recipe from back in the Guard. See, I was one of Luna’s night guard. And we-”
“Ah ken,” Francis said. “You were fokkin’ shafted by the Queen Bitch in the war…”
And with that, he recounted the stories that Nebula had told him. His first pony friend.
“Huh,” Moonshine said, impressed. “Not a lot of people know that.”
“Well,” Francis said, as he thought on it. “I’ve… been around.”
“Bring us more beer!” Falyn called over.
“...That’s nowt on the hoose, is it?” Francis sighed.
“Ah, what the hell. Why not,” Moonshine said, as John Peters (Yes, I’m sure you know by this point) nodded.
Francis paid the appropriate amount, and headed down to his friends, swaying like a boxer to avoid other partygoers.
This is, for Francis, what might be referred to as a transcendent moment. The moonlight shining down on them, the lights all around, the people that were grudgingly letting him into this circle of PHL and New Englanders. The Finn with the sniper rifle, who he’d later learn was named Simo, held a giant flask of tequila, as he chatted up another man. Sarah Callista sitting on top of the roof, rifle nearby.
And somewhere, in the background, he thought he saw a Reaver. But then, he’d thought he was seeing Kate, or Peter, or Anka?
Was that Kate? There, in between the… person wearing an electric-blue dress and Nny? Was that Kate? Wearing the old zebra costume? Fok, what a weird first meeting.
...Chicken costumes, for fok’s sake. What a weird day.
Popover slid one purplish-pink foreleg through the handle in one of the mugs when Francis came back.
“Thanks,” she said.
“Consider it part of an apology,” Francis said.
“...Don’t mention it,” Popover said. “You at least tried to make up for it. Admitted you bucked up. So I think we should just put that one behind us. Most HLF don’t admit it till you’ve taped razor blades to hammers or boxing gloves.”
Francis looked at her, confused. “Wait, you’ve done that too?”
Popover looked up at him, raising an eyebrow, already huge pony eyes going wider than normal. Which was strangely adorable. “Ummmm….”
“Can we put that one in the past too?” Francis asked, hopefully.
“You know what?” Popover said, raising the foreleg holding the mug. “Buck it, let’s enjoy ourselves.”
Francis took a massive swig of the whiskey. For a second, he couldn’t feel his face.
“Fokkin right!” he crowed, passing a beer to Falyn. Then a bowl for Aegis, which he placed on Amber Maple’s table.
“You know,” he said, “This is for me.” He held up the beer. “The HLF will call me lost. But… I. Am not lost. I. Am. Found.”
“A classic!” Nny said, clinking a bottle against Francis’. “So, what do you think you’ll do the rest of the night?”
“Probably…” Francis mused. “What I should’ve done earlier.”
And then Francis downed the entire bottle, losing himself to the party, and to his new friends.
Hours later
The train was rattling and squealing into Littleton, just passing Lisbon. It was a diesel loco this time.
The party, Francis recalled, had been great. Okay, it hadn’t been all that good compared to some of the college parties, but he couldn’t complain. It was a nice change of pace from mass murder.
Falyn was on the other side. Everyone was heading up towards Littleton. Falyn sat across from Popover, Gazpacho, and Linda Branwen, reading a book.
It wasn’t the weirdest job interview Francis had ever taken. That award went to the homemade stag film.
“-I serve as bouncer and hard man,” he said, listening intently. “But on the other hand, work among po…”
He looked over at Popover, and then Gazpacho. Linda was staring up at him, disapprovingly. Popover didn’t seem to care.
“Ah, fok it,” Francis laughed. “Nae much ay a downside, that. When can I start?”
“In about three days,” Popover said. “Just don’t…”
“Yuir fine,” Kraber Francis said. “It’s me thit’s the problem.”
When they got off the train, Aegis, Rivet, Amber, and Francis headed down through town. When they crossed the bridge at the Y-intersection, they went left. Falyn made a right.
“Be seeing you, Mr. Francis,” Falyn said. “Good luck at the new job. I’ll be seeing you around.”