Fallout: Equestria: New World Blues

by Lumpfish

The Phoenix Flies West

Fallout: Equestria: New World Blues

Chapter 1: The Phoenix Flies West

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“Lily Shimmerpool.”

“Shinny.”

“Tattle Tail.”

“Cinnamon Bun.”

“Snowdrop.”

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War. War never changes.

And it never dies. Like a fire it only simmers back down to its embers; sleeping, lurking, waiting for time to provide the smallest spark, sending its flames roaring back to life and consuming anew.

It was long ago when two rival nations took up the prongs once more, stirring up a new bed of coals to feed the flames. Like clockwork they threw their troops to the pyres below, mixing in their own different experiments and concoctions to see just how high the fire could grow.

The details are trivial, the reasons pointless. In the end they found their lighter fluid, held it aloft in pride, and without further ado tossed it into the flame to see the results.

Both bodies burned nice and slow, symbols for ages to come.

For two hundred years Equestria has been a bed of embers. It flared in some places, dulled a bit in others, but nowhere is free from the heat. In a few rare spots the coals turned to ashes, and from these ashes rose an old nation led by new faces. They promised a new age of peace, promised that the flames would never rise again under their watchful eyes, promised not only everypony, but everyone a steady life free of horror and death.

But war never changes. War never dies...

--

“This is squadron eighty four, operation Fold ‘Em! We’ve come under attack from a large force of Rhinos ferrying an undisclosed package and are requesting immediate reinforcement from any NER troops who are receiving this transmission!”

Stallion takin’ cover behind two rocks at his one o’clock. Young one, just a colt. Can tell by that fearful glint in his eye. Too inexperienced to know that he should have moved by now, too used to firin’ that rifle of his against targets that don’t fire back.

Three shots, third already in the chamber. He rotates and rises over the rock they’ve sheltered behind, allowin’ a clear view of the enemy line. More rocks, more sand, one Rhino in cover, two out.

There’s his sniper. Fear’s still bright as day, but it’s the hooves which make him a target. Smooth, calm, calculated. Let an overconfident colt like him sit out of cover too long and he’ll pick off troops at leisure.

Raise the left leg so that the saddle lines the sights with the colt’s head. He breathes in. Dirt. Sand. Smoke.

He clenches his teeth around the mouth trigger. Familiar sound, the explosion of noise dulled by his weathered hearin’. Familiar metallic scent. Familiar push from the recoil.

His shot joins the herd of others. A split second of travelin’ time later and the colt’s head bursts scarlet, spoilin’ the sand and rocks below with their first drops of liquid in years The colt’s eyes roll up, hooves fall limp, and his corpse follows soon after.

He’s already back behind the rocks, cockin’ the lever to chamber his semi-final shot. Damn. Three seconds. Slower every skirmish. Won’t be long now before some young buck gunslinger does him in. Hell, might even be one of these damn Rhinos if he keeps this up.

“I repeat, this is squadron eighty four, does ANYPONY copy? We need reinforcements, coordinates, 107, 38!”

He pauses for a breath, takin’ advantage to check the status of the others.

Halfwing dead, face-down in the sand further up the hill. First to die, and obvious too from the number of shots lacin’ his body. Almost as if he flew into a grinder.

Ah. River Breeze, medic. Her eyes are closed, her hooves folded across her chest, wings tucked in. She lays with her back against a thick dry bush, almost in pleasant sleep if not for the dark red blot that seeps through the vest she wears. Nearby loose bandages and emptied healing potions tell of a small struggle. Hopeless. Seems she eventually came to peace with that herself.

That leaves their sharpshooter Phantom Strike a bit farther down the way and the colt screamin’ next to himself, Static.

“SHIT! ANYPONY? We need backup, now!”

“Static. There ain’t another NER squad fer at least fifty miles back,” he rasps. “Now put down the radio and spot me.”

Static trembles as he clutches the radio between his hooves, flinchin’ at every bullet that rips by. Still tremblin’, he sets the device down as if it were a newborn foal before bracin’ himself against the rock. Slowly, he peeks his head over the edge. When he sinks back down, he speaks in stutters and with wide eyes.

“O-one at your uh... ten sir,” Static squeaks. “Out w-when I saw it, behind a flat rock with b-bushes at both ends.”

Without a word he picks himself up, makin’ certain to stay behind cover. Dear Celestia. Trottin’ in a half-crouch hurts more than ever. Maybe arthritis finally got to him.

He’s in position so that his previous ten is now his twelve. A split second to let the fire in his joints fade out before he spins up again, his relocation giving him a new angle on the battlefield.

