“My name is Macintosh. My world is fire. And blood. Once, I was a cop; a road warrior searching for a righteous cause. As the world fell, each of us in our own way was broken. It was hard to know who was more crazy. Me... or everyone else.
“My name is Macintosh. My world is fire. And blood. Once, I was a cop; a road warrior searching for a righteous cause. As the world fell, each of us in our own way was broken. It was hard to know who was more crazy. Me... or everyone else. Here they come again. Worming their way into the black matter of my brain. I told myself... they cannot touch me. They are all dead. I am the one who runs from both the living and the dead. Hunted by scavengers. Haunted by those I could not protect. So I exist in this Wasteland. A stallion reduced to a single instinct: survive.
“Centuries ago, the Princesses warned us. They said our self-destructive waste would lead to nothing more than death. Well, they were right. First came the magical fallout. The burning flesh and land alike. Fuel, necessary to move our vehicles, to heat our homes, went next as infrastructure failed. With the fall of industry, water became scarce. Then, almost as a final nail in our coffin, Sol stopped in the sky for forty days. Only the begging of burnt, dying ponies convinced the Princesses to bring back the night.
“At least, that is the story ponies tell themselves. The Princesses haven't been seen, nor heard from in over fifty thousand days. Harmony is but a memory in those old enough to remember. Now, we live off what sustenance we can scrounge up.”
Mad Max: Fury Road, with Macintosh Apple in the lead role. Oh, and the plot changed by the fact that they're all ponies.
“My name is Macintosh. My world is fire. And blood. Once, I was a cop; a road warrior searching for a righteous cause. As the world fell, each of us in our own way was broken. It was hard to know who was more crazy. Me... or everyone else. Here they come again. Worming their way into the black matter of my brain. I told myself... they cannot touch me. They are all dead. I am the one who runs from both the living and the dead. Hunted by scavengers. Haunted by those I could not protect. So I exist in this Wasteland. A stallion reduced to a single instinct: survive.
“Centuries ago, the Princesses warned us. They said our self-destructive waste would lead to nothing more than death. Well, they were right. First came the magical fallout. The burning flesh and land alike. Fuel, necessary to move our vehicles, to heat our homes, went next as infrastructure failed. With the fall of industry, water became scarce. Then, almost as a final nail in our coffin, Sol stopped in the sky for forty days. Only the begging of burnt, dying ponies convinced the Princesses to bring back the night.
“At least, that is the story ponies tell themselves. The Princesses haven't been seen, nor heard from in over fifty thousand days. Harmony is but a memory in those old enough to remember. Now, we live off what sustenance we can scrounge up.”
A dark red stallion stood at the edge of a cliff, watching the desert below. An almost absently placed back hoof smashed down on a two-headed lizard, which was quickly scraped up. True, Ponies were not normally carnivorous, but one took what one could get. His flat teeth crunched sickeningly against the bones of the lizard, and he swallowed it roughly, gagging at the familiar, and still disgusting flavor. A quick glance to the edge of the cliff, and he rolled a bedroll up, tossing it roughly onto the floor of a rather battered old police interceptor. There used to be a seat there. He used to have a partner sitting in it. Armor was a crazy old bird, but he was loyal. Mac scowled at the pile of fabric sitting where the seat used to be. His last resort to get the image of Armor's stupid little smirk out of his head.
”Mac...You don't want to forget...Do you?”
The ghostly specter hovered at the edge of his vision, uniform still crisp, horn polished to a shine, and a rifle in his hooves. That stupid smirk. Mac ripped his eyes away from what they couldn't possibly see, and shoved the transmission into gear with a loud grating sound. The interceptor leaped forward, darting down the slope and ripping away into the sands. The roar of the engine was barely enough to drown out Armor hooting and hollering...Hallucination. Mac shook his head to get Armor to shut up, but that only resulted in him jerking the wheel, or was it Armor that grabbed the leather wrapped ring. The interceptor twisted and rolled, throwing up clouds of dust and sand as it came to rest upside down.
“Shii...” Mac saw his old partner shooting him a rare apologetic look before everything went black. It felt like a hoof to his head, and he was out cold.
