> Fallout: Equestria - Of Shadows
>  by nyxOs
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

> Chapter 1: Penumbra
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

The hiss of rushing flames broke the woods' silent reverie. With the cracks of breaking boughs and rustling leaves, the tall bald cypress trees bent away as they were scraped along the keel of a long wooden hull. The cyclic whoosh of spark-powered propellers began to wind down, and the bowsprit of the Phoebe came to a halt, suspended fifty yards above the forested floor.

Peering over the side of the airship, I watched as four massive, power-armored Knights dropped from the main deck, landing with muffled crashes amidst the marshy soil. Eager to join them, I raised my head to feel the gentle breeze flow against my coat and through my mane. Spreading my wings, I hoisted myself onto the railing.

Just above the treetop was an unobstructed view of the surrounding landscape. Rolling hills gathered in the east, while to the west I could just glimpse the faintest view of the ruined port city of Neigh Orleans. The blanket of grey clouds above cast a yellowish haze over the clearing below as the sun crested its zenith.

I dove forwards and felt my feathers catch the air, bringing me into an easy glide. Allowing the Knights a few more moments to secure the landing zone, I soared beneath the Steel Ranger airship to appreciate the striking pre-war craftsmanship. The hull was crafted from oak, sheltered from the apocalypse within an old Manehattan shipyard. At two decks tall, it was appropriately sleek as befitted a schooner. The masts had been cut down to allow a massive rigging-secured envelope to suspend the craft in the air, while two large propellers kept the ship sailing at a slow but steady pace.

The crew were stirring, preparing to disembark. Below, two Knights were standing guard before the overgrown mound. Swooping down to meet them, I landed gently amidst the craters formed from their disembarkment. One of the armored ponies wielded a rocket launcher and rifle on either side, his helmet’s floodlight trained on the veil of moss draped over the mouth of the small hill.

“Is this it?” I asked.

He nodded, turning slightly as I addressed him. “It's where the map pointed to, and Vox has been double-checking our coordinates for the past half hour. I think it’s a pretty safe bet with this being the only clearing for miles.” He took a breath. “Ardent and Meringue are currently checking inside.”

I peeked around his armor. “Stable-Tec sure was good at concealment.”

“Yeah,” the Knight agreed. “Gotta say I’m impressed. Last place anypony’d think to search would be smack-dab in the middle of all this swampland.” The only real giveaway as to the Stable's presence here were heavily overgrown and dilapidated passenger wagon husks parked close to the edge of the clearing.

A burst from the Phoebe's burners caught my attention. The airship had descended to twenty yards as the crew cast lines over the sides. The anchor chain had been converted into a small crane, which was frequently used to transfer supplies to and from the deck and to help power armored Rangers board. It currently lowered a pallet bearing a small generator and some sizable lanterns.

Heavy, mechanical hoof-falls signified the pair exiting the mound. One was massively built, sinking a few inches into the ground with each step he took. His voice matched his size, conveying raw strength even through the tinny speakers of his helmet.

“This is the one, Kyanite.”

The Steel Ranger beside me, Paladin Orange Kyanite, nodded. Switching off his headlamp, he craned his neck to take a headcount as the rest of our expedition assembled. “Okay… everypony here?”

“Everypony important!” an aged, grinning buck responded. His coat was chestnut, the ends greying to match his mane. He wore crimson-colored Scribe robes just like my own, though his were grease-stained into a wine color and covered with dozens of stitched-on pockets bulging with a various assortment of tools. Around his left foreleg was a weathered old PipBuck.

Orange Kyanite shook his head, giving a tired laugh, “Ha-ha, so everyone but Cider Vinegar, right?” I could practically hear him rolling his eyes behind that dark visor.

“Vox, we only brought you along because all your hot air keeps us afloat,” a mature unicorn mare teased behind the old buck. Her coat was a beryl blue, her black mane streaked with iridescence. Her robes were similar, but colored a pale gold with rose accents. Hanging over her back were matching saddlebags, each with trios of pink butterflies embellishing them.

Vox, talkative as ever, couldn’t help but return, “Cid fancies himself such a great pilot, but he’s really just the ballast.” He smirked as he indicated me. “Quilly here’s the pegasus, she oughta be the one behind the wheel!”