Nothin'. Static’s target is nowhere to be seen. Won’t back down yet though. Still have the advantage, just have to wait for ‘em to pop their heads up to spot and...

Ah shit. Not thirty yards down the hill lies Phantom Strike resting on a pillow of blood. Her wings and legs are sprawled out as if hit by close impact. Distance from her cover tells that she had a precious few seconds of life left stumblin’ back before death claimed her.

He’s kept his eye on Static’s target but used his peripherals to take in the rest of the area. Still nothin’. Perfect place for a skirmish, however. Had there been a thousand yard difference the combat would have been on the flat of sand and shrubs farther out. Straight out bloodbath then. Did smart pullin’ the Rhinos to this—

Static’s target moves. Mare with an assault rifle pokin’ her head over the rock. He breathes in. Dirt. Sand. Smoke. Blood. Clenches his teeth. Familiar.

If not for the gush of red he’d think she had made it back behind cover. But nope. Head wound, enough blood even he can see it. Dead now or only seconds to live.

He drops back down behind cover and cocks the lever. Last shot, one rhino left.

“Static.”

The stallion freezes in place at his voice, his hoof outstretched towards the discarded radio. He still has those wide eyes as he stares back.

“Spot me another. Keep low.”

Static swallows and begrudgingly nods, shiftin’ back around and peekin’ over the rock once more.

Meanwhile he brings up his right leg. Sixteen bullets, eight on either side, strapped on by dual bandoliers. Eight armor piercin’, eight hollow point. Uses his mouth to wrench a hollow point from its saddle, ferryin’ it over to the loadin’ chamber before pushin’ the bullet inside. Bad day it takes about three and a half seconds. Good day two and a half.

“I - I uh... don’t see anypony, sir,” Static whispers. “Where’s Phantom? Think she got ‘em?”

He grimaces and shakes his head. “She’s dead. Keep lookin’.”

There’s those wide eyes again. Static peeks over as he finishes loadin’ a third. Good enough. He spits the metallic residue from his mouth and readies his gun.

Static shakes his head as he scans for a target. “Just the Palomino desert, sir. And a lot of dead Rhinos. I uh... I think I see that last dead pony that Phantom got. There’s... wait, I see—”

Gunshot. Next sound is a sickenin’ ‘thwack’. Static stumbles backward before collapsin’ onto his back, crushin’ the radio. A thick red dot marks his forehead. For a moment the young stallion thrashes about on the ground, crimson pourin’ down his face and into the dirt below. With one last shudder Static exhales, body going still.

Just a colt. But time for that later. One more left and, judgin’ from the shot, Phantom’s killer as well. Maybe the Rhino knows his location. Maybe not. Don’t chance a thing.

His bones scream again as he trots in a half-crouch past his original position, past Static. He stops in front of River Breeze’s final rest, readyin’ his rifle again. Bad cover over here, but it’s a new location. All he needs is two seconds.

Swear the poppin’ of his joints could have alerted all of the Palomino, but he rises anyway. Two seconds. Let it be enough or let him die.

She’s right in the open. Right in the open, just trottin’ about, siftin’ through her dead comrade’s bodies. Must have believed Static was the last. Such a skillful shot, yet she lowers her guard without a second thought. A waste of life.

That’s when she looks up to him. Large sapphire eyes. Blonde mane, light blue coat. Pretty mare really, if you take away the sniper rifle and gray Rhino recon armor.

Her eyes widen. Just like Static’s.

Howdy darlin’.

Clenches his teeth. Familiar.

Much more dirty than the others. The close range caves in her skull, sendin’ her brain tissue along with her blood leakin’ to the rocks below. Her body crumples to the ground. Nothin’ he hasn’t seen before. He drops back down below the rocks, cockin’ the lever. For a moment he sits there, regroupin’ himself, listenin’.

Silence. The same silence Static spoke of right before his death. Same silence the mare below had found comfort in. Silence that’s claimed hundreds of ponies throughout his life.

So he takes no comfort. The next half hour is spent skulkin’ around the hill, campin’ out for minutes at a time, scannin’ for any activity. Only when he counts seven Rhinos dead does he emerge from cover.

First thing’s first: retrievin’ whatever the hell was in that package the Rhinos were ferryin’. Gotta get something out of this skirmish. He makes his way down to the base of the hill, takin’ care to avoid slippin’ up on the rocks. Wings for long jumps only. No chance in hell he flies up and makes himself a rookie’s target, scouted battlefield or no.

Corpse he’s after is right where he sixed it at. Big ol’ griffon lyin’ down on the sand. Took two shots to bring this fella down, one to the abdomen to get him out of the air, another to the neck when he landed. Thank Celestia this bag of muscle was the ferry and not a gunner. Could have toted a minigun along with all of that. Much different fight then.