– “Would ya look at this poor bastard? Wonder why he jinked like that,” a white painted stallion with dark grease around his eyes scratched at his shoulder, “Just went and fuckin' bombed his axles.” He sighed and pulled the brown stallion out, trussing him up. His hoof rubbed at a spot on his side, a lump that flinched away, where he used to have a wing, “Alright then, Up you go!” He hefted the unconscious body into a cargo rack on the side of his truck before hitching the wrecked interceptor to the rear and driving off, “Bet Solus'll love this motor. It's a beast.”
– “I think he's wakin' up. Hold 'im,” a reasonably attractive mare with a purple streaked mane poked at the bare back of his latest masterpiece, carving in small letters that would nevertheless show up, fur or no fur. She put the blade back down, etching in a circle with three small dashes beside it, a mark representing a universal donor, for Earth ponies. The knife settled onto a side table, her almost tar colored magic releasing it and lifting a small heated circle with a pattern carved into it.
The masterpiece snorted angrily and kicked, the hoof very nearly colliding with the artist before he took off down the corridor. “After him! Don't break him!” Two things that almost didn't go together, but she needed the masterpiece intact to use for parts to fix up the Immortal's War-Horses.
– Mac darted away, his warm blood dripping down his back, then his arms and legs. He kicked off a wall, rounding a corner sharply, and came to a very abrupt halt at the edge of a chasm. He turned around and saw Armor leaning on the wall. The smug little transparent shit was flicking his magic and gesturing off the cliff, ”Well. Go on. I've seen you fly. Sometimes you didn't even need an engine.” Mac swore at the hallucination and turned to look out over the chasm, away from Armor. Except, sitting there on the hook of a crane was another one. At least, he hoped Sprog was only a hallucination. There was no way a young Pegasus should be able to get to that hook, that far up in the air. There was no way an Earth pony could either, but he could hear the shouts of ponies coming up behind him. “Fuck.”
He crouched and launched himself into the void, reaching with the chain of his hoof-cuffs. They caught, just barely, passing through the hooves of the hallucination of his child, who laughed at him, ”Look at you daddy! You can fly too!” she clapped her hooves together and giggled as the hook started moving. The wrong way. It was going back towards the hole he had jumped from. They were grabbing at his old boots. Then they were beating him back into unconsciousness. Again. The last thing he saw was Armor with his hoof in Sprog's mane, mussing it in that way he always did/ had.
– “Lord Solus, your armor, Sir?” The shaped plastic sheets made the old Unicorn sweat like nothing else, but they hid his furless, scarred body. What little white fur he had left stood out boldly around his flanks, accenting the brilliant blue of his mane and tail. He slid into the armor, allowing his second in command to secure the sheets to him, then to brush the false fur hanging from the plates.
Solus rasped out a barely audible 'Thank you' before his second slid a grotesque mask over his muzzle. He hissed softly as the cool air flowed into his lungs. “Rage. Prepare the...” he made a move like he was spitting, an action rendered impossible by his lack of salivary glands, “Vermin.”
Solus stomped up to the edge of an immense balcony, flaring a pair of feathered wings, false, but they looked real enough, like the rest of the illusion of his godhood when he shrouded himself in the golden haze of his magic. His mask shifted slightly as he leaned out over the railing, the loosely secured teeth, some of them his own, clacking together. His voice rose in volume, amplified by magic to echo around the base of the cliff, “MAGGOTS! VERMIN! YOU COME TO ME SEEKING WHAT!?”
The cry of 'Water' reached his scarred ears, but he did not respond to them immediately, instead shouting “MY COLTS, DO YOU HEAR THOSE WRETCHES!”
War-Colts painted like skeletons, white fur and blackened eyes, clapped and howled from a lower balcony, gleefully mocking the poor creatures on the ground.
