Revenge

by Teq

Chapter 11

Chapter 11

Wait, Wraith had been a farmer? Sorry, that’s probably not what I should have drawn from that, but I wouldn’t have placed him as the farming type. Still, what it did do for me was give me a good opportunity for reflection. Now everything made sense. The reason why Wraith freed me from the Scavengers, the reason why he journeyed with me, the reason why he was so adamant about keeping me alive, even putting himself in harm’s way to do it. And the reason he’d tried to keep me from the invading Scavengers. He saw me as a chance to do right what he’d done wrong in the past.

“So you see,” he sniffled. “It’s not because I’m a Scavenger that everypony hates me, it’s because everypony hates me that I’m a Scavenger!” In what appeared to be a fit of rage he drove his fore hoof so hard into the ground that it kicked up dust and left a deep imprint. He was avoiding eye contact with me (despite how many times I tried to cunningly manoeuvre myself to catch his gaze), and despite trying to keep himself together, I could see his eyes glistening over with tears again. It was strange. I’d always known that Wraith was an emotional pony, and his emotions could swing on a bit and were often rather extreme, but I’d never once imagined him actually crying. It was such a pure expression of his inner turmoil. It had been made quite apparent to me that it took a lot to make him cry. Even when he’d been stabbed through the shoulder he’d kept a stiff upper lip. It was beautiful to see him in such a state of sadness.

It was strange, but I feel like I can honestly and truly say that everything that had happened between us up to this point was for null, because it wasn’t until that moment that I’d seen what Wraith really looked like. He was tall, strong, rugged, and handsome in a very outdoorsy sense, as I’ve said before. He had brilliant red eyes and a fine black coat, and a char grey mane and tail, both unkempt, but the way they both flowed made it look oddly deliberate. All of these external things are all superficial. I confess that, before, I’d loved him for his looks. But now that I’d gotten the opportunity to glimpse into his inner persona, I realised that there were better reasons to love him. He was emotional, and beneath his harsh exterior personality was a kindness, and a tenderness that I knew he possessed, but had had suppressed by the Scavengers. In his eyes, and in his tears, I could see a pony that longed to be free, a pony that was smart, and only wanted to do what was right. It was still Wraith, but it was the Wraith that he’d never let anypony see.

His tears were infectious, and before I could react I felt moisture accumulating at the corners of my eyes. In a blur of flailing hooves and series of hurried apologies and hushes, I had my hooves around his neck. I was amazed by how shallow I could possibly be. My parents had raised me better than that, for the period of time in which they’d been alive. I buried my face into the crook of Wraith’s neck, the muscles tensing from the contact. His legs were beginning to buckle under the extra weight (shut up!) and before he collapsed I released him and fell back onto my rear. He did likewise, and spent the next few minutes sniffling and wiping at his eyes. I found it both amusing and upsetting every time he growled and swatted at his tears, indignantly trying not to show his sensitive side. I wanted to tell him to stop and to just let himself be sad, but I knew he wouldn’t have it. For so long he’d been told that sadness was a sign of weakness, and even now he stood by those values of concrete resolve.

For I dare say a quarter of an hour we sat in near silence. I didn’t know what I was supposed to say. I’d judged Wraith before I’d properly gotten to know him, and I hated myself for it. I’d never look at him the same way again. From now on, I would see him not as a companion, or as somepony to help fuel my night times fantasies, but as my coltfriend. I mean properly this time, and not just that superficial shit that I’d previously claimed was a relationship. Now I was serious. Now I was going to act like a grown up mare, as opposed to letting myself live with the mentality of a sixteen year old. Wraith had feelings, and I had to respect that.

As time dragged on, I became conscious of the fact that we had to get to moving again. If we stayed for much longer, we’d have burned half the day. I tentatively tapped Wraith’s fore leg in an attempt to stir him. As a tensile spring shooting back into place, Wraith snapped into alertness as if I’d just hit his ‘on’ switch. In the expanse of our silence he’d reverted back into his cold, military precision character, and in no time at all was back on his hooves and marching in the direction of the Ruins. Without even looking back he called for me to follow, which I did. I made haste, attempting to catch up with him and his absurdly large stride.

Unfortunately (or arguably, very fortunately) nothing of particular interest happened during the next few days of our travels. The sky became overcast and we were beginning to worry that it was threatening rain, but none fell. I do remember, however, feeling a distinct bout of homesickness. It was just as I was bedding down for another cold night on the hard dirt with tears in my clothes and an aching leg, that I made the mistake of casting my mind back to my family. When I thought of my parents, the usual wave of emotions came over me. I felt nothing for my father beyond the need to avenge him, but for my mother I felt that sense of despair hit me like a rifle butt to the head. I thought of my old home, the one that the Scavengers had overrun in an act of brutal savagery, and I felt anger, but mostly longing to be back under the protection of the NSA, to be back in the boring, controlled lifestyle that I’d spent most of my life in. Sure, being out here in the wild was fun and all, so long as you weren’t getting shot at, but even that came with its own sense of adrenaline. I’d met some amazing ponies, like Eagle and Wraith and the baremare (that I didn’t get the name of, shit), but life had been so much easier behind the white and blue screen of NSA Watchponies and militia. But then I had to remind myself that I wasn’t an NSA brat anymore. I was a Wanderer, and that meant I could be whatever I wanted. I could be the most colossal bitch that Equestria had ever known! Should it so please me.