Enough of that. Where’s the package? Has to be close by...

A dark brown amongst the yellow and orange catches his eye. A knapsack. More just a big rag after it’s been undone and tossed about. Whatever was inside couldn’t have gotten too far.

Ten minutes of searchin’, carefully passin’ over every sand pit and canyon. Gone. Nowhere on this hunk of rocks. As if it picked itself up and left. He even checks the other Rhino corpses. Just more sand and blood.

Returnin’ to the fallen knapsack, he takes a second, closer look. The way the cloth is spread out, suddenly turnin’ to ridges... hoofmarks even. Damnit. One of the Rhinos had made off with the item. Most likely broke away soon as the fight started. Puts quite a value on whatever it was, however.

He rises back to his hooves, squintin’ while he peers south east. Direction the Rhinos were headin’ in before they got into a tumble. Big item that was in that knapsack. Bit unwieldy to carry too, judgin’ by the struggle and hoofmarks. Even after all the time he’s spent here, Rhino couldn’t have gotten too far.

He tips up his stetson, rubbin' a stream of sweat from his brow.

‘Specially in this damn heat.

But the mission...

But the mission. Already put on knife’s edge as it is. With a defeated sigh he unholsters his rifle from its saddle, slingin’ it across his back and securin’ it in place. Any Rhino he missed would’ve picked him off long ago.

Sun’s just beginnin’ to tuck itself in for the night. If theres anything of value on these Rhinos, best find it now.

Not a thing. A few useless trinkets. Photos, knives, a stray deck of cards missin' a good bit of its stock... Most he gets out of pickin’ through saddlebags is some canned rations and a couple of Fancy Colts Snack Cakes turned mushy in the heat. Tuck ‘em in beside the four others he already has. Along with the rations, his food pack is full again.

Notice they were lean on supplies. Must’ve been on the final stretch of their mission. Weapons are well kept and of decent quality. Powerful too, rangin’ from light assault rifles to high end sniper rifles. The final mare he picked off has notches along the length of her rifle’s barrel. For kills no doubt. Thank the goddesses he cut that out years ago. Would have whittled his stock down to a toothpick by now.

Troublesome though. Rhinos this armed, seven strong, with a healthy number of kills to their name? Not just any squad. Not just any mission.

He stands at the center of the battlefield, closes his eyes, and exhales. Ignore their mission, carry on with his own. Live and let die.

He breathes in. Cool air. Soon to be cold, the freezing desert kind. Kind that kills. Skies turned from a solid blue to hues of purple, orange and red.

Will have to settle here for the night, and good on that. Legs are shot, muscles are grumblin’, and wings are near dead after almost a full day's flight.

Only one thing left to do now. The hard part. He lets out a deep sigh and starts up the hill.

Phantom Strike’s the closest. Still sprawled out on the slope of sand. Fiery filly she was, challengin’ his weapon and aim and age the moment they became squad mates. Didn’t mind her none. And she grew a might more respectful after he bested her. Went to him on the simplest of things, from sharpshootin’ to small opinions. Always nervous about what the other squad mates said about her.

He leans down next to her, tips her head up. Only the neck-chain is visible, the dog tags tucked secretly away behind her uniform vest. With careful hooves he pulls ‘em free, turnin’ them right-side up.

Petal

Silver

NERTF; S

Knew it. Phantom Strike. You damn liar. He grimaces as he deposits them in his saddlebags.

Her sniper rifle is nearby. Retrievin’ it, he gently places the weapon across her stomach, bringin’ in her front legs so that they wrap around the barrel and stock.

He rises, stares down at the mare for a long while.

“If ah get picked off, ya lay me with mah stetson and mah rifle. Can take mah armor and nehmoa.”

“Pfft. Okay, then if I bite a bullet you make sure I keep my sniper. Deal?”

“Deal.”

He looks away, takes a deep breath before continuin’ up the hill.

--

Static

None

NERTF; C

Breeze

River

NERTF; M

Homewind

Halfwing

NERTF; A

He jangles the dog tags about, siftin’ em from hoof to hoof.

Halfwing had been rarin’ to go, excited about someplace new. Phantom was content too, probably only because he was. Told her everything would be alright. But poor Static and River. Wasn’t weeks until they settled, and even then they’d be full of questions.

Everything’ll be alright. Just a courier mission. Package there, return trip, done. Don’t fret none. Ain’t nothin’ gonna happen. Guess that makes him a liar. Not only to them. Squad before, and the squad before, and the squad before...