“WATER! THOSE BASTARDS WANT WATER!” His torn lips formed a smirk that only he knew was there, “THEN THEY SHALL RECEIVE IT!” His magic gripped ancient valve controls and twisted, unleashing a rain of water onto the ground below, splashing the creatures on the ground for several seconds before he shut it off. “NEVER TOO MUCH, LEST YOU WEEP FOR THE LACK OF WATER!” He purposely gave them just enough to cause rioting below, not even bothering to watch as the wet ground started turning a fresh red in the melee. “Rage, prepare the Rig. The time has come for our deliveries.”
Rage, a female Pegasus with a missing hoof, scowled at him, but still started towards the garage. A single flap of her wings dropped her down onto the lift where the main trailer was already sitting. She glanced at the sealed hatch on the top, hoping that her message got through to Green Bean. Only one way to find out for sure though. Her trusted lieutenant, “Ace, check that the colts remembered to empty the whole tank! Don't want to get short-changed by that cannibal.”
Ace was a rather large stallion, nearly as tall as Solus himself, with a wingspan just short of five meters. His body was painted the same bony white as the other colts, but his head was streaked with black paint trailing back all the way down his neck, where his mane had been shaved off. He was also completely devoted to Rage, having been the one who had driven the Rig before an accident had taken his left eye. He poked his head in the hatch and sniffed loudly enough for the other colts to hear him, “Smells fine, Imperator. No puddles!”
Good. That was as good a confirmation as she needed. Her metal talon caressed the side of the can and she strutted forward, leaping from the lift to where her Rig was parked. The seat was smooth, worn by Ace's hindquarters before her. The scarred Pegasus had also made her prosthetic arm. Her flesh hoof flicked at several switches beneath the console, deactivating the kill-switch before she started the engines up with a roar. Ace waved her in, helping her back the monstrous truck up to the trailer until the hitch locked into place. Absently, she watched the pressure drop slightly as the fuel-ball trailer was strapped to the back. Several quick gestures to Ace set her up to start driving as he took up a seat on the ball. A seat made out of part of an old motorcycle and a gun made up the turret mounted on the ball trailer, and he settled comfortably in for the ride.
Other vehicles rolled out, filled with War-colt escorts. Each held a driver and a Lancer, the pony or griffon assigned to control the weapons. Two led in a straight line, one before the next, both in front of the Rig. A second and third pair flanked the Rig, bouncing along off the pressed dirt road, while a fourth pair trailed behind just enough to see the third pair around Ace's turret.
It was a milk run as far as they were concerned. The Buzzards knew to stay out of the triangle between Gas-Town, the Bullet-Farm, and the Citadel. It was highly unlikely that any of them would be even injured on this run, so the Lancers were mostly relaxing, with the exception of Ace. After locking the hatch on the tanker, he was the most tense pony on the vehicle. Only Rage was more tense, and that was because what they were doing was outright traitoring. The five wives were fairly comfortable inside the tank, which had been filled partially with water, and partially with foodstuffs. Both were meant for trade, but the wives wouldn't care. They would be using it for survival.
Ace sighed as he looked out across the sand before he felt the rig start to turn. Now was the critical part of the plan. Gas-Town was almost directly Left, while the Bullet-Farm was exactly dead ahead. That meant that they had to turn exactly half-way between the two towns, and hope Solus didn't notice what was going on. He raised a pair of battered spyglasses and looked at the Citadel. Solus was not standing on any of the facing edges. Good. That would give them time. He calmly waved the immediate trailing buggy closer.
The Lancer, an Earth pony with a cropped ear, stood on the top of the cab and leaned in close to hear, “Change of plan. We're going to Gas-Town first!”
The Lancer didn't even question it, probably not knowing that they had been headed towards the Bullet-Farm until after they had gotten on that road. He knocked on the roof and shouted the same message to his driver, who immediately fell back to where the other trailing buggy was. The two Lancers conversed for a moment before both zipped up past Ace. The message was passed forward only one, because the lead buggies had already been informed by Rage through the window. The other colts up on the rig only barely questioned, taking Rage at her word. After all, what reason would an Imperator have to lie? The vehicles bounced gently against the sand.