I didn’t get anything more out of Wraith. The first sign of actual emotion from him came when we saw the first of the skyscrapers of the Ruins, just peaking up over the top of a hill. Wraith and I stopped and gazed in silent awe. Never before had I, nor Wraith I presume, seen a building so big before. Each one must have been a hundred stories high, with windows on ever floor covering every square inch of the impressive structures. At least, there should have been windows covering every square inch of the impressive structures, but most of them had been shot out by bullets or artillery fire. There was smoke rising from certain choice buildings, and a fire or two raged amongst the canopy of the mighty metropolis.

It was at about that time that Wraith and I ducked our heads and covered our ears as a massive, earthshattering boom sent loose debris bouncing slightly. Seconds later, an explosion the size of which I had never witnessed prior tore out a huge chunk of one of the skyscrapers and sent it hurtling towards the streets below. I felt sorry for anypony who was trapped beneath that. I looked at Wraith for reassurance that what we were doing was not something akin to putting a pistol in our mouths, but he looked about as confident as I did. As in, not at all.

We decided not to venture into the Ruins without some clear plan as to what we were doing (I had taken the opportunity during our journey to try and hammer the importance of planning into Wraith’s head), so we set up temporary camp and started brainstorming. Admittedly, brainstorming was difficult when, every once in a while, the pounding of long range artillery interrupted what would have normally been a pleasant silence. By late afternoon I was grinding my teeth in frustration. How did anypony rest in this place? How had I not heard these guns all the way back in Refuge? My heart went out to all of the LRSA ponies forced to endure such torture on a regular basis. As for the Scavengers, they could all get blown to pieces for all I cared. It did take me a while to figure out, actually, but the sound of artillery fire was actually coming from two different directions. My only theory was that one side was the LRSA artillery, and the other side was the artillery stolen by the Scavengers.

As night fell, we set off, plan formulated and ready to be implemented. Basically, don’t get found. Try and sneak through without being picked up by either side if possible. If that didn’t work, then run to the LRSA for help. If we ended up behind Scavenger lines, then we’d have to try and do a little roleplaying. I was confident in my ability to play the part of a slave, so I wasn’t too worried about that, but from Eagle’s description of how Scavengers in these parts operated, I wasn’t particularly keen to have to resort to such actions. We had some ground to cover before we actually made it to the outskirts of the Ruins, but my heart was in my mouth the entire time. I was expecting this to be a lot more challenging that anything I’d done before.

Our approach to the Ruins continued as the night became absolute. We made slow progress, each of us diving for the nearest scrap of spare cover every time we heard the thumping of the artillery. It was a good way before we reached the outer suburbs, consisting mostly of small, shattered houses and war-torn small streets. Wraith kept low as we passed through this area, moving very quickly to avoid being caught in the open. When I asked why he was being so cautious, he replied by telling me that Scavengers worked well in ruined areas. They could set up a sniper in a bombed out house, or a machinegun behind some rubble, and you wouldn’t know a thing about it until you’d been punched full of holes. Upon hearing this, I adopted a similar stance, moving extremely carefully to try and avoid being spotted.

At one point, as we were beginning to near the outer limits of the big city, we both had to skirt around a small minefield at a cross road. The mines were almost undetectable, but Wraith spotted them with a combination of keen vision and inherent caution. Plus, he knew Scavenger tactics. The mines were placed underneath slabs of concrete or plasterboard or similar items of rubble. The idea was that if the rubble was disturbed in any way, the mine would be detonated and blow off the hooves of whoever walked over them. A rather gruesome way to go, but apparently it worked, otherwise the Scavengers wouldn’t do it.

On recollection, I would probably say that the short space of time we spent making our way through the suburbs was the most nerve wracking time of my life. I remember, quite vividly, making my way down a street with Wraith a few feet ahead of me, and hearing another boom of artillery fire. This had become commonplace; the artillery would fire about once every sixty seconds. I was keeping an eye open for the glint that would indicate a telescopic lens when about ten or so metres down the road along which I’d just come the earth was torn up with an almighty roar and flung high into the air, completely obliterating the surrounding terrain. Chunks of earth and asphalt were thrown around as though they were weightless, and a gargantuan tongue of fire licked up from the area of impact. The detonation was so loud that it shook the ground around it and set my ears ringing. The shell had landed so close to me that, had I been just a few seconds slower, it would have ended me. In pure terror I scrabbled backwards away from the carnage, eyes wide, heart rocketing in my chest, nothing but fear coursing its way through my veins as I looked fiery oblivion straight in the face. When Wraith pulled me up and dusted me down, I was shaken to the edge of my wits. Every snapping twig, every distant chatter of gunfire, every chirp of crickets sent me reeling for the nearest cover, terrified that the noise was sure to take me, sure to be the one that ended my existence. I have honestly never been more scared in my entire life.