He puts away the dog tags and pulls his duster tight, shiverin’. Sweat from the desert sun had turned into a nice conduit for the desert cold. Fire’s out of the question. If not for his combat armor and duster he’d be frozen under a sheet of his own ice.

Wears his combat helmet too. Much as he enjoys the freedom of his stetson, the helmet and mask combination offers better protection against cold. Night vision comes in handy too. Gotta keep tabs on the spark batteries though.

He sits there, lookin’ out for hours, tryin’ to get some sleep. Sometime around there he pulls out his combat knife and cuts open one of his rations, pullin’ down his mask to slurp up whatever the hay is inside. B-rations says its beans. Sure don’t taste like ‘em. Not that he wants to know the truth.

A bit later and his eyes start to droop. Finally. He flicks off the night vision, turning red to black. Not pitch though; Moons still as bright as ever. Turns the sand into silver, the rocks into gems.

Phantom’s still down the hill, lone wolf that she is. Static he laid next to River. Two were always close. Have a hunch they would’ve roped each other if things had ended different. Halfwing looms on the croppin’ above the two, machine gun across his stomach, lookin’ after the two below as he always did.

And him? Lurkin’ behind these rocks, out of sight of any unwanted scouts. Still have a mission. Still have to live. Still have to give in to that blind drive life seems to put into you.

As his vision darkens, he lets out a long breath.

Gonna be another lonesome road.

--

End up wakin’ before the dawn breaks. Trusty old internal clock pullin’ through again.

First thing he does is scout the perimeter. Only company is the dead.

Second thing is somethin’ he should’ve done the night before. He opens his ammo pouch which sits just above his bandoliers and loads his gun five hollow points. Eight shots. Also reloads the two hollow points he took off his bandolier. He silently curses. Mess up like that could get him killed. Got too busy thinkin’ last night.

Third thing is takin’ the last of Static’s rations to replace the two he’s already downed. Take his canteen too. He sighs as he ties Static’s pack back up, lookin’ the colt and River over. Wish he could give a proper burial. Flies will start upon ‘em by the end of the day. Still hidin’ from the cold for now.

But that’s the past. Gotta look to the future now. West.

Desert as far as the eye can see. Shrubs, cacti, mounds, and rocks are the only things of note. First hints of mornin’ start to lighten the horizon.

He shakes off his saddlebags and opens the left side, reachin’ for his stetson. Combat helmet ain’t good for long flights.

Huh. He deposits the helmet and lifts out the stetson, peerin’ into the crown’s interior. Seems ‘Operation Fold ‘Em’ was trying to sneak its way out.

Tipping the hat right-side up dumps an envelope into his hooves. Small typical little thing, peach with a wax seal of the NER’s insignia: A phoenix burstin’ up from a pile of ashes.

Flip it on its back. Two lines.

Extension of grace from the president of the New Equestrian Republic

To the honorable baron of New Pegasus, Mr. Spade

He frowns and tucks it back into the saddlebags. Eleven dead for this envelope and the paper inside. Might be more before all’s said and done.

With his stetson on, gun loaded, saddlebags strapped, and his armor tight, he says his final farewells to the others. Never had much a belief in the afterlife, but if its there, he’ll have a lot of catching up to do. Check back on the knapsack. Same as it was the day before. Not even a wind to rustle it around a bit. A second pass of the surroundings doesn’t bring up anything new.

Sun’s just beginnin’ to creep over the horizon. A sign.

Without a second look back he extends his wings, begins to pump ‘em against the dry air. Hurts as much as any gunshot wound used to. Few more years and these old things will be out of commission. But slowly, he lifts. With a few more strained beats, a wisp of air catches under his wings. Just the support he needs. Seconds later he’s airborne.

Do a last scan of the hill, from the air this time. Elevin’ ponies layin’ silent, four NER in a comfortable sleep, seven Rhinos sprawled across the hill drinkin’ their own blood. All clear.

Final passover and he begins west. First target two and a half days from take off. Means he should reach it by the end of the day.

Sun at his back, clear sky at his front. Alone. Only the scenery that’s changed.

As always.

--

About noon and the old motor rumbles for fuel. Five hours of flyin’, sun overhead drainin’ you dry. Sounds about right. Aimin’ for that heap of rock and shrub a ways up front. Three hundred yards off and something’s caught his eye.

Wood. Planks to be exact, makin' up a scrap shelter off the rocks.

Gun saddled, drop altitude. No use goin’ ground out in the open like this. If ya don’t have cover, least don’t make yourself a rookie’s target practice.

Two hundred yards. Clear nopony’s home. Eyes open, alert all the same.