“Lord Solus, I have the report from Imperator Jack. Eight of our finest buggies are on escort. With them is these eighteen Lancers and these eighteen Revheads. Aboard the Rig we have five Lancers, just in case anything does go wrong. Fair weather is expected for today, however the Cloud-watchers suspect a large storm tonight. Imperator Rage has been informed, and made plans to bunk for the night at the Bullet-Farm. Couriers report that Lord Ash will be waiting with spare bunks for the colts.
“We have ninety-five war-buggies in ready condition, as well as fourteen war-trucks, two Rigs, and the Wub-Wagon in in running condition. Crew for all accounted for, both Revheads and Lancers. Six Polecats are also in running condition, though we only have five Skytrotters out of the butcher shop.
“The Artist reports that we have eighteen blood-bags ready for use, but only two universal Unicorn, Sir. Forty-three blood-bags are recovering in storage, and three are in use. Including the new Feral.”
“Thank you, Colossus. You may return to the watchtower my son.” Only sixty one blood-bags. He was starting to run short again. Perhaps the Bullet-Farmer had some useless bodies over there. He would have to send a courier, but it was too late in the day already. The Rig had been on the road for half a day already. – Ace flapped up onto the top of the tanker and curled his wings in, clomping up to the open sunroof in the Rig. In the back seat, two Lancers lounged, sipping Guzzoline from a large bottle. He spared them barely a glance, “Imperator, the sun is beginning to fall. Surely it must be time to refuel the buggies?”
Of course, he was right. A journey always cost at least two tanks of fuel for the buggies. Never more than one for the Rig though. Her talon extended and she gripped the horn, pulling a gentle three tones. The buggies began to slow around her, carefully moving out of the way as the Rig came to a gentle stop. In moments Ace was on the ground, War-colts surrounding him as he pulled the fueling nozzle off the spherical tank.
“My tank is empty!” “Mine is more empty!” “I've been spitting my Guzzo in the tank!” “I'm older than you!”
The Pegasus sighed and stepped up onto the running board, presumably to open the spigot so the pump hose would work. The wheels turned slowly underhoof as the Rig began to move. Oh, he had no doubt they would catch up, especially the Pegasus Lancers. But as the Rig began to pick up speed, he snorted, watching the colts tire themselves out in pursuit. The Buggies quickly joined in the pursuit, only to sputter out without the precious fuel. He waved sarcastically to them, then hung the hose back up and crawled up to the cab where he saw the two colts still drunkenly sitting in the back seat.
They barely noticed when he opened the doors and shoved them out, watching them bounce on the sand. They would probably die, but he had a job to do, and it didn't allow for niceties. He looked through his spyglasses again, and his blood went as cold as the ice he was said to bleed. Solus was looking at them. He would no doubt see the shiny chrome buggies separated from the dark black tanker. “Rage, remember how I said I was certain we would be caught before we left the Triangle?”
The sound that came out of her beak was half snarl of rage, half Griffon swear words that he had no hope of understanding. Her talon pushed towards him, placing a single golden bit in his hoof, “Fine. You win the bet. How far out are we?”
He checked the distances in his head, based on the distance he knew they could travel, “Not more than half a day from each. If the Bullet-Farm and Gas-Town are informed soon, they will intercept at a half-night from the road. This may be the shortest lived escape in history.”
“If it is, I want my bit back.” – A pale grey stallion sat in the corridor to the garage, fiddling with the leather band around his hoof. It was holding a thin red hose in place, one that led up into a cage with the feral blood-bag in it. He wasn't about to let his half-life get him before he had a chance to die in a manner worthy of Solus' Valhalla, and this blood-bag was going to make sure he lived.
Until his Lancer passed by holding his wheel in hoof. “Mash, what are you doing?”
“Din'tcha hear? Immortal Solus is sending a rescue mission.”
“On who?”
“Imperator Rage. She abandoned her escort. Vision's not too good half a day away, but the other Imperator Jack thinks there might be some Buzzards that wandered in.”
The stallion stood and reached for the wheel, “My car. I drive.”
“Rumble, you're in terrible shape. Solus, you can't even stand.”
Stone scowled, “Don't need to stand to drive. Carry my blood-bag out.” Mash reached for the blood-bag with his dark brown hoof and slung him across his back, trotting out to the car, followed by his driver. Barely half-way there, he found himself stopped abruptly by the shouting of Imperator Jack.
