H A Z E

by Bandy

Chapter 36

O’erlander didn’t really like his job. But his job was beating ponies up and taking their stuff, so could anyone really blame him?

He flapped his wings and touched down outside the cloudstone columns of the Inverness III hotel, just outside Derecho’s entertainment district. The place stank. Everything in this city stank. It wasn’t just that he’d lived in earth pony cities most of his life and acquired a nose for their smells. If anything, earth pony cities should smell far worse than pegasus ones. How could a city made of clouds reek this bad?

The sooner he wrapped this job up and go home, the better.

Inside the hotel, a skinny stallion with a brightly-colored sash greeted him at the counter. “Name?”

“O’erlander. Should be under my company, Steadfast Asset Management.”

The stallion gave him a prying glance before uttering a curt, “Yes, you’re here. You’re room twenty eight. All weapons must be checked at the counter.”

O’erlander stacked a small gauntlet shield and a multitool knife on the counter.

The concierge appraised him, one eyebrow cocked. “All of them.”

“That is all of them.”

“Sir, if you don’t surrender your weapons, you won’t be allowed in. We do things differently up here.”

Up here. The words sparked a fire in O’erlander’s chest. “I don’t have any other weapons. Want to search my bag? Here.” He tossed his saddlebag on the counter. “Want to search me, too? Need to see under the robes?”

“That won’t be necessary.” The concierge peeked into his bag. Finding nothing, he hefted the shield and multitool and took them to one of the back rooms. The discontent was plain on his face.

O’erlander called after him, “I want a ticket for those, too.”

After a moment in the back room he returned with a receipt with all the items listed. “We run a fair business,” he said. “Nopony gets put out without good reason.” His eyes narrowed. “Don’t give me a good reason.”

---

The company O’erlander worked for was based out of the western Isles, four hundred long miles away from Derecho. It was a small company, only forty or so employees, and they had neither the interest nor the capital to expand eastward.

O’erlander was out here in this flat floating hellscape because a certain local couple had racked up too much debt and fled town. Their file included no information on what the debt was for, only that they owed twelve thousand bits and needed to pay it back one way or another. It made no difference to O’erlander.

The file also included a picture of the couple, a short description of their habits--spartan--and a few half-baked bits of information on where in Derecho they could potentially be hiding out.

Paper trails in pegasi cities were notoriously scarce, but a few banking documents and a renter’s agreement--signed in their own hoofwriting with their own names, no less--led him to the seedy middle ring of town, to a block that orbited about half a mile from the business district and occasionally dipped beneath the main strata of the city.

He found a cozy cafe across the street from their apartment and settled in for the stakeout. Concealed from both sides by cloud walls and other customers, he sipped espresso from a tiny cup and monitored the faces of the ponies coming in and out of the building. After a while, he pulled out a book of sudoku puzzles and slipped into silent contemplation.

He saw them right as he was considering a second cup of espresso. The husband, Greenfields, walked with a cane. The mare, Briar, had an extensive lattice of burns covering her face and neck. The gnarled webs of pale hairless skin stuck out against her sunset-red coat.

He could approach them now. But he was on company time, and the coffee was outstanding. Pegasi might not be able to keep their city from smelling like garbage, but when it came to making tasty stimulants, they couldn’t be beat.

So he made note of the time and what they were wearing. Then he flagged the waiter down.

“Another espresso, please,” O’erlander said.

The waiter nodded. A moment later, he returned and exchanged O’erlander’s empty cup for a full one.

“That’ll be six bits.”

O’erlander raised an eyebrow. “But it says four on the menu.”

“We run a locals-only discount. We’re trying to get more ponies from the neighborhood to come here.”

“Is that so?”

Something about the pointed look on the waiter’s face put him on edge. It reminded him of the concierge pony from the hotel. Hatred simmered beneath the outward civility. Faces changed, but hate had a timeless, universal look to it. O’erlander could pick it out from a mile away.

O’erlander pushed six bits across the table. The waiter took the money back to the counter. Four bits went into the cash register. Two went into his pocket.