One hundred yards. Close enough that he could catch the details, first movements, six ‘em soon as he saw the hairs or feathers. He lets the wings slow, hoverin’ just above the sand. In case of mines, course.

Right on it now. Closeup gives away the innocence. Few pots and pans lyin’ about, all filled up to their brim in sand. Rust is the giveaway. Must’ve taken the decay decades with shelter and such little rain.

Last scan for traps. All clear.

He settles under the shade and backs against the cool rock. He slumps and removes his stetson, uncorks his canteen. Tippin’ it back to his muzzle sends a draught of cool water rushin’ through his body, dousin’ the flames that had built up over the past few hours.

Lowerin’ the canteen down again, he frowns, starin’ into its side.

A stallion stares back. Old, decrepit thing with deep ridges under his dark orange eyes yet a taut face that seems to mock his sunken frown. Under the stallion’s dark brown stetson lies a mess of a mane, with long strands of chestnut hairs tanglin’ up with the streak of copper that runs down the middle of it all.

Rotates the canteen, more of the stallion comin’ into view.

Coat is even worse. Maybe once was a nice, rich shade of gold, but these days it comes off lookin’ more like rancid piss. Good thing the gray’s begun to set in around the stallion’s muzzle and the black combat armor, brown boots, and brown duster all work together to block most of the rest off.

He closes his eyes, blottin’ out the image as he corks the canteen and returns it to its spot on the saddlebags. One of these days somethin’s gonna give. Heart. Legs. Might start losin’ his mind. Only question now is ‘when?’.

He reaches into his saddlebags, clearin’ his thoughts as he pulls out a Snack Cake. Creamy filled center helps to distract him a bit, clear his mind. Only opens his eyes again when the clouds have rolled back in his head. He looks about the shack, downin’ the last of the Snack Cake.

Second take is better when your mind ain’t on your stomach. Celestia, what a find. For a half-shack the craftsmareship is exceptional. Work of a constructionist almost. Experienced survivalist at the least.

Survivalist. That makes it all click. Start to recognize the lengths of these boards, the scars that don’t come from a sandstorm. Caravan trucking along, maybe an attack or a simple break down. Stranded a day or two’s trot from civilization and a storm’s rolling in. Salvage the caravan, build a shelter. Storm’s over, take your delivery and all the supplies you can and start hiking. Leave the pots and pans. Ain’t worth the strain.

Makes a pony appreciate the details, their glimpse into the past. He raises his canteen. Cheers survivalist, wherever ya ended up.

‘Bout time for him to be movin’ on too. Strap on the saddlebags, check the rifle and nehmoa, don the stetson. Light liftoff from inside the shelter, just the way he had landed. Ain’t chancing his survivalist bein’ a demolitionist as well.

Careful scout around before he gains some altitude. Nopony in sight. Sun welcomes him back with that good old heat.

Westbound ho.

--

Little over half a day of flyin’. Skins fried. Legs cramped. If his wings were shot before, somepony’s gonna have to make up a new word.

Fruit of his labor lies below, ridin’ along a gentle slope. First target. Can’t really call it a town. Almost a military outpost. Barracks, open tents, makeshift shooting range, and most importantly, a bar. Carts and rails give it away though. Mining settlement.

Current position puts him on a tall mound overlookin’ the area. Terrain’s changed a bit, from flat expanses to sharp ridges and rollin’ hills. Sand dirt and shrubs are still true as ever, starting to regain their silver sheen as the night creeps in.

Mind’s tumblin’ decisions around. Without that skirmish they’d of made it here by daybreak, passin’ by with only a nod. Things changed. Situation’s changed. Flyin’ off tomorrow without two full canteens wouldn’t be too bright. And directions. Scouts that came back were more entranced with New Pegasus than the way there. Locals would have some good knowledge of the best path.

Wouldn’t mind a whiskey either.

Settlement answers for him. Somepony trots from the bar’s swingin’ double doors, slumpin’ onto one of the chairs on the porch. Lantern’s light above reveals the bottle between his hooves.

Alrighty then. Miner pulls a gun, simple quickdraw. He’ll be back in night’s cover before they can even stumble outside. Miner tells him to pass on by, he’ll pass on by. Anything else is fine. Worst case suspicious eyes. Best case a simple nod.

Float down to the hill’s base. Tuck in the wings as he gets closer though. Formal approach to earths and unicorns these days. Was irritatin’ at first, but fifteen years wears it in to your head. Makes it natural.

Close now that he can get those details. A stallion. Light orange of coat, dark orange mane. Wears a simple brown vest. Surprised to see a silver star backed by a gold shield as the cutie mark, setting and all. ‘Spose a place like this needs a sheriff. Especially a place like this.