“Load up Colts!” The absolutely enormous Earth pony bellowed as she charged down the stairs, “This rescue mission just turned. Solus' been Traitored!” She leaped from the overhead walkway down onto the top of one of the other Rigs, “My own SISTER! Imperator Rage! Has seen FIT to steal from SOLUS himself!”
The Rig roared to life, two immense tanks of fuel strapped to the back. It had been meant to go on a scavenger run into the badlands after the storm passed. Instead, it was to charge into battle adorned with Lancers.
Rumble just moved faster, sliding into the seat of his coupe as his Lancer strapped the muzzled blood-bag to the hood like some angry decoration. The car roared to life and tore into the sand, leading the Behemoth of a Rig out onto the sand. Behind the Rig came the elegant glory that was Solus' own personal vehicle. The Gigahorse. On monster tires, it ripped across the sand, keeping pace easily.
“Mash, what do you see? Too dusty down here!” Rumble spat and started rolling up his windows, pinching the chain leading to his bloodbag. “My car is choking!”
Up on the top, his Lancer squinted into his goggles, “I see the Rig! She ain't hardly hauling!” he spat out sand, “How's fuel?”
“We're puffing. Need a stop!”
Mash let out a sound halfway between a choked laugh and a scream of glee, “The Jackal's driving! She'll let us do a straw-trick!”
Rumble grinned, “She'll kill you, you know!”
“You'll witness me right back, dodo!” The tone made it clear the dig against Rumbles featherless wings was only a joke, but his driver still made sure to cut up beside the refueling Rig harsher than necessary. Mash hopped onto the side of the tank and slid down, hooking his rear hooves into the side rail as he reached for the bundled hoses and pulled one across, cradling it in his arms as he swung back over to the coupe and dropped onto his perch with a grunt. The hose went easily through the sun-roof and into the socket behind the shifter.
“It's in! Feed me some juice!”
Mash leaned out and pulled the dusty lever on the side of the truck, smiling as the hose gained weight, and grinning at his driver as the tank filled. Another buggy pulled up behind, and Mash half-saluted, making the sign of the flaming wheel to the driver of the trailing vehicle. It was vital that they refueled, but, like most things, speed was bad for refueling. Speed over rough sand was worse. Fortunately, Rumble shouted up quickly that the main tank was full. The young stallion leaned in, “Don't forget the spare!”
It was a matter of moments for Rumble to pull the hose out and push it over to the second tank, filling it equally quickly. Not many buggies had a second tank, but for a front-line Lancer like Mash, it was a necessity to have a second tank for pursuits. All around, he could see Lancers bouncing between buggies and Claw cars, the monstrous wreckers that carried extra drums of Guzzoline so the Rig didn't have to refuel every buggy. He laughed. Any colt worth his run would be filling from the source, not from a Claw.
With a shout from below, he shut off the fuel flow and drew the hose out, tossing the metal end to a colt standing on the Rig itself. With a smirk that split his already torn wide face even wider, he granted the colt a salute and stood, stock still as the coupe accelerated away from the pack. The pursuit teams were moving about double the speed of Rage's Rig, even with the slowdown for refueling, and Mash knew that Rig well. It had about a full-day of fuel, and with only the one driver, it would have to stop for at least a half-night. They had started out only half a day behind, and were now maybe a third of a day behind. The canyon was probably a day away from Rage, and at triple speed, all out across the sand, they could overtake her before she ran out of fuel. In exchange, he would have to strap himself onto the perch so he didn't get thrown by the dunes. “Rumble, open the throttle. We can overtake.”
Rumble smiled, “The Rig can't keep up. Even the Claws...” He seemed to ponder it for a moment, then, “Valhalla, together?”
“And they will Witness us from the tops of the Citadel. Punch it, Rumble!” The gray Pegasus slammed his hoof to the floor, engine screaming in protest as the wheels threw up sand behind him. Other buggies seemed to have the same idea, pulling out the stops and screaming into the distance, but few of them could keep up with the custom engine work Rumble had done.