I prepared to keep up the playful banter, but Kyanite was keen on getting back on track. “Hey, alright, reign it in. We can poke fun at each other once we’re headed home.” When the murmur quieted, he continued. “We all know how finicky the automap is, so we’ll be sticking together until we can set up in the atrium and get a better idea of how the Stable’s laid out.

“The likelihood of the place still functioning after all these years is low, but if we do encounter any Dwellers, you have full permission to defend yourself should you be threatened. These folks usually don’t take too kindly to anypony invading their home, but we’re the ones with power armor and combat experience.”

The blue unicorn mare spoke up. “If we do meet any, please leave the diplomacy to me.”

Orange Kyanite nodded. “Yes ma’am,” he said, then changed his address to Aurora Tide herself. “That said, if we find any remains, I’ll need you to identify cause of death.” The Steel Ranger Apothecary nodded her response, and Kyanite carried on.

“Initiates, you three will be running the crane and loading any supplies we retrieve. Meringue Pie and Somber Heart will transfer crates in and out once we’ve got a significant haul assembled in the atrium. Vox and Copper, if the primary reactor is offline, we’ll need you two along to unlock any doors blocking our way. And for now, Ardent, I want you guarding the F.O.B.”

That left only myself and Orange Kyanite unassigned. “Quillwright and I will search the Overmare’s office first to dig up anything we can on the place, and then join the rest of you.”

We all answered with a “Yes, sir,” and dispersed, gathering the tools offloaded from the Phoebe and entering the dark mouth of the mound.





The hidden tunnel within gradually descended several feet before evening out onto a hastily-poured concrete floor. The ceiling was braced with thick metal beams and plating, rusted from the marshy soil. At the end was an enormous steel cog, painted with grey and yellow industrial colors and designated with a “56” in its center. The surface of the door was slick with moisture, but it looked remarkably solid after two centuries in the southern climate.

Beside the door was a panel covered in switches, buttons, and a small inlaid screen. I turned the flashlight in my mouth towards it, then panned it across the door, the light fusing with the several beams of my allies.

This was the first Stable I’d ever seen in person, and while I was mildly apprehensive of what awaited us inside, the exciting novelty of the whole situation was dominating my thoughts. Lowering my light to the floor, I withdrew a well-maintained camera from my saddlebags. I captured a quick portrait of the Stable door, a few Rangers at the edges of the shot.

Vox, the bearer of our PipBuck, cantered up to the control panel, blowing years of accumulated dust and debris off the screen. “No power,” he said, looking the electronics over. “It needs a charge.”

Orange Kyanite joined the engineer, presenting a forehoof. Vox pulled a cable from the power armor and jacked it into a port on the side of the panel, which generated a low buzzing sound. After a moment, the screen flickered to life and a tiny red light switched on at the top of the controls. Returning the cable, Vox drew another connector from the PipBuck and linked the bracelet to the door controls, reading the information that flooded both screens.

“Moment of truth,” he mumbled, his eyes darting back and forth. “If this 'master key' doesn't work, those Scribes’ll be polishin’ that courtyard statue ‘til it's shinier than Ardent's ass on inspection day...” That garnered a snort from the aforementioned Knight in front of me and some snickers from the rest of us.

After clicking a button on the PipBuck, there was a short beep from the electronics. A lever in the center of the panel jerked as it unlocked while the red light above turned green. Vox glanced at Orange Kyanite expectantly, receiving a nod. “Hit it.”

“An’ here… we… go…!” The engineer pulled the lever downwards with a gratifying clunk. A yellow warning light above the door spun into brightness, while a warning siren blared through the tunnel. The four Knights with us all lined up with weapons primed as the noise of whirring machinery connected to the Stable door.

There was a shudder as the monolithic cog was pulled back, hitching on accumulated rust. Loose dirt sprinkled down on us from the ceiling as the mechanical arm within strained to haul the colossal weight. Eventually the door came free and slid backwards with an ear-piercing screech, whereupon another arm connected from the side and rolled it out of the way.

The interior was lit only by the revolving warning lights, and the Knights rushed inside, prepared to engage resistance. When none was met, Orange Kyanite called back to us, “Clear!”

