Clipped Wings

by Desrium

Chapter Eight

Chapter Eight

Milestones, the things in life one does that they deem worthy of notice. To some in the Wasteland, surviving a certain amount of time is a milestone. To others, slowly discovering the wide variety of fucked up shit out there is a milestone in itself.

Falcon lay on his stomach on the “welcome mat” as Steiner had put it. He couldn’t sleep in spite of the fact that he was sure he was exhausted from the day’s trials. And it was only a single day. The thought that he would probably live out the rest of his life in this most savage realm stirred his deepest fears. One of those fears arose directly from that: how long was he going to last out here, really?

Some time later Falcon rolled onto his side, looking up at the bruised and swollen wing stub. Possible break in the bone but not an outright fracture, it would hurt, and hurt a lot. It shouldn’t take long for it to heal as long as Falcon didn’t agitate the injury but he hardly suspected it could be helped. If things happened and he ended up taking another hit to that side then nothing could be done about it. Maybe if he had a few healing potions and poultices...

“How would Patchenfix handle this…” he thought out loud. He probed his mind for any memory relating to fractures. There were a lot of them, blurry fragments brought about by his own disorientation or the painkillers given to him. From those pieces of cognition, Falcon Wing gleaned two things. One, just watching a medical pony do their craft wasn’t going to supplement any medical knowledge, especially when under the effects of drugs. Two, he enjoyed the periods of euphoria and numbness much more than he should have. He felt a flash of worry; “Maybe Klaxon was on to something…” he thought. He shook it off with a smirk. He never took medicine because he was hooked on their effects. He just knew what it was like to be completely out of it so well because of how much times he’d wind up on Dr. Patchenfix’s table.

Back on his stomach again, forelegs crossed and his chin laid on them. Falcon’s mind drifted to Steiner’s horn. From his doctor visits and time spent in the Enclave archives, he had gained some interesting tidbits. One thing he knew was that unicorn horns could grow back through magical means or naturally over time, though he didn’t know if that meant they got their magic back. That didn’t matter to the dark blue stallion though. How long ago did he lose his horn? The scar gave the impression it was an old wound, if so, why wasn’t there signs of the horn’s regrowth?

He wasn’t even going to address the matter of his magic, arcane science or anything else. To anypony in the field, magic could be understood like the alphabet or arithmetic. Falcon Wing was not one of these ponies. The only magic he knew was how to manipulate clouds. He wondered if he still could, even without his wings.

When he had finally ran out of things to think about, Falcon Wing’s mind went the way of the clouds. Just as the pegasi stopped controlling the weather, without guidance, Falcon recalled all of the things he would rather forget. His breaths became strained and he rolled onto his uninjured side, curled up. When he was finally in the grip of sleep, the first of his nightly tears appeared.

He woke up in darkness and in surreal silence. Was it morning or had he been asleep for all but a few minutes? No windows meant the only way to find out was opening the dumpster-door... and potentially alerting some unsavory types as to where he and the others were holding out. Right, bad idea.

Without Steiner’s magic lighting up the place, the basement was even darker than outside, not the regular, everyday advanced darkness. This was… advanced advanced darkness. His low-light adapted vision had trouble making out shapes. He imagined Klaxon had no trouble seeing in such conditions and Steiner… Steiner had his magic.

A thought struck the colt. Peeking out of the dumpster was dangerous, but if he was careful maybe he could take a look upstairs to get a grasp on time. He got up, mindful of his injured wing. He’d have to ask Steiner about it.

A surge of hope welled up from inside his being. Maybe the unicorn could do his arcane art and regenerate his wings! It would be nothing short of miraculous but hell, Steiner was still doing magic without hindrance while lacking a horn. If anyone could regrow wings, it’d be him. Maybe his horn hadn’t regrown because he didn’t allow it to!

After stumbling about in the darkness, Falcon Wing finally found the only door that he didn’t know what lay beyond it. He had a very good guess as to what that was though. Gingerly he cracked the door open, peeking out from behind it and seeing what became of a hallway. It would have been a golden, polished wood in its heyday but now it was just a dusty, scuffed and scratched passage. All sorts of pre-war items littered the ground, what looked to be scorched papers and shattered picture frames being most prevalent. The papers must’ve been the photos. ”Some hall of fame this is…” the blank flank Pegasus mused. The atmosphere was a depressing gray but at least it wasn’t choking blackness. It did seem to be morning, albeit very early morning.

Some compulsion drew Falcon Wing out from the doorway. Curiosity to see what remained of another time, forever captured by an image. He instantly regretted it. Pushing the door open, Falcon felt unexpected resistance and heard a strange noise as if he had toppled a pile of blocks. He went wide eyed at the sight of a blackened skull followed by other bones rolling into view. A pony had been right where the door opened. Falcon had swept the skeleton aside. His breath was once again caught at the base of his throat, a quiver running right through his body. Shaking, he closed the door gently, not making the slightest bit of noise. His breathing had completely stopped and only resumed once the door was shut. Having lost his night vision, the stumble back to his bedding was a... difficult but ultimately manageable task.

He closed his eyes tightly and buried his face into the mattress, finding its stench to be horrendous; the fact that his dumpster odors were imprinted into it not helping things at all. He screamed and the sound was adequately muffled.

Comments

[Warbalist]

Patchenfix is the best pony name, ever.