He makes the hoof falls heavy as he nears the porch. Sheriff either shares his weathered hearin’ or is more drunk than he thought. Probably both.

At the edge of the porch now. Trot any closer and he’d deserve the knife. Only one thing he can do.

“Howdy.”

“Wh-!? Whatsit?!” Sheriff thrashes about. Drops his bottle as he shoots up in his chair.

Stand there watchin’, keepin’ an eye on the sheriff’s six shooter. Too drunk to even draw it seems. Would rather flop about like a fish out of water.

Finally stops, eyes pried open, chest heavin’, Looks him over with fear at first. Then slowly sinks back into the chair, realizin’ he’s starin’ down flesh and blood. His eyes narrow, black beads under the lantern light. Tongue slips out like a snake around his muzzle, spongin’ up any misplaced whisky.

“Who’re you?” Sheriff croaks.

Tough. Don’t want to give away a name, don’t want to prattle on about rank.

“A courier,” he answers, shruggin’. Ain’t a lie.

Sheriff raises a brow. “Courier? Yous deliverin’ from Root?”

Root? Shakes his head. “Nope. Just passin’ through. Hopin’ for a drink. Ain’t plannin’ ta stay the night.”

“Pah!” Sheriff spits. “‘Passin’ through’! Second one taday! Ain’t that a... ah oughta...”

Ready for the draw. But Sheriff’s words die out. Starts lookin’ at him again, beady eyes, lickin’ his muzzle.

Sheriff leans back in his chair. “Ah’d be susisi.... sussssss... sussspect if didn’t looks like ya both came from opposites end ofs Equestria.” Sheriff frowns, givin’ him a last scan before throwing up a hoof. “Awright. Gets on in. No troubles and all that, ya hear?”

He tips his stetson as he passes by. “Ah hear ya.”

Sheriff grumbles somethin’ intelligible, He pushes through the double swing doors.

Heat hits him immediately. Wet heat, stirred up by sweat and hot breath.

Then it’s the smell. Cigarette smoke, alcohol, sweat again, and is that... coal?

Then it’s the silence.

Last, the looks. ‘Bout twenty ponies all swung around in their seats, frozen. Some in a card game, most with a drink in their hooves. All givin’ him the stink eye.

Hm. Been here, done this all before.

Creakin’ of the boards against his boots is the only sound as he starts to cross.

Mumblin’ starts up halfway.

“For shit’s sake...”

“...Comes another one...”

“...Cloud stacker crashed in the wrong place...”

“There a fuckin’ parade comin’ through...?”

Most have turned back to their games and drinks by the time he’s passed. Most. Table closest to the bar can’t keep their eyes off him, only turnin’ away to lean in and whisper to one another.

He takes his own stool, puts his front hooves up on the counter. Bartender’s MIA. Guess it gives him a bit time to look about.

Twenty two ponies. Nearly all blotched in soot. Most stallions, few mares. Most earth, few unicorns. No pegasi. Large number of ‘em carry standard six shooters. Flanks seem to all share the minin’ theme: ores, carts, pickaxes. ‘Cept one.

Stallion in the corner with the two dice for a mark. If he’s a coyote among hounds, stallion’s the jackal. Clasps his mug as if it were his second gun. Ain’t taken a single sip of it either. Looks about the bar as if he might lash out at any second. Has on one of those fancy business suits, kind you’d find on a brahmin baron back in the NER. His hat... what do they call those things... fedoras? Lurkin’ in the corner keeps him out of lantern light, but the jackal still sticks out like a sore hoof.

Troublin’ part is the jackal’s starin’. Table nearby is already lookin’ at him like a piece of fresh meat. But they’re the typical young drunks looking for a rise. Deal with them every other bar. Stallion like the jackal givin’ ya an eye? They ain’t the ones to meet you face to face. Plotters. Come with their friends when ya least expect it.

He shuffles a bit, feels the hairs on the back of his neck rise. ‘Tender still ain’t here. Soon as they show up, drink, directions, gone.

Surge of murmurs come up from behind. He turns his head, just slight enough to get his peripherals over the shoulder without any suspicion.

Table that’s kept their stare on him is movin’. Noddin’ with scowls and pushin’ at one of their own. Young unicorn stallion Gets up from his seat to the cheers of the others, walks towards him with a swelled up chest.

Like clockwork. Some things never change.

Colt takes the next stool over, one to his right at the end of the bar. Can’t seem to keep still, constant shiftin’, rubbin’ of the hooves. Nervous.

Finally turns, hesitates, then leans towards him.