O’erlander rolled up the sudoku book and squeezed it. Take it easy, he thought to himself. Not your fight.

---

The next day, there was a different waiter on staff. The price of espresso magically dropped back down to four bits.

He saw Greenfields and Briar come home around the same time as yesterday. He noted it in his notebook and went back to his espresso. No need to rush things. He was working the angles. Determining patterns. All the run-and-gun foolishness that tainted the patience of so many of his younger colleagues didn’t serve a pony like O’erlander. There would be time for a confrontation some other day.

When the cafe closed, O’erlander went down the street to the nearby tavern. The walls were lined with fake columns. The floor looked like cloudstone at first glance, but when O’erlander walked on it he felt a springiness that could only come from raw clouds. A rainbow fountain burbled behind the bar. He doubted its authenticity, but one didn’t just walk into another pony’s bar and ask them if their rainbows were real.

“What brings you to Derecho?” asked the bartender. He poured a glass of ale and set it in front of O’erlander without prompting.

O’erlander frowned, not because of the ale but because he’d been sniffed out so easily. “Business. I’m trying to get in touch with a pony who lives around here.”

“Lotta ponies live around here.”

“His name’s Greenfields.”

The bartender shrugged. “If he lives around here, he’s probably not worth investing in. Just my two bits.”

“Thanks.” O’erlander took a sip of his ale. It tasted watery, the same as every pegasus brew. He took another gulp anyway. “Can I ask you something?”

“Sure.”

“How could you tell I was from out of town?”

The bartender laughed. “It’s dripping off you, buddy. I could smell it before you walked in.”

“C’mon, humor me.” O’erlander tried to play it cool, but deep down the bartender’s answer left him seething. “Was it the fur? The mane?”

“It’s the way you walk, it’s the way you talk. It’s everything.” The bartender shrugged. “Can I give you some advice?”

“Sure.”

“Don’t go trying to change yourself just to fit in. You’ll never be all Derechan. Just do your own thing.”

“What if I just want to be more pegasus?” O’erlander said.

The comment came out of nowhere. The bartender finally said, “I don’t know, buddy. Holler if you need another beer.”

O’erlander buried his face in his ale to hide the blush forming on his face. When he was done drinking, he dropped his bits on the bartop and left with his tail between his legs. The rainbow fountain, real or not, burbled away in the background.

---

The third day was hazy. Grim light filled the air. O’erlander arrived at the cafe and took up his usual post at the booth with his usual espresso. But he didn’t pull out his sudoku. Nor did he bother with pastries. He sat with his eyes locked on the front door of the rental building.

At exactly the usual time, Greenfields and Briar emerged from the building.

O’erlander stood up.

He crossed the street fast and approached them with a jovial wave and a smile. “Excuse me! Hello. So sorry to bother you. I’m from the bank. Are you mister Greenfields?”

The two ponies looked at each other. The husband spoke up first. “Yes. Was there an issue with the paperwork? The teller told us we’d been approved for the loan.”

O’erlander cleared his throat. “Not that bank.”

A sudden chill blew from the main strata of the city and settled over the street. The breeze picked up O’erlander’s mane and blew it into his eyes, but he kept his hooves planted on the ground. No sudden movements--that was the name of the game now.

“I’m afraid I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Greenfields said, his face a mask of calm. “Maybe there’s another Greenfields.”

“I don’t think there is.”

“Well, either way, I’m afraid you’ve got the wrong pony.” He straightened up and started walking up the sidewalk towards O’erlander. “We’re going to the market. Please don’t be here when we come back, or I’m calling the guard.”

O’erlander stepped into his way. “I’ve been authorized by the First Westlander Bank to secure the sum of twelve thousand bits, either in cash or assets. That means any titles, properties, liquidities--”

Greenfields struck first. His cane whipped through the air and struck O’erlander in the jaw.

His vision went white. His ears rang. By the time he came to, his shield and multitool were gone. Greenfields was on top of him, holding the multitool, poised to strike.

Reflex kicked in. O’erlander jabbed a hoof into Greenfields’ unprotected belly. The stallion let out a grunt but held on for two more blows before rolling off.