– “Boss, they're gaining on us. Raced right past our leftovers,” he looked at his wing, then out to the sides, where the two armies from the Bullet-Farm and Gas-Town were approaching menacingly, “And I know how big your tank isn't.”
“I know,” volumes spoke from the look her blue eyes gave him. She ordered him around like he was that stupid stuffed rabbit she kept at her side, but, he was more capable.
He turned and scrambled onto the rails welded to the trailer, “I'll go see if we've got a long enough straw. If we don't, you'll have to stop.” This time her look very pointedly told him, 'Figure it out', else she might make him jump off. He checked the hoses on the sides of the tank. Originally meant for water, they could be used as straws for the Guzzoline, and he had a roll of ratty old fiber-tape in one of his pockets, “Get it done. Make it work. Even if I have to carry it in my mouth,” he hissed under his breath as his hoof caught on a protruding spike, “BITCH!”
In the cabin, Imperator Rage sighed, tattered wings fluffing in the seat behind her until the tips were stretched out into the wind, fine yellow tufts that were almost immediately folded back against the sides of the doors by the wind. Her organic hoof reached up and gently pressed on the head of a stuffed rabbit tied to the middle of the wheel by a mass of leather cording, “Be a good boy for mommy, Angel.”
– Mac frowned at the sand ripping all around him, but otherwise made no motion to move around. He had given a lot of blood already, and was a little weak, but he also had a fair chance dying if he moved, both the possibility of being run over, and the possibility of the chain breaking his neck making him stand still. Behind him, he could hear the engine howling, and the angry sound of his tail burning as it flapped against the hot engine. That would take forever to grow back.
Down below, Ace froze, a length of thick tubing around his shoulders. Buzzards never came in this far. Never. He grabbed the hose where it connected to the fuel-pod and twisted it off, flinging the coil onto the tanker. With a near-heroic leap, he pushed himself up onto the tanker and rolled the hose through the hatch, shouting down into it, “Ladies, make the straw as long as you can,” with a half-distracted glance out to the left, he added, “Also, please ignore the screaming and shooting. I'll deal with it.”
One of the five wives of the Immortal frowned, but she grabbed the hose in her white hooves, green magic pulling a patch-kit off the wall, “Come on Silver, give me a hoof with this hose.” The two of them were the only ones with even rudimentary repair skills, a side effect of being born in Gas-town.
The rig swerved slightly, dodging a thunderstick thrown by a Griffon on a car with as many spikes as a hedgehog. Rage knew that it was an exact count too. The Buzzards were far too proud to miscount such a thing. And it was terrifying, knowing how much effort they put into something almost no other pony would care about, and knowing they put that much into everything they did. It made her almost half delighted to hear the roar of Citadel buggies. Almost.
– Rumble felt his buggy shudder as it left the ground, lifted by a berm on one side, “MASH! LEFT!” The stallion in the Lancer's perch grabbed the semaphore post and swung out, keeping the vehicle on two wheels when it landed. The bike behind them wasn't as lucky, slamming into a pit trap.
Mash swore he could hear the squelch of the rider on the spikes as he saw the whitewashed stallion slide into the pit, streaked with blood, “WITNESS!” A quick swing and he was back in the perch, howling at the Buzzards, and at the Rig. His hooves slid onto a pair of thundersticks and swiftly whipped them at the spike covered vehicles, blasting them apart.
Rumble twisted the wheel, sliding the buggy sideways and darting under the tanker as he spotted a Buzzard Rig coming up on the other side, “MASH! DECK DOWN!”
Brown fur hit metal plating as the Rig itself tore off the semaphore posts and bent the rack holding Rumble's blood-bag. The instant the buggy was clear, Mash was rising to his hooves, flinging another thunderstick at the windshield of the Buzzard vehicle. A spinning saw-blade just barely cleared the blood-bag, and Rumble called out, “Get the blood-bag in your perch!”