“What the hay are ya doin’ here, stacker?” Colt hisses.

Not bad. ‘Specially bein’ nervous and all. Would’ve made a fine actor in another life.

He shifts a slight so that his right vision gets a good take of the colt. Yep. There’s the six shooter, out for all to see.

He does a tired shrug. “Same thing everypony else is ah suppose. Gettin’ a drink.”

Colt pauses for a second. Way he glances back over his shoulder quick is tellin’. Actor looking for audience support. When the colt speaks again, sounds almost like he’s readin’ lines off a paper.

“Yeah? Well stacker droppin’ in means two things: ya stackin’ clouds or ya causin’ trouble. So ya best get stackin’.”

Little thin on the barks there colt.

He sighs, shakes his head. “Just passin’ through. Ain’t here to cause a ruckus.”

“Passin’ on, or runnin’ to New Pegasus with yer tail between yer legs like all yer friends have?”

Simple head shake. “Didn’t come to visit. Just a delivery.”

“Yeah? Ta who?”

Tough decision here. Tell the colt it ain’t none of his business, probably finish the fuse to this bomb. Tell him the name and it could go either way.

Ah. Never been a bettin’ stallion, but the last thing he needs is another fight.

“Know a ‘Mr. Spade?”

Jackal still lurkin’ in the corner sits up at the name. Still keepin’ a check on him, but the colt for now.

Name doesn’t seem to have angered the colt but made him confused. “Mr. Spade? That old world stallion who runs New Pegasus?” Lip turns up in a sneer. “The hell would he want with a decayin’ stacker like you?”

He shrugs. “More what the N.E.R. wants from him.”

Well damn. That was the wrong choice of words. Silence from when he first trot in is back. Eyes are back on him. Colt’s eyes flare up like Celestia One. Whole bar can hear ‘em when he talks.

“N.E.R.?!” Colt’s sneer is now a full on snarl. “Yer a part of them New Equestrian Republic ponies, aren’t ya? Them other stackers and that feathered fuck told us you’d be comin’. Told us you’d come through here, bringin’ up hell!”

He makes to put out a defense. Mutter anything to stop a fight.

Sound hits him first.

Sound all unicorns make. Sound ya can’t really describe. Chimes kissin’ in the wind. Glass beads hittin’ the floor. Don’t matter. What matters is it comes first, before the glow.

It’s all he needs.

Instinct and experience snap his head to the left, behind the collar of his duster.

And it’s over. Nehmoa’s out of the holster, trigger ready in his mouth. Decals all the way ‘till the barrel, endin’ in the engraved letters ‘FOR HONORABLE SERVICE’. Sight’s aimed right at the colt’s head.

Nice little glow from the colt’s horn. Nice little glow on his gun, still nested in cloth.

Everypony in the bar sucks in a breath.

“Iron on the ground,” he growls from the side of his mouth. “Now.”

Colt’s frozen, sharin’ Static’s wide eyes. Breath’s shudderin’. Has his hooves up in the air, but the horn’s still glowin’.

“Ah said now.”

“He wasn’t gonna shoot stranger!” One of the stallions from the table cries through the silence. “Swear it! That colt ain’t ever hurt a fly! Just tryin’ to put a scare in ya!”

He’s kept the friends in check, but ignores ‘em. Thank Celestia they had sense enough not to pull iron as well.

“You drop the iron, you trot,” he rasps. “Bring it up, yer nine inches shorter.”

Colt’s brain finally seems to be startin’ up again. Looks slowly from his gun, back to the nehmoa, then gulps.

Iron slips from its holster, floatin’ gently down.

Soon as it touches wood he jerks his head to the double swing doors. “Now git. Ya can pick it back up in the morn’.”

Colt gulps again, gradually turns, then trots for the door, breakin’ into a gallop as he leaves the bar.

Mumblin’ from the table. One of the stallions leaned into a friend, mutterin’ somethin’ under his breath.

“...One of them rangers the other stackers talked about... black armor under that du—”

Stops when he notices the stare, freezes with fear.

He jerks his head again, same direction. “Ya’ll follow ‘im out. Can keep yer iron. Head too if ya keep the iron holstered.”

No fight. They trot out after the colt, sweepin’ up their drinks and cards with ‘em. Some grumblin’, some cursin’ but they all make it out the door in peace.

Moment they’re gone he slowly holsters his nehmoa, scannin’ the rest of the bar. Lot of unfriendly looks. Time to leave.

“Alright everypony, show’s over. Back to ya’lls drinks. If ah see ya glarin’ over here again yer out of the bar for a week.”