O’erlander got his hooves beneath him only to have the mare, Briar, leap onto his back and rain blows down on the sides of his head. He swore and bucked hard, but Briar held on tight.

Briar roared in his ears, “The legs!”

Out of the corner of his eye, O’erlander saw Greenfields racing towards him, a comically shambling sprint. A pang of fear shot through his aching skull. His knees weren’t what they used to be. They couldn’t handle a hard impact.

He reared up like he was going to buck again, but this time he tipped all the way over, landing on Briar with the full force of his body weight behind it. She let out a whoof of air and struggled to suck in another.

O’erlander rolled off her and sprung back to his hooves. “Stop!” he cried in a wavering voice. “Please, stop.” He looked around for his multitool knife. Greenfields saw an opening and charged.

O’erlander threw a wild punch. it shouldn’t have connected. It was sloppy and rushed, and if Greenfields himself wasn’t tearing towards him he would have been able to block it easily. But he was closing in fast, and the hoof came at just the right angle to catch his jaw.

The momentum of his charge carried Greenfields forward even after his legs gave out. His head buried itself in the raw cloud street and stuck there.

Briar let out a feral growl. She stepped into the street and picked up the multitool off the ground. O’erlander, still reeling from the blows to his head, didn’t realize she had his multitool until she plunged the blade into his leg.

The wound wasn’t deadly, but the pain and anger was enough to send another jolt of adrenaline through his body. O’erlander did something very stupid—ripped the knife out of his leg—and followed it up with something even stupider—stabbed Briar in the ribs.

Briar’s whole body shuddered. All the air slipped out of her. Her diaphragm contracted, but nothing came back in. She stared daggers at him, a horrible agonizing glare made twice as mean by the patchwork of scars on her face.

A steady dribble of blood marked her path as she stumbled back into the apartment.

“I saw the whole thing!”

His ears perked. He all but jumped out of his skin and turned to find the waiter from the coffee stop standing across the street, wings fully outstretched, a horrified smile on his face. “I saw that whole thing,” he said again. He took a step towards him. He noticed his hooves were trembling. “They hit you first. I saw it.”

O’erlander looked at Greendields’ unconscious body. Then back at the waiter. “Yeah,” he said, “they did. Can you get the guard?”

While the waiter flew off to find a patrol, O’erlander knelt down to check on Greenfields. He’d had a seizure when he’d been hit, and he’d urinated all over himself. One of his legs twitched. His breath came in short, wheezing gasps. When O’erlander turned him onto his side, a small puddle of vomit spilled out of his mouth and sank through the clouds like acid through lace.

The guards arrived a few minutes later. They broke down the door to the renter’s flat and found Briar bleeding out on the floor. Attempts to save the mare’s life were fatally delayed when a foal no older than seven or eight leapt out from beneath Briar’s body, brandishing a kitchen knife and screaming hysterically. The guards retreated until they could get a net from the nearby garrison. By the time they dragged the foal out kicking and screaming, Briar was dead.

“I think—” O’erlander squinted at the foal in the net. “I think the foal’s bleeding.”

The guard taking his statement glanced over his shoulder. “Nah, her fur’s just red.”

O’erlander pointed to the trail of red staining the ground where they’d dragged the foal. “Yeah, but that’s definitely blood.”

“She was underneath the mom. It’s probably just the mom’s blood.”

Once the body and the foal were out, O’erlander, sporting a generous bandage on his foreleg, began the tedious task of cataloging the former family’s earthly possessions for liquidation. He took great pains to avoid the bloodsoaked rugs in the living room, but eventually those too needed to be measured and cataloged.

He stooped down and extended his measuring tape. The smell of blood bloomed in his face. He gagged. The measuring tape snapped back and smacked him in the leg.

He whipped it across the room and stormed outside, but the air out here was no better. Everything stank. This whole city stank.

When O’erlander returned home from his trip, he had a no travel clause added to his contract.

Comments

[hehelover]

Well, that’s one origin story and a half.

[Animal]

I love these types of chapters