The blood-bag barely struggled as he was pulled back, either too weak, or knowing that it wasn't safe yet to move. “Rumble, Witness me.” It wasn't a request, Mash suspected this would kill him, but Valhalla would be waiting. Last thunderstick, he climbed onto the hood and waited for the blade to sweep back before launching himself at the blown out glass. Fragments of sharp silicate and metal tore his fur and flesh as he slammed the detonator cap into the driver's lap. His world became fire as he was thrown clear, landing roughly on another buggy.
“Button Mash. What an honor to have you here. On my buggy.”
“Little Pip,” the other stallion was pale, with the exception of exactly five dark brown spots that Mash had mistaken for grease stains at first. Still, Pip was one of the greatest Lancers still alive. He had claim to being a Three-quarter life, and was rather vicious about it to some, acting like an old pirate from the stories of the endless sea. Mash knocked on the roof of the buggy, this one built on the chassis of an old truck, “Twist, get me back to Rumble!”
“Thertinly,” Peppermint Twist was one of the odd Warcolts, being a filly. Most fillies either went the route of Organic Mechanic, Wife, or if they were useless as either, Blood-bag. But Twist was the only filly Mash knew who could actually take him in a fight. Not that he would ever admit it.
Her buggy slid up beside Rumble's, and Mash prepared to leap when he saw, much to his disappointment, that the weather-pegasi were VERY wrong. The storm had to be two hundred and fifty klicks wide, that was greater than the distance from the Citadel to the Bullet-Farm. Or the span from the Farm to Gas-town. Both of which he could see being eaten by the sand whirling around. He launched, screaming, “GET TO COVER!”
Rumble, of course, took that literally, crashing the buggy underneath the Rig. It was close, uncomfortably so for any length of time, because he could feel the heat of the engine reflected off the metal barrel. Behind him, he could feel the roar of another engine tucked under the rig. Twist, showing off. The wind roared angrily, ripping at the sand beneath him, and everything went black for Mash as the rig dipped, slamming the tanker into him.
– Ace curled through the sunroof of the Rig and pulled it shut behind him, face covered in a leather mask and goggles, “Boss, are you sure the Rig is heavy enough?”
He saw her muzzle twist up in a grin under the bandanna as her talon stroked the stuffed rabbit, “Of course. Angel's a buckin' heavy beastie. Aren't you, honey...”
She wasn't kami-krazy. That was what Ace told himself every time he saw his Imperator talking to that stuffed rabbit, or to the Rig. He wasn't sure which. All he knew was that at some point in her past she had lost something, and that rabbit was all that was left. If she died, he would personally burn the wheel, rather than pass it down to the next colt looking to drive.
He almost panicked when she let the brakes out, stopping the Rig in the whirling sand, and to the resounding echo of twisting metal behind him. He hoped it wasn't the tanker buckling, but couldn't see past the back window to know for sure.
Macintosh Apple opened his eyes to the sound of metal banging on metal. Several dozen meters away he saw two things that immediately caught his attention. First, the War Rig, sitting in the sand. Second, water, coming from a hose. He gasped and started for the water, only to be halted abruptly by the chain around his neck. He turned around and looked back at the vehicle he had been riding on. Like the other buggy, it was smashed beyond repair, probably accidentally run over by the Rig. And the chain was secured through the door-frame, which was bent beyond repair.
With one hoof, he pulled the sharp needle from his neck, letting it drip on the ground before he started walking. Oh, the chain was still secure, and sturdier than he could break without bolt cutters, but he was Strong. The wreckage began sliding across the sand, leaving a trail behind it. It only stopped for a moment when he spotted five fillies splashing in the water. They might not give up without a fight, so he stomped back to the wreck and pried the door open, freeing the chain, and revealing an old shotgun strapped to the inside. Shotgun in hoof, he threw the Pegasus he was chained to across his back. A body, that was all it was, and as soon as he cut himself free, he would be taking that rig and running again.
He rounded the corner and dropped the Pegasus, “Hey!”
A pale grey filly was the first to respond, sweeping a pair of bolt-cutters away from a pink one, and the bolted chastity belt she wore. “Drop it!”
“Water!” Few words, he barely remembered how to use them anyway. The fillies didn't seem in any state to listen, but he pointed his acquired shotgun at an orange Pegasus filly who was halfway through preening her short wings. “Her.”