I felt a noticeable shift in the air as I stepped over the floor’s grooves. Unlike the warm, stirring winds of the Wasteland, there was little to no circulation within the Stable; the air smelled and tasted stale and heavy, discernibly artificial. Perhaps it was simply due to two-century-old ventilation systems, but I couldn’t fathom living out my entire life in a shelter so devoid of airflow. My wings involuntarily drew in, sufficiently unsettled by the subterranean atmosphere.

The interior entrance was rather confined, a boxy room with another door control panel and what looked to be a monitoring room of some kind to our right. A short ramp led up to another door, this one significantly smaller and less impressive. As the Knights finished scouring every corner, Orange Kyanite checked a switch box for the door.

“It’s powered but locked. Vox?”

As the engineer once again hooked up to bypass the security, he glanced at his commanding officer. “Looks like the backup generator’s still got some juice.”

“Got an automap yet?”

Vox chewed on his lip as he fiddled with the PipBuck. “Bits an’ pieces. The atrium should be the best place for the spell to get a proper scan.”

The door hissed as the hydraulic locks disengaged. Flipping a switch, he swapped places with Orange Kyanite, who filled the frame with his massive steel-plated form. As the door slid open, we tensed up, fearing gunfire, shouting, or both, but were met with silence. The hallway was only wide enough for double-file, lit by fluorescent auxiliary lights at the base of the walls which cast eerie shadows upwards.

“And… Eyes Forward Sparkle online,” Vox announced. He swept the PipBuck in front of him, in the general direction of the Stable’s core. “No hostile readings.”

Kyanite nodded. “I’m not seeing any either, but stay behind me,” he ordered, and took a step inside. We followed closely, passing some kind of sensors built into the walls. Our other engineer, Copper, theorized that the high-tech arches were designed to detect radiation. If they were still powered, we’d surely have set off alarms all throughout the Stable.

Halfway down the hall, Vox raised a hoof to halt our advance. “Turrets.” He pointed his hoof at the ceiling, indicating four indentations lit by faint green lights. “They ain’t marked as hostile, but Ah figured Ah’d point ‘em out.”

Aiming his rifle, Orange Kyanite called back to us, “I’m gonna try to dispatch them now.” He squeezed off a shot, which ricocheted off the recessed turret and struck the far wall, embedding into the metal. We unarmored ponies covered our ears as the hall rang with the report.

“Don’t think we can destroy ‘em, Ky, not without pryin’ the whole ceiling apart,” Ardent spoke up.

“What business do turrets have doing here?” I wondered. Based on my studies, it wasn’t common for Stables to rely on automated defences, instead leaving that duty to security teams.

Glancing at the rad-detecting arches behind us, Kyanite guessed, “To keep outsiders like us out?”

“Then why aren’t they firing on us?”

“Maybe their power’s out.”

Vox frowned. “They sure look active to me,” he cut in. “But they just ain't registerin’ us for some reason.”

Kyanite’s voice made it clear that he was unsettled. “That’s… odd. Keep your eyes peeled for any others, and watch your backs.”

We made it through the next door without an issue and found ourselves at the top of a tall atrium. Over a railing we could see three sub-levels beneath us, shrouded in darkness. The only lights were from ourselves and dimly lit signs over entrances below us marking a cafeteria, living quarters, clinic, and a production floor. I found myself leaning over the edge, trying to judge just how deep the Stable was.

“Automap’s complete,” Vox announced as the amber glow of his PipBuck lit his narrowing, confused eyes. “The hay…?”

Orange Kyanite tilted his head. “What’s going on?”

Our chief engineer looked baffled as he shook his head. “The scan managed to grab the entire layout except for the bottom floor.”

We gathered around and strained to get a view of the small screen. Sure enough, the fourth sub-level reading appeared corrupted; only a few broken traces of walls and floors indicated that there was anything at all below the third.

Our Paladin was equally perplexed. “We'll work our way down there eventually.” He rose to look back towards the atrium. “You got the location of the Overmare's office yet?”

“Yep. Top floor, directly across from us.”