Ponies turn back in their seats as if the goddess herself told ‘em to. One minute, all eyes on him. Next, nothin’.

He’s had his back to the empty bar. Turns to see his guardian angel.

Big mare. White coat with brown mane. Dark brown eyes. Slip of paper for a mark. Puts most of the muscles in here to shame, competin’ with only the biggest stallions. Has a hard face as she does a sweepin’ glare of the rest of the bar. Softens a bit when she reaches him.

“Howdy stranger, names Tab.” Has a motherly voice, don’t quite match the body. “‘Pologies about mah young’ins. Ya know how they can get with a bit of alcohol in ‘em.”

Nice of her, tryin’ to make him feel company. He doesn’t take the stool again.

“That ah do ma’am. Don’t like lingerin’ around after a draw though. What’s it fer a quick glass of whiskey?”

“Three caps. Hard or mixed?”

“Hard.”

“Comin’ right up.”

Straight to the business. Good of her.

He looks over his shoulder as she pours. Everypony seems back to business. Nopony dares to look at him.

‘Cept for that damn jackal. Worst thing is how good he does it. Put him so much as in the peripherals and he’s studyin’ his drink, scannin’ the crowd. Take him out and he’s back on ya.

Tab’s done. Slides him the drink.

“Here ya go stranger. Watch yerself. We make ‘em rough.”

He takes it in his hooves Glass holds that familiar clear brown grease. Somethin’ new. Black flecks swimmin’ around in there as well. Coal, most likely.

That’ll do.

He brings the glass up to his muzzle. One, two, three, four swigs. Put the glass down empty.

Gives him just what he wants. Burnin’. Starts at the throat, spreads like a wildfire across his body. May not be the best thing for the old motor, but he needs that spark, that flame to burn once a blue moon. Lets him know he’s alive.

World comes back to him. Notice Tab starin’ at his glass with a brow raised.

Realize’s she’s been starin’. Shrugs and pushes him the rest of the whiskey. “Well damn. Ya just wanna take the whole bottle for the road, stranger?”

Makes him pause, bottle offered up like that. Brings back memories. Back in younger days, carryin’ three or four, fire ready for him at any time, any place...

He shakes his head, pushin’ it back. “My ‘preciation, but ah’ll pass.”

Answer seems to shock her. She takes back the bottle, places it back up on the shelf.. “Alrighty then. Anything else I can get ya?”

Already overstayed his welcome as is. Guess the canteens and info will have to wait.

He looks back over his shoulder, to the entrance. Double swing doors are lookin’ mighty ominous. Turnin’ back to the mare, nods, Lowerin’ his voice.

“Yep. A second exit. There a back door ah can make a quiet leave through?”

Tab motions to the passageway closest the bar, ducks herself into a whisper. “Right through that doorway and down the hall, past the stalls. Door at the very end will take ya out back.”

Put three caps down on the counter. Two more for the tip. He tips his stetson to the mare.

“Thank ya kindly ma’am.”.

“Ain’t a thing. Happy trails stranger.”

Slide from the stool. Head through the pass without catchin’ any attention. Rumblin’ of the bar fades out as he enters into a lone hallway, lit by only a single dim lantern. Same as the mare said. Two doors for the stalls on his left, one door at the end.

Farther he makes his way down the hall, quieter it gets. Nearin’ the last door there ain’t a sound but the creakin’ of the boards under his boots.

Stop in front of the door. Stetson’s on tight, saddlebags strapped on, nehmoa holstered, rifle slung across the back.

Exhale, open the door.

Cold desert air gives him the old greetin’. Trot out into the night, greet it back with a long, cool breath.

“Aaaah. There you are.”

From behind. He whirls around, readyin’ his mouth on his nehmoa.

The jackal. Watchin’ him, leanin’ against the bar a few hooves from the door he’d left through. Lantern and moonlight cast a glow on his shaded face, revealin’ a wicked grin.

“Smart of you, sneaking out the back door after such an... impressive display.” Words drip like venom. His grin widens. “But I knew you’d come this way. After all, great minds think alike, no?”

Haven’t moved a muscle. Neither has the jackal. Hasn’t made so much as a feint for his iron.

“What ya need stranger?” He asks cooly, mouth still on his gun. “Ain’t lookin’ for any more trouble.”

Jackal laughs softly, shaking his head. “Trouble? No no no. I’m only here to ask you, ranger, one simple question...”

Jackal leans forward, a gleam in his eye.

“Are you a betting stallion?”

---------------------

Footnote: Maximum level reached

Status: Normal

New trait added: The Old Pariah Dog

“Most folks don’t seem to stay alive around this stallion for too long”

-1 luck to all other party members