I was still a nervous wreck when we reached the outskirts of the metropolis, just as the moon had passed its peak. Here, the buildings began to tower hundreds, thousands of stories high into the air. The main street was six lanes wide, three on either side, separated down the middle by a row of concrete jersey barriers. There were street light every five or six metres down the pavement, and the street stretched on for as far as the eye could see, branching off occasionally into side roads. A fine layer of dust and soot hung in the air, creating an artificial smog that seemed to reduce viewing distance significantly. Everything beyond a certain point simply faded into the grey mist, and every sound made beyond that was distant and seemed to echo. The lights didn’t work, so the power was out throughout the whole metropolis. Every so often, one could hear a violent exchange of gunfire, which soon ceased, followed by numerous intermittent shots as the victors mopped up whatever was left of the enemy forces.

The Ruins. We had to traverse the Ruins. The streets in this place extended for several hundred kilometres, and it was very easy to get lost. Wraith seemed less fazed by the situation than me, and set off with almost no hesitation whatsoever. With a look over his shoulder he encouraged me forward. He didn’t stop walking though. With what I’m sure was an audible gulp, I entered the Ruins.

I felt tainted just by walking in the dusty, battered streets. Everywhere I looked there were signs of past conflicts; signs of death. Here or there, a lamppost would be lying on its side or be bent to one side. The jersey barriers that ran along the central street were covered with marks from where bullets and incendiaries had struck, grazed, or scorched the surface. The buildings themselves missed most of their windows, and some had even partially collapsed, spilling rubble into the streets and forming areas of effective cover, and good places to spring ambushes. As such, I felt slightly more nervous than normal whenever passing as pile of suspicious rubble.

My hoof suddenly sank into something soft and squishy that definitely wasn’t road. I could feel a little moisture collecting around the base of my hoof and winced at the unpleasant experience. Half fearing moving, and half dreading not, I lifted my hoof out of the substance I’d stepped in. I closed both eyes and took several long breaths. As an almighty feat of courage, I peered cautiously down at the ground. What I saw made me whimper and cower slightly.

When I looked more closely, I noticed something about the place that I’d missed before. Everywhere, scattered over the road, buried amongst the rubble and leaning up against jersey barriers, were hundreds of brutalised, horribly distorted corpses. Everywhere I looked there were seldom fewer than five in any one area. Some had their limbs tied up in knots or twisted in ways I previously thought impossible. Some were missing legs or heads or wings or horns and others were simply represented by a dismembered torso flung against a wall. Ponies slumped and lay in a multitude of poses, some still clutching onto their weapons, or holding their wounded or missing appendages as if still hanging on for dear life. When I looked down at my hooves, I saw the body of a soldier so heavily caked in mud, soot and blood that I could barely make him out from the road. Around my hoof, a thick film of blood was staining my fur, and slowly oozing off the edge to drip noiselessly onto the floor. The blood was dirty, filled with so much dirt and gravel that it was almost black.

Wraith came over to see what had halted me. I was personally terrified, unable (or unwilling) to move in any way lest I put my hoof into another body. Wraith, being the Scavenger that he was, saw the opportunity in the situation. He grabbed onto the shoulders of the soldier and heaved, lifting him up from the ground with a shower of debris. With a grunt of exertion, he dragged the raggedy corpse along the road and leaned it up against a jersey barrier in the middle of the road. I came over to observe, my hoof making a horrible squelching noise whenever I took a step forward. It took all of my resolve not to scream.

With expert care and practised ease, Wraith set about scavenging for useful supplies. He first removed the soldier’s helmet, which came away cleanly. I hadn’t realised before, but the helmet actually had a pair of goggles attached to it. With them removed, I could see the stallion’s dirty fur and filthy mane, and his eyes which were a deep blue. They didn’t shimmer or shine like most that I’d seen, but were dull and lifeless, as though they were painted onto stone. I also noted, with some disgust, that one eye looked in a completely different direction to the other. The soldier must have been hit so hard by whatever it was that had killed him that it had knocked one eye off centre.

Wraith began sifting through the soldier’s assault webbing. He began by opening the top two pockets, drawing out several sachets of sugar. Wraith looked at the writing on the side, “Russians.” He pocketed the sugar, and began sifting through his other pockets. There was little more to be found, apart from a half empty water canteen and a couple magazines of ammunition. Wraith fumbled around the soldier’s shoulders again and found a sling that ran the length of his torso. With a tug, the sling came away, and with it came a mud covered assault rifle. Wraith gave it a clean off with his sleeve, checking that none of the vital components were blocked, and handed it to me, “Take this.”
“I’d rather not.”
“Take it. You’ll need more firepower than just a pistol if you’re going to survive here.” Rather regretfully, I took the rifle from him (along with the spare ammunition) and slung it over my neck, letting it dangle in front of me.

Wraith found nothing more, and so he closed the soldier’s eyes in a final show of respect, and lay the soldier on his back, resting his helmet on his chest. Wraith briefly bowed his head before setting forward again. I followed closer behind now than before, my eyes now scanning the ground for more bodies. The last thing I wanted to do was stand on another corpse. Wraith assured me that he would try and fix up my new rifle a bit once he found some spare parts, and I merely nodded my head and grunted slightly by way of reply. I wasn’t feeling very talkative.