I traded my flashlight for a lantern as our group split up. The rest of the expedition went left and took a stairwell down to the next level, while I led Kyanite and Vox through an unlocked door to our right into a hallway encircling the top of the atrium. The rooms lining it consisted of living quarters and a security room which lacked any weapons, armor, or ammunition. If the Dwellers hadn’t taken everything with them when they left, someone must have looted this place top to bottom; Kyanite was already growing concerned about how empty the levels beneath might be.

After Vox coaxed the door to the Overmare’s office open, he cantered in with a smug look on his face, proud of his deftness with the PipBuck. We followed him in and I set the lantern down in the middle of the room, taking in our surroundings.

The Overmare’s office was surprisingly cozy, with a fuzzy rug in the center beneath a circular wood grain desk holding a terminal and various old papers. A cushy-looking chair was pushed in behind the desk, beckoning me to sit in it. Along the walls were maneframes which were dark but undoubtedly held decades if not centuries of information on the Stable’s history. A door in the corner most likely led to the Overmare’s living quarters.

Clearing his throat, Kyanite addressed the engineer who was already pulling out the Overmare’s chair, ready to crack open the terminal. “Hey, Vox, could you go check in on the others? I think we’ve got it from here.”

Vox’s eyes darted between us, and then his brows raised, followed by his nodding head. “Right.” He left us without another word, occupied with the PipBuck.

Once we were alone, Orange Kyanite clicked a small release switch at the base of his armored neck as he shut the door behind him. With a sigh, the seals disengaged and his helmet was lifted away to reveal a rather handsome earth stallion. His quick and bright coral orange eyes blinked as they adjusted to the darkness, and his hoof flew to his tangerine muzzle, scratching furiously. "Okay, you would not believe how itchy my face has been today," he groaned.

I snorted. “I can’t imagine that’s the only place that's uncomfortable.”

The Ranger’s steel-encased hoof darted around behind his head, digging into his cobalt mane. He wiggled his eyebrows playfully as his mouth tightened into a half-smile, half-grimace. “Ugh… you know when you get that little itchy spot in your back you can never seem to reach?” When I nodded in response, he shifted into a full grimace. “It’s like that all the time. All over.”

“You had so many chances to take our path instead...” I offered, swishing my Scribe garments around me. “We didn’t get the short end of the fashion stick.”

“Yeah, well, some of your friends also ended up with that stick up their arse,” Kyanite teased as he imitated my accent. “I’ll get by.”

I stuck out my tongue. “I can hear the jealousy in your voice, you know.”

“Uh-huh…” With a cheeky smirk, my partner watched as I trotted around the desk and plopped onto what had to be the comfiest chair my flanks had ever had the pleasure of resting in. “Speaking of which, how’d my…” His voice deepened dramatically. “...Paladin Voice sound?”

My hoof covered my mouth in mock surprise. “Oh, you're only a Paladin? You sounded like an Elder!”

Following my path to watch over my shoulder, Orange Kyanite gave an amused whinny. “Oh Goddesses, I’m not as monotonous as Melonseed, am I?”

“Not even close, darling.”

I eagerly pressed one of the terminal’s keys, waking the screen. When the computer asked for a password, I used the infamous exploit in Stable-Tec programming I’d been taught to instead open up a BIOS screen filled with lines of jumbled code.

Putting to use the teachings Scribes like Vox had instilled in me, I chipped away at the terminal’s security for several minutes. Technologically-minded Rangers like him were often referred to as engineers, as opposed to the literature-focused like myself. They were the ones who had perfected the art of hacking and reprogramming, but I’d taken it upon myself to master all aspects of Scribe capabilities, which included this admittedly frustrating exercise of trial and error.

After rebooting for the sixth time, Kyanite cleared his throat. “...You wanna leave it? We can come back later,” he suggested.

“I’ve got this,” I reassured him, determined. My hooves tapped away at the wide keys, parsing through dozens of terms and brackets. This time, I finally deduced the password required for entry: “Nexus.” The terminal beeped twice and delivered me to the Overmare’s directory.

Orange Kyanite patted me as lightly as he could in his power armor. “Well done, babe!”

I smiled as I navigated the terminal’s contents, searching for useful information on Stable 56’s history. Finding a collection of weekly reports, I selected the first entry and the file began playback. The computer’s speakers were very feeble and emitted from its rear, so