Clipped Wings

by Desrium

Chapter Fifteen: Phoenix Rising

Chapter Fifteen

And from the ashes, the burning wings spread once more…

Thirteen days since he was cut off from the sky.

It all started with the waning hours of night turning into a day spent in terror, concluding with the spark of companionship that very evening. Seven days later, the week was rounded out with learning, about the Wasteland, about each other...

Then the darkness came: three days of sadness culminating in a hardened spirit on the morning of the tenth day…

It had been three days since Falcon Wing left on that drizzly morn under the light gray skies. Three days since he made his pledge. And in three days he found himself towered over by the austere remains of concrete and steel giants. Like the building over the cellar, these husks of what used to be homes and work places were on the verge of falling in on themselves. It’s just that against all odds, they haven’t yet.

A badly weathered green sign on bent, rusted struts at the edge of town informed the wingless pegasus that he was in the town of Hope: the place where his Wasteland Saviors hailed from. The place where their great emotional burdens originated, a place subjected to the very things that made the Wasteland the bane of all hope. Falcon Wing glared from beneath his hood, the shadow cast on his face making his bright orange eyes stand out. He was beginning to harbor a strong dislike for irony while he slunk through the ruined town, staying in the shadows and navigating through tight passages.

The atmosphere was comprised mostly of gray, a washed out palette that only had room for one other color: muddy brown. Most of the walls were in poor condition, chipped, cracked, pockmarked or blown in completely. Chunks of concrete and rebar littered the streets. Some streets were blocked off completely by the amount of rubble created by downed buildings. Those streets put that one alley in Ponyville to shame.

The red colt passed many pre-war posters pasted to the walls, most faded and torn. Some were… dishonored in various obscene ways. There was one he kept coming across while sneaking through the ruins of urban Equestria, one he saw from the corner of his eye while he glided –- purely a figure of speech -- across the concrete and asphalt with his body held low to the ground. It was of a sad yellow mare with a pink mane, one poster in particular had dark streaks running down its height, starting at the mare’s sorrowful blue eyes. Falcon Wing found that one particularly disturbing and actually shuddered at the thought that it looked as if she were crying.

What really grabbed Falcon Wing’s attention though was the text associated with the posters -– or at least- the ones that weren’t badly damaged by the elements or defiled. “War? Fear? Death?” in an ominous bold, then under that was an elegant script. “We Must Do Better!” Falcon chuckled a bit at that. “Be a better pony,” he thought in his passing of the posters. He wondered what exactly this Ministry of Peace did, aside from… keeping peace. Or attempting to do so, for all it’s worth.

He was pulled from his wonder by conversation. One that was heating up judging by the increasingly loudness of one of the parties in the… discussion. Falcon Wing cringed. If he heard, then surely others had as well, and in the Wasteland drawing attention to yourself is one of the stupidest things one can do.

It is by this rule of hoof he knew immediately what he was going to deal with: a raider. Possibly with a group of them. Only raiders could be so positively stupid...

“…and I said I don’t give a FUCK!” a raider wearing brown and black barding barked at another in similar dress. Bits of scrap metal had been twisted about into abstract shapes and forms and incorporated into their tunics as if they were meant to be jewelry of a sort. Raider fashion: because sometimes the bones of your victim aren’t enough of a statement.

The one causing a scene in post apocalyptia was a gray earth pony. The one he was yelling at was more of a caramel color but their armor was a dirty brown and thus made up for it. “Brown, gray and black… the colors of Hope!” Falcon snarked mentally, peeking around the corner of a building. His line of sight was disrupted by piles of debris but he did not want to risk exposing himself getting to a better vantage point. Raiders may be stupid, but they were armed and dangerous, and in many cases insane enough to rush a missile wielding unicorn with nothing but a pole in their mouths. Since Falcon refused to fire first, his rules of engagement were strict and tactical. Steiner would have approved. Maybe.

The argument was one sided, the irate raider, a deep voiced stallion by the sound of it, bombarded their companion with swears of increasing volume. Falcon half expected their heads to explode into a red mist by a sniper hiding out in one of the taller buildings. It’d certainly solve the noise problem but that was so messy --

Falcon Wing spotted what the gray pony was so angry about. A mare, unconscious… possibly dead, was lying on the floor before the two. Her off-white coat was covered in blood. Suddenly the motivation to think of snide commentary deriding the intelligence of raiders evaporated. He had to act and act fast before that pony out there really did set up their rifle and take aim. He couldn’t help that mare if he was going to end up in the crosshairs of an enemy he couldn’t even see…

Falcon hung low the ground as he prowled, using the obstacles ahead to mask his approach. The vulgar raider continued to spew vulgarities and their companion remained silent, sitting on their haunches until the tirade ended. Falcon Wing couldn’t determine what had started all of this to begin with and quite frankly he didn’t care. He saw two raiders and an unconscious bystander. What he assumed to be a bystander.

