Unfinished Business

by TheFullCrumb

UB 3 - A Red Lined Stormcloud Chapter 2

The sun.

Never knew it much, besides the stories that were told to me when I was just a young colt.

The sun was the protector, the bringer of the day, and yet, that never comforted me. I watched the stormy skies every night, wondering if the sun would ever break through.

My parents died when I was young, leaving me alone and abandoned in the middle of the most hostile area of what used to be Equestria. Others called it the San Palomino Desert. We called it the Bonelands.

I remembered being young and finding my way to a scrap pile, only to find what I thought were others who would be friendly. Instead, they tied me up and attempted to eat me. Attempted, right before I stole a knife and rammed it through their miserable skulls. That was the law of the Bonelands – if you can take it, it's yours. There was no such thing as 'friendship,' nor of the special qualities that would come with that.

Stories would always come floating down from the radio broadcaster at the top of the shoddy antenna in the scrap camp I took. Some pony named 'DJ Pon3' would tell about other ponies attempting to make the Equestrian Wasteland better, trying to fix what had happened. I would sigh, and turn back to my scrap, like I always did.

“Now you ponies remember when I told you ‘bout those two ponies who crawled themselves out of Stable Two? Well, I’ve been gettin’ reports that one of those little ponies took out the raider nest in the heart of Ponyville, and saved several pony captives -- including the beloved author of The Wasteland Survival Guide, Ditzy Doo!” I'd heard enough of the DJ to tune him out, but something about that caught my ear. Ponies were actually saving others, something unheard of in the Bonelands. Most of the raiders, slavers, and scavengers were more likely to shoot you instead of bartering, though there was the odd lost caravan where somepony could trade caps for some better equipment.

In front of me lay several pieces of pipe, wire, motors, and various lengths of rubber. I had spent most of the day scavenging the materials, and I had to say, I was pretty damn proud of myself. The pipes were the body, and with a little twisting and flattening, I would have the limbs as well for the scrap crossbow I was trying to build. I had tried several dozen times before, but the rubber always broke after a few shots.

“Come on, Grey. You know this. Hell, you're the one who designed the damned thing!” The image came back as my mind moved into gear, the parts sliding in between my hooves as I unfocused and let my body do the work. I couldn't get DJ Pon3's message out of my head. Of course I had one of those Wasteland Survival Guides, but those did not a lick of good in the Bonelands, where everything was, and would always be, trying to kill you.

I turned my full attention back to the hunting tool I was building, and smiled. Without even focusing on it, I could still build it, a testament to the wrench on my flank. Well, where the wrench used to be. I rubbed my prosthetic leg, sighing as I lifted the crossbow. Drawing back the main assembly, I set a sharpened piece of wood on top, aiming at the body of the last raider who thought it was a good idea to try to kill me. With a press of the hook, the bolt zipped away, embedding itself in the forehead of the corpse.

“Heh, that was better than ever. Gotta rustle up some more wood or something, though.” A sound in the distance caught my attention as I lifted some of what I could have guessed used to be javelins for sports or the like. Perfect bolts, and already sharped. The sound got closer as I watched a shadow appear out of the sands. The shadow turned into three, and three turned into five, the usual traveling group in the Bonelands.

“... scrap's probably gotta be good if Raiders keep dyin' 'ere. Slavers e'en stay 'way from 'ere.” Crawling on my stomach, I lowered the makeshift crossbow down, taking careful aim. They were still a ways off, but I could just barely make out some of their armor. Scavengers.

“No way in Tartarus are you taking my home from me.” Breathing in silently, I let my breath go as the bolt slammed into the first shadow, the turmoil ensuing from it rather amusing to watch as the shadows devolved into a mass of fighting. Lifting off the ground, I returned to the scrap house that had always been there, sitting down at a desk and staring at the wall.

“So, Beetlesby, how are you?” I held up a small puppet, moving it slightly as I spoke.

“'Not bad, Grey. Could be better without all those damn scavengers, but you know how it is.'” I set the puppet down, sighing. Beetlesby had come in a long time before, in an old box filled with scraps of cloth. I used it occasionally to keep some semblance of sanity, but I could feel the isolation getting to me. Self-imposed isolation from others, of course, but that was besides the point. The Scrapyard, as apparently my PipBuck labeled my home, had been around for a long time, ever since I first killed those damnable Raiders. Retrieving a cloak from underneath the desk, I breathed. I always hated leaving my home behind, but sometimes, it was the only way to get supplies. Caravans rarely traveled past the Scrapyard, and if they did, I let them have a place to stay for a few nights, trading stories and tips.

Like the one time a caravan had come through with several dozen ponies, and I had found out that they had actually met some of the ponies trying to change the wasteland. As soon as they started talking about 'unity' and other such stuff, I tuned them out, making myself look busy until they finished.

I was never good with relationships with others, evident by the loneliness I felt. Ponies in the Bonelands were conniving, back-stabbing little shits who would soon eat you as help you.

Oh, did I mention? There was a time when I tried to be hospitable. A couple of ponies in cloaks came round – Misty Falls and Red Shores if I remember – and stayed for a night. I woke up in the morning with my Cutie Mark cut up, and the two of them running away cackling. I spent four weeks healing from that. Healing potions would have been nice, but like everything else, they were scarce.

Tossing my PipBuck into my saddlebags, along with some special pieces of scrap, some bottlecaps, and some crossbow bolts, I looked off into the Bonelands. The crossbow on my back, I decided to investigate the body of the scavenger I had killed. Sighing, I trotted towards the corpse.

As I got closer, I could sense something was incredibly wrong. There was still blood everywhere, and something began to weigh heavily on me as I neared the corpse. With a gasp, the contents of my stomach erupted forth, spraying the corpse with the remnants of the only meal I had eaten all week. Shaking my head, I looked around at the parts of the body.

The head was completely gone, surrounded by a massive bloodspray. The body was splayed open, as if the scavenger had swallowed a grenade of some kind.

“So that's one, two, three, four, fi- wait a minute. One, two, three, four, five, si- that's not possible.” I counted the limbs multiple times. I was absolutely sure I had only shot one pony, and one pony alone. Turning around, I stared at where the head had been. Not only was there nothing left, but something else had replaced it. I stopped, freezing in my tracks.

There were seven eyeballs. There were six legs around me, and seven eyeballs where the head should be. The shock hit me like a train, forcing me to the ground.

Why was there so many eyeballs?!

Author's Note:

WHAT was I thinking?