Darkness seemed to complete itself almost immediately. If the smog wasn’t thick enough before, now seeing more than a few feet in any direction was challenging where it was particularly thick. Wraith had the two of us halt briefly for about five minutes as he was certain he could hear the rumbling of metal treads over concrete. Either he had a sixth sense or he was hearing things, because I personally heard nothing at all beyond the booming artillery. We both had a collective heart attack when we thought we saw a Scavenger patrol in the distance, but when Wraith peered through his scope what we’d originally thought had been a row of murderers turned out to be some small stacks of rubble that were slightly higher than the rest.

When I looked back the way we’d come, I could no longer see the grasslands of Equestria behind us. All I could see were more buildings and more smog. I could now see how it was so easy to get lost and disoriented in this place; everything looked exactly the same. Wraith informed me that we should hunker down and sit the night out, as the Scavengers in this region tended to be more active during the moonlit hours. The problem, however, was not remaining undetected, but finding a place in which one could remain undetected in the first place. Shelter was actually surprisingly hard to come by. Almost everything was completely shot to pieces and most buildings were so heavily damaged or filled with rubble that they offered no protection from the elements (nor enemy fire) at all.

Purely by chance, I happened to round a mound of rubble to come face to face with a tripod mounted heavy machinegun. I remained stock still as I stared down the sooty, rifled barrel, alerting Wraith to my location by coughing slightly. He sighed and grabbed hold of my collar, rather forcefully pulling me behind the mound of rubble and into the corner of a shot out building, in which the machinegun had been set up. He gestured silently to the soldier slumped over the weapon, his hoof still resting on the trigger, and sighed. I felt vaguely like he was patronising me, but shrugged it off. We were both under stress and sparking a confrontation with him would have achieved nothing.

The machinegun nest was actually in a pretty advantageous location. It was right on the corner of a four way crossroad, with a large arc of fire and protected by a short wall of rubble. If I squinted, I could see a particularly high density of bodies trapped within the arc of the weapon. The nest itself was relatively spacious. The machinegun took up quite a lot of space on its own, but there was still space for the two roll mats on the floor, weighed down on each corner by a large chunk of stone, and for a small cache of ammunition boxes in one corner. There was only one soldier in the nest, but I was assured that LRSA machinegun teams frequently worked in threes, with one gunner, one loader, and one spotter that also acted as a defender to prevent the weapon from being flanked.

Wraith was keen to search the body of the gunner. He went through the same process as before. When he went to remove the soldier’s helmet, it came away sticky. Covering almost the soldier’s entire face was a thick layer of gluey blood. It was hard to see where the actual wound was, because everything looked so savagely mangled, but it looked as though whatever had hit him had been big, and had hit him hard. Wraith found another rifle and more ammunition. He passed me the rounds and confiscated my rifle, saying he would replace anything that needed replacing where he could. Instead of assault webbing, the soldier had two belts of ammunition strapped around his chest. They were massive bullets, half with red tips and the other half with black tips. Wraith ignored them, and after searching the ammunition boxes, declared that there was no more ammunition worth salvaging.

I was rather grateful when Wraith called first sentry, and so with weariness weighing down on me, I flung myself onto one of the roll mats and curled up from the cold. I then rolled onto the other roll mat as I felt something warm and moist beneath me. I was lulled to sleep by the clinking and clanking of weapons being disassembled, and my own tired, heavy breathing. It was cold, bitterly cold, but thankfully it was dry and there wasn’t any rain on the horizon as far as I could see. Eventually I drifted off to sleep, but it was a restless sleep, and I woke up more tired than when I’d gone to sleep in the first place.

When I did wake up, there was almost no visible difference in the surroundings. The smog was still there and still thicker than cement. Bodies still lay in their hundreds. I had silently been hoping that this wasn’t happening, but it was. Wraith was sitting next to the machinegun, staring out across the street. He hadn’t slept, nor had he even woken me up. I had no idea what the time of day was, but it felt like early morning. Whatever had distracted his attention was probably something worth looking at. I pulled myself back up to my hooves, everything aching and a chill in my bones. I shook my head, replaced my hat on my head, and went to sit next to Wraith. He didn’t look at me. He sat still.

I tapped him on the shoulder, “What’re you looking at?”
Wraith silently handed me his rifle and pointed. His face was expressionless. I looked through the rifle’s scope, for the first time seeing Wraith’s crosshairs. A long, thin needle poked up from the bottom and two shorter bars met just short of the middle, branching off from the sides. I don’t know how he shot accurately with that crosshair. I focused the lens on a lamppost across the street which Wraith had pointed at. What I saw was not encouraging. Suspended from a combination of ropes and chains from the lamppost was the body of a stallion, clad in the black armour of the LRSA. He spun ever so slightly in the light breeze that blew through the streets. A sign hung over his torso read ‘I’m an LRSA coward’.

I handed Wraith’s rifle back to him. He slung it over his back and coughed, “It’s called ‘ruining’. The Scavengers came up with it. You take a prisoner, suspend him from a lamppost or something high up, and then stab him in the rear hooves so that he bleeds onto the floor. It’s slow, it’s painful, and it’s ethically fucked up.” Wraith spat on the ground in disgust. He grabbed hold of the sling of the assault rifle we’d collected last night and threw it to me. I clutched it in my magic and slung it over my neck, so that it once again hung before me. Wraith had fixed it up nice. Previously it had been completely concealed behind a mask of dirt and mud, but Wraith had cleaned it up and now I could see the exposed black metal and polymer in all its glory. Wraith also pointed out that he’d replaced the bolt and recoil assembly, as well as swapped out the flash eliminator. He said that the original one had been an older variant that wasn’t quite as effective.

Without any further word nor warning, Wraith kicked himself into gear and stepped off into the street. I followed quickly behind, having to readjust my new rifle to stop it knocking against one of my legs. I caught up with him and spoke in a hushed voice, “Shouldn’t we be taking it a little more carefully? Walking straight down the middle of the street doesn’t sound like the best way to avoid being caught.”
“This place is teeming with personnel representative of both sides. They patrol these streets constantly, day and night. If they’re going to find us, then they’ll find us. And they will find us. All we can do is delay it for as long as possible. As soon as we come across a patrol, even if we’re hidden under the road then they’ll find us.”
“Oh what an uplifting thought. What happened to the ‘don’t get caught’ part of the plan?”
Wraith was silent at that. Nevertheless, he still made no attempt to conceal himself.

As we walked, we both scanned the buildings and streets ahead for threats. We must have walked for hours, but every hour seemed to drag on like a day. We had a very close encounter with a patrol at one point. Neither of us could discern what faction the patrol belonged to, but Wraith spotted them ahead at a crossroad and spied on them for a while through his scope. We spent a few minutes watching them. I spent the whole time tense. If we could see them then surely they could see us? There were about ten of them in total, all brandishing firearms of some variety and all waiting, seemingly in ambush, for somepony to pass by. We made the unanimous conclusion that continuing on our current heading would be a suicidal affair, so we backtracked a bit and turned off into a side road, hoping to dodge around them.

The side road was substantially thinner than the main street. It consisted only of a few lanes, and was not as well developed, nor as heavily strewn with corpses. Actually, I noticed a gradually increasing number of Scavenger bodies building up in place of LRSA. Wraith assured me that that meant we were heading towards LRSA lines. Still, just because the LRSA weren’t as murderous as the Scavengers, in this scenario coming across them would likely prove fatal. The LRSA had been so used to seeing nothing but Scavengers and their own troops that anypony that wasn’t wearing their uniform was considered a threat. If the LRSA found us wandering the streets, they’d almost surely put us down, or at least fire upon us.

We peered down alleyways and rubble strewn streets, trying to find a way to get back on our previous facing. Eventual Wraith had to admit that we were lost, and I had to admit that I was completely disoriented. I didn’t know from which direction I’d come, nor which direction I was supposed to be heading. To make matters worse, the sun was beginning to go down again, and I could hear the sounds of gunfire a few streets down. We needed to find someplace to bed down for the night, but no open opportunities presented themselves. We’d have to do some serious searching.

It was during such a search, when Wraith was busy scoping out an alleyway, that I stumbled upon our solution. Or, to be more precise, our solution stumbled across me. I was checking out an old mortar emplacement, weighing up the pros and cons of its sheltering prospects. Wraith was not far off; within shouting distance. The emplacement was of decent size, with a few roll mats still out that the crew had forgotten to reclaim. The sandbag wall made a good wind break and, despite the absence of the main weapon itself, looked like a good position from which to stage a defence should we come under attack. There was a box of mortar shells still in the emplacement, that we could probably make into booby traps should the need arise.

I straightened up, having been bending down to inspect the roll mats, looking for punctures or, indeed, traps set by the previous occupants. When my head reappeared over the sandbags, I was immediately called to attention by a voice off in another direction, “Halt! State your business.” I remained silent, instead searching for the source of the voice. After some seriously hard core looking, I spotted the silhouette of somepony atop a pile of rubble, aiming a scoped rifle towards me. They were completely alone, as far as I could tell, which I saw as odd. Both factions here tended to move in large groups. Taking a risk, I decided to offer a reply.
“I’m looking for shelter. My companion’s not far off. Would you be able to provide us with residence for a while?”

I felt like that was a pretty ballsy move to make. If this pony did turn out to be LRSA or Scavenger then I’d likely lose my brains. The pony moved slowly towards me, never once taking their rifle off me. As they approached the edge of the emplacement, they slung the weapon over their back and vaulted over the sandbag wall to join me, coming a little closer than I would have liked. There was a sharp striking noise and suddenly the emplacement was illuminated by the glow of a match that the pony held between us.

It was a stallion, that became immediately evident, but such an out of place stallion I had never seen. In this world of black, grey, and khaki, to see a pony that was almost completely pink was definitely odd. His fur was a bright pink, his mane was pink, heck, even his eyes were a pale shade of pink. He wore what looked to be the uniform of the LRSA, but it certainly was not regulation equipment. It had been converted, by some miracle of needlework that surpassed my own ability, into a rather fashionable black waistcoat, with a large, black, leather belt with a shiny silver buckle. The stallion had across his back his rifle, which looked vaguely similar to Wraith’s and also sported a telescopic scope. The stallion definitely had a ruggedness about him, but it was a sort of refined ruggedness that seemed to contrast with Wraith’s rough-around-the-edges survivalist kind of outdoorsy ruggedness.