It occurred to him that acting without understanding… sucked. Sucked a lot, at that. But the more he delayed, the greater the likelihood that something terrible was going to happen. He was only in the Wasteland for just under half a month, and he knew this. He’d seen this unwritten law demonstrated numerous times during his time with the two stallions.

Granted, during that time the stakes only got as high as snagging that extra can of beans before the raiders realized they were being robbed from right under their noses, not the life of another innocent pony.

Just over a yard away and the raider’s voice was almost deafening. What did they have as a cutie mark? An explosion? Falcon hoped not, he had enough experience with things going boom that first day. He steeled his nerves, controlled his breathing and maneuvered ever closer, taking cover along the rusted blue panels of a wagon -– the last thing between him and his targets.

Then he prepared himself to strike. His hind legs tensed, he angled himself upwards with his forelegs. Channeling his memories of flight, Falcon Wing launched himself over the wagon, his coat catching the air, fluttering and billowing up behind him in a flash of bravado.

“-- the FUCK is that?!” the bellowing raider exclaimed as they heard the flap of fabric and saw the filthy red pony soaring at them, overcoat trailing his figurative flight. The raider threw their self into a roll, Falcon’s hooves crashing down where they stood seconds before. What happened next was purely the result of adrenaline coursing through the red colt’s veins. Their head whipped around, drawing a pistol from their holster. A scoped black and red gun with a slender barrel and stocky grip, launched out of their mouth by a powerful two legged kick straight into their chops, spittle following the weapon as it went through the air.

Falcon had spun on a hoof, his rear legs lashing out at the raider. The kick did not have enough force to put them down instantly. He was no Klaxon. He was no earth pony, period. Not yet, at least. The blow, while managing to disarm the raider, made them angrier than before.

“I’m going to FUCK you UP, boy!” the raider roared. Falcon’s adrenaline-improved senses took in the pony’s features. Somewhat stockier build, long unruly mane, narrow snout -- oh dear Celestia, this stallion was really a mare.

He was a flurry of kicks, striking her in the side of the head, ribs and chest, shouting something along the lines of “NO” repeatedly, bobbing and weaving in between the gray pony’s attempts at retaliation.

It was so fast yet it seemed like an eternity to the colt. Finally the raider fell to the ground, bruised and exhausted. A flash of fear was in her eyes. “Don’t kill me, you crazy bastard!” she spat. That voice was like more grating than a cheese grater. Did she get shot in the throat and never fully recovered or something?

“And what about that mare over there!?” Falcon shot back, keeping his voice at considerably safer level. “Did she beg for her life too!?”

Falcon stopped himself before he could go further, immediately dropping into a combat stance to face the caramel colored raider. They only stared at him, dumbfounded with green cloudy eyes. Another mare; a young one too, just a few years older than him. Her mane and tail were a deep violet color.

She didn’t even go for the weapon just a few feet away. Falcon Wing raised a brow at her but then returned his focus to the defeated gray pony. She was trying to stand up. Worse still, she looked like she was going to speak again. Falcon spun. Bucked. Crisis averted.

“Is she dead?” said the caramel mare. Her voice was a tiny, tiny thing. The red colt didn’t answer immediately, having feared he really did kill her with that last kick. The barely noticeable heaving of her chest was a relief though. “Nah, she’s just got the night in her head. She’ll be fine” he replied. He knocked her out. She’d get to know true peace for a little while. It was more than a raider deserved.

BLAM

That small pistol had an ear shattering roar that pierced the Wasteland air. The small bullet had burrowed through the gray mare’s head with an almost surgical bullet wound to show for it. Dark red was pooling underneath the previously unconscious raider.

Falcon didn’t realize until several moments later that his jaw had dropped. His mind kept replaying the events to him. The question, his reply and then that noise that made him quiver in his barding. It took a while longer for him to hear the noise coming from the trembling mare. The gun was clicking in her teeth and she dropped it to the floor. Tears came, but she wasn’t sobbing.

“That’s my mother over there, you know. She shot her and tried to take me with her. Tried to make me a raider… or a slave”

Falcon pulled himself together. That… that was unexpected, but he could lament about it later, when he wasn’t in immediate danger of being sniped and or swarmed by the local raider pack. “Help me get her into one of these buildings. I think I can help.”