__ Scootaloo was many things, it was why she had been called 'The Capable' for as many days as she could count. Fear was one of those things though, that she never actually overcame. Fear of death, specifically. She grabbed the hose in her teeth and moved towards the towering stallion, dropping it as his hooves before hurrying back to the other wives. Immediately, she was in her sister's white furred arms. Sweetie Belle the Knowing, who whispered tales of lands far beyond the Citadel, whose horn now lit up a pale green as she prepared to fire a stunning shot. And in spite of the Immortal's efforts, she could still shoot. And quite lethally when asked, and away from the tranquilizers the rotting stallion kept her on to keep her weak.
Five fillies stood nervously as the stallion lifted the hose to his muzzle and sprayed water down his throat, glowering at the five. Several seconds later, he turned the hose off and dropped it to the sand before pulling out on the chain around his neck, “Cut”
This time it was Apple Bloom, the Dag, but also The Strong, who moved. She took the bolt cutters from her grey sister and moved towards the stallion, sizing him up carefully. He looked vaguely familiar, but she couldn't place his cutie-mark, scarred and covered in dust and mud.
__ Imperator Rage scowled at Ace, mainly because the Rig was not loaded up and ready to go, but also because she could see the pursuit parties now, from all three cities. And when she looked over the edge, she saw a Warcolt chained to a bloodbag, one who was pointing a shotgun at her fillies.
Silently, she launched herself off the edge of the Rig and slammed into the stallion, aiming to drive him to the ground, unsuccessfully. Instead, it was more like an attempt to tackle a concrete block, or a Dozer, and she slid to the ground, sweeping her hooves up between his legs.
__ Macintosh curled over as he felt steel-clad hooves collide with his long-ignored nethers, and swung half-heartedly, the blow still slamming the butter-and-dust colored Pegasus against the black metal of the Rig. He started towards what he considered his only real threat, only to have his chain pulled on. A glance over his shoulder showed the unusual sight of five fillies pulling on his chain. A punch to his muzzle turned his attention back, even as the Warcolt seemed to recover, and started throwing the fillies away. Light as he was, he couldn't throw the yellow filly.
A cracking of bone brought Macintosh's attention to a pistol secured under the Rig's frame, and he lunged forward with a heavy hoof, blocking the yellow Pegasus and obtaining the firearm for himself. He pointed it, but accidentally dropped the magazine when he was attacked by the orange filly. A spinning kick slammed the Rig's driver back as he turned his attention away.
The Warcolt lunged for the magazine as the driver gave Macintosh a rib-kick, followed by a very large, white painted stallion bucking him straight in the muzzle from underneath the tanker. One filly grabbed the warcolt around the ribs and bit down on his ear, leading to him lashing out angrily, screaming as his hoof bounced off a still not removed chastity belt. That got him a pair of elbows slammed on his middle spine.
At some point in the brawl, the chain got looped between Macintosh's hind legs, and an unfortunately timed jerk on the chain rammed his jaw into the sand, barely clearing the pistol firing just above his ear. It was empty now unless somepony grabbed the magazine, which he spotted out of the corner of his eye in the hoof of the Warcolt.
__ Rumble was possibly having the time of his life. Though it could certainly be better, like if the white filly would get her sharp horn out of his side. Or, he briefly reflected as his head jerked back, if the yellow one would stop bucking him in the face. What was it with them. He just barely managed to get out of the brawl as his bloodbag got Imperator Rage on her back on the sand, and held the magazine up for him as the bloodbag got the pistol in his grip.
Five shots rang out, half the load, all discharged into the sand before he pointed it at Ace, growling something as he pulled on the chain. Rumble happily grabbed the bolt-cutters from where they had fallen after the orange filly had cracked him across the leg with them, and snipped through the chain near the bloodbag's head, “Good Job, bloodbag. The Immortal is going to reward us! You can ask for anything you want! Anything at all!”
The red titan stared at him for a moment, “MY Coat.”
Rumble shrugged out of the coat and hoofed it over, “Ok, but you know you can ask for a lot more than a coat.”