He seemed to take a similar interest in me, his eyes darting over every aspect of my form whilst I waited awkwardly for the match to burn down to his fur. He dropped it with a yelp as the small flame singed him slightly, casting us both back into darkness. There was a quiet snap and a curse, before he finally managed to light another match. When he did, he wasted no time in probing deeper into my affairs, “You’re not with the Scavengers?”
“No.”
“Or the LRSA?”
“No. If it helps then I’m a Wanderer.”
“And this companion of yours is supposedly a Wanderer too?”
“Well,” I began, conscious that this was an important question that required a careful response. “He’s technically a Wanderer. He wears the uniform of a Scavenger but I assure you that he is a perfectly reasonable stallion.”

My new friend sniffed slightly, “If you can prove it then I might consider letting the two of you stay with me for a while. I am the proud owner of one of the only remaining safe spots in the Ruins, and it just so happens that I always keep rooms free for just such occasions as this. After all, you never know when you’re going to meet some new friends.” Almost all of that he managed to say in the space of a few seconds. He was a rather impressive talker, if that was an attribute that could be held to one’s credit. After what he’d actually said managed to sink through, I nodded by way of reply and scampered out of the mortar pit to drag Wraith back.

I found him behind a wall of sandbags a little way off down the street. He was busy struggling with the lock on an ammunition box, trying to force his knife blade into the mechanism and break the pins. I grabbed him by the back of his collar using my magic and essentially dragged him along the floor back to the mortar pit. I could just have talked to him and asked for him to follow me back, but that would have involved conversation and I was beginning to just get desperate for shelter before a patrol stumbled across us. We didn’t have much time for chat.

I let go of Wraith and he shot me a rather disgruntled look before turning to the figure I’d spoken to earlier. Neither spoke for a while, as if they were sizing each other up for some fight. Eventually I was forced to break the silence before it dragged on too long, “Wraith, here’s somepony who’s offering us shelter. Make a good impression.”
“So you’re this lovely mare’s travelling companion? Scavenger, are you?”
Wraith frowned and looked close to releasing a growl, “No. I detest the Scavengers and everything they stand for. Their brutality has caused harm on an unforgivable scale. I would rather cut out my own eyes than work for the Scavengers again.”
“So you’re a pretty die-hard anti-Scavenger are you? I suppose I can believe that, judging from the fact that you haven’t killed me yet. Well, I suppose I should lead you two to safety before the LRSA get here. First patrol is due to pass in about three minutes so let’s move.”

The stallion made a quick about turn and set off over the rubble, moving quickly and nimbly, with practised grace. Or at least, it looked practiced. Nopony moved that effortlessly through rubble without some serious practise. Wraith followed close behind him, his natural ruggedness giving him an advantage over the rough terrain. I brought up the rear, my movement rather critically impaired by the debris. I stumbled several times and the two stallions had to wait for me briefly so I could catch up.

Fortunately, we quickly branched off into one of the many tall buildings, now entering a series of winding corridors. The place looked like an old office block to me. We moved carefully down a corridor with ceiling panels missing and strip lights hanging suspended from frayed cables. Most of the doors were either smashed in or missing entirely, and there was the occasional body of a sniper that had been caught off guard. The corridor ended in a caved in section of ceiling, and so we had to detour through a series of interconnected work spaces. There were desks lined up in what had probably once been neat rows, with stacks of loose paper scattered all over the floor. Many of the items of furniture had been overturned and were full of bullet holes, serving as a grim reminder of how dangerous this place was.

I stopped to pick up a piece of paper from one of the desks. I felt a desire to know what this place was all about before it was blown apart by high explosives and tracers. I read it as I walked, keeping one eye on the ponies in front of me and one on the sheet. It was nothing particularly interesting. Apparently the building had been the headquarters of a shipping company, and what I was reading was their monthly expenditure budget. I discarded the page once I lost interest, which was admittedly very quickly.

After a quick trip through a canteen, we stopped before a supply closet. The closet itself was nothing special from the outside, just a plain wooden door built into the wall. The door was the exact same colour as the surrounding furniture (white) and there was simply a small hole where the door handle had once been. Unless one was specifically looking for it, they would probably have missed it. In the heat of combat, they’d definitely have missed it. I suppose that was what our new landlord had been going for.

To demonstrate that he was still full of surprises, he produced from the pocket of his waistcoat a polished silver door handle that fitted nicely into the hole in the door. With a twist and a click, the door swung open. I think it’s fair to say that I was a little underwhelmed by what I saw. It was just an ordinary supply closet with nothing really special about it. There was a series of shelves on the back wall, on which were bottles of bleach and several other dangerous looking chemicals, and a towel hung suspended on one side next to a radiator, which presumably didn’t work anymore.

“Is this it?” Wraith said, not me.
“My friend, you underestimate me!” He seemed abnormally happy for somepony that literally lived in a warzone. “Peek behind that towel there.”
Wraith did as instructed and stepped into the closet, clutching one corner of the towel and lifting it up to look behind. After a few moments of silence, “Is this it?”
“No. Allow me to show you what I have beyond the entrance corridor! You don’t go into somepony’s house and assume that the first room you see is the only one in the house, do you? No, I should think not! Please follow me. Don’t get lost, it is only a straight corridor after all.”

I playfully (and unintentionally) pushed past Wraith and stepped into the corridor. It was pitch black inside, and making out anything in the distance was a chore at best. I started walking, my hooves seeming worryingly loud on the concrete like flooring. Wraith closed the door to the closet and followed quickly behind me, speaking in a hushed voice close to me ear, “He talks too much.”
“I think anypony that talks around you talks too much.”
“Mmm.” I think it only supported Wraith’s comment when the stallion started rattling off more sentences in our general direction. The experience was rather unpleasantly like being machine gunned.

Eventually, after what seemed like hours of walking in a straight line, I stumbled into the back of our guide and brought myself to a stop. I still couldn’t see a thing, but I could hear a door being opened directly in front of me and could only wish that we weren’t entering another long corridor. There was a snap like a switch being thrown and suddenly I was aware of a loud hum. In just a few more seconds the hallway was filled with flickering white light as a row of strip lights came on along the corridor. They blinded me at first, my eyes having become unaccustomed to bright light, but eventually I adapted and regained use of my vision. I could make out the stallion standing in the doorway, ushering us in quietly before flicking a switch just outside the door and once again killing the lights, “Sorry for the darkness. You understand that I can’t leave lights on outside or I run the risk of being caught. Now that we’re in here, however, it should be safe to turn on a few lamps. Don’t move in case you knock into something. There are quite a lot of things of value in this room and I don’t want any of them to get damaged. Let’s see, where’s the switch? Ah, got it!”

In an instant we were surrounded on all sides by strange and fantastic creations bathed in the golden light of many old desk lamps scattered about the room. I rubbed my hooves gently over the soft, deep red carpet, enjoying the sensation of something benign against my hooves as opposed to the hostile concrete and packed dirt I was used to. The walls were covered in a dark green fabric, with a sort of golden trim around the edges. It was a little frayed in some areas, but was still a damn sight more impressive than anything I’d seen in a while. The NSA could do with taking a leaf out of this guy’s book. The room looked like what you would expect to see in a Cluedo mansion.

But all of the lavish decoration (that must have taken a lot of time to put in place) had nothing on what lined the walls on either side of the door. In the room there were about six pedestals that stood maybe a foot or two off the ground, and upon each were perhaps the most intricate and detailed sculptures of ponies I’d ever seen. I walked up to the closest one and looked carefully at it. It was uncanny the realism that came through. It was as though the mare I was looking at was alive, with a coat of finely trimmed sky blue fur, and a mane that flowed down her neck in such a way that I could have sworn it was real pony hair. It probably was, actually. The mare I was admiring was stood with one hoof raised as if preparing to enter a gallop, her face pulling off a look of steely determination. Oddly enough, she was wearing a tight fitting blazer and tie, a plain white shirt underneath, buttoned all the way up. The whole thing was so peculiar, and I noticed as I looked around that the other pedestals also sported their own mannequin, all equally detailed, and all sporting equally fancy and sophisticated garments. They all stood motionless in various poses, with a mix of expressions and styles. There were a few stallions, some mares, and one colt that looked to be in his late teens.

Our host beamed at me, clearly delighted by my interest in his collection, “You like them? I make them all myself. I’m rather skilled with a needle, see, and I’m fascinated by the past. All the garments you see here are modelled off old drawings I found during my travels. They’re all pre-revolutionary clothes, the sorts of things our grand-fathers would have worn at parties. This particular piece here is what was known as ‘formal dress’, consisting of a blazer, waistcoat and tie. It was a garment worn on special occasions, typically during social gatherings. Everything about the suit is important, including the front button arrangement, the lapel style, the pocket placement and type, and so on.”
“I see,” I was rather blown back by the response. I thought he was just a collector, but my respect for him as a fellow needle worker immediately shot up when I heard he made the garments himself. What fascinated me more, however, was how he acquired his models. I asked him about it when he next had to stop and take a breath. He replied by smiling and tilting his head slightly.
“Well, what with high quality mannequins being in short supply these days, I’m forced to improvise. What you’re seeing are sculptures that I have made out of what I have readily available.”
“They’re very life like.”
“Yes, I take great pride in my work, and I put a lot of effort into making each one look perfect. It takes several days to create each individual mannequin, but I think it’s worth it for the aesthetic appeal.”

During our conversation, Wraith had gone a-wandering and was investigating some of the other rooms. He called to us from the next room, and we both motioned to join him to see what exactly had caught his interest. He was standing before a table with several names carved into it. They were structured in a way that seemed to follow a particular pattern, and when Wraith asked what it was his reply was simply, “My family tree. Or what I know of it at least. As with almost everything you’ll see here, I made it myself. Took a lot of work to trace my lineage back that far, I might add. This is me here,” he pressed his hoof against the name at the bottom of one of the branches. “Perky Pie. And look, if you follow the tree you can trace it all the way back to my grandmother. Thing is, I haven’t quite managed to complete the tree. I know my mother had three siblings, and I know that all of them had foals too, but there’s no record of their names as far as I can tell. Somewhere out there are my three lost cousins, and someday I’ll find them and we’ll all live as one big family.” Perky seemed to stare wistfully off into the distance as he said that, as if he had suddenly lost contact with reality. I had to dig him gently in the shoulder to bring him back and when I did he seemed somewhat disoriented and confused.

After explaining to him that we were not invaders and that he’d let us in voluntarily, he resumed his default excitable attitude. With a spring in his step he led us off through a series of smaller rooms explaining that he would show us where we’d be staying. At one point, Wraith stopped before a locked door (so far the only door that actually existed besides the one to the main corridor). He tapped it with his hoof and listened, “What’s behind here exactly?”
“That’s my room, friend, and I suggest you don’t inquire further. I do all of my most intricate work in there, and should you enter you might ruin something or other. It’s not that I don’t trust you, it’s just that I don’t want you interfering with anything. You’re welcome to explore anywhere else you wish, but just stay out of my room. It’s kind of a privacy thing, you know.”
“Right.” Wraith eyed the door suspiciously as if he was half expecting to see some sort of occult ritual going on behind it. He followed on behind us, but every second he spent around Perky seemed tense.

Perky entered the final room at the end of the series and made a rather extravagant bowing gesture, “Your quarters, my lady.”
“Um… thanks. There’s really no need to address me like that. You can just call me Bucky.”
“Nonsense! I insist that you allow me to treat you as proper guests. I don’t get visitors often, as you can imagine, and I want to make this experience special for the both of us. So please, enter. Become accustomed to your surroundings and, when you’re ready, join me for some evening drinks. I’ll be in the room with my family tree.”
I raised an eyebrow, taken aback by his formality but nonetheless rather excited by the prospect of being a classy guest as opposed to a dirty lodger, “I think I will. Thanks.”
“My pleasure. And you, sir, please take the time to settle in. I trust that everything will be to your satisfaction.”
Wraith was less formal with his reply, simply snarling slightly and giving a low grunt by way of reply.

Perky vanished back the way we’d come and I stepped in to take in what I hoped would become my new surroundings. I rather liked the idea of staying here in security, away from the trouble of the world and safe. The bedroom was relatively large, and was just as finely decorated as the rest of the shelter. There were two beds, both readily made, and a large cupboard that took up an entire wall. There was a screen behind which one could change in peace, and two bedside tables for the storage of much smaller items. Excited, I slung my assault rifle over one of the bedposts and dived onto the bed, the sensation of lying on a proper mattress sending waves of euphoria through my tired and battered body. Wraith came to stand next to me, looking down at me from his vantage point at the top of his neck. I gazed tenderly back at him. Young, immature Bucky would have grabbed at him and made his mane a little messier than usual, but grown up, sensible Bucky realised that that wasn’t a good idea. I could show my affection in a much kinder way. I smiled up at him and kissed him ever so gently, the motion not being much more than a gentle brush of lips on lips, but it was enough to make Wraith blush hotly.

I sighed and stretched, making myself as comfortable as possible. I wondered if this place had a shower, and if so if it was available for rent. I really needed a wash. I probably stank something terrible. Wraith had sat down on his own bed, looking around with his eyes narrowed. I decided to be the first to comment, “I like him. He’s really friendly and very generous to let us stay here.”
“I don’t trust him.”
“Oh? And why’s that?”
“It all seems a little too convenient for me. You know, how he just so happens to have one spare room available for visitors, and how in said room there just so happens to be exactly two beds, and he just so happens to have the same interests as you. He’s even got a locked room that he suspiciously forbids us from entering, and his speech pattern is very vague, as if he’s trying to hide something.”
“Oh, put your tinfoil hat back on. Can’t you just accept that he’s a nice guy trying to do a nice thing for us?”
“If there’s one thing I’ve learnt in all of my years of experience, it’s that nopony is ever as nice as they first seem. Everypony has a secret that they’re not sharing, and everypony will do their best to prevent you from finding out what it is.”
“Even me?”
“Well… I suppose you’re the exception to the rule.”

I snorted. Typical Wraith, never trusting anypony that was in any way suspicious. Sure, Perky was a little quirky, but that didn’t mean he was hiding something. Admittedly, I was a little curious to find out how he’d managed to renovate this place so well in the middle of a war zone. Maybe the materials he needed were just close at hand? He was clearly a skilled craftspony, so it wouldn’t surprise me to find out that he’d decorated the place himself. Well, whatever Wraith thought, I was going to enjoy myself here. We couldn’t stay forever, we still had to get out of the Ruins and reach that rendezvous point, but until we left I was going to have a good time. Right now, I was going to rest up for a while, and then I was going to have drinks and discuss stitching techniques and generally make something of the night. I yawned and rolled over, allowing myself to drift off into a light snooze.

Comments

[Iron Comet]

Well a time frame finally. Three generations if by going by his name he's a descendant of Pinkie Pie. Also adds a little something to the Applejack/Big Mac duo from a earlier chapter.As for the mannequins please don't tell me there bodys that have been preserved. That would be pretty creepy. Nice to see Bucky has finally picked up a rifle too. Better than a pistol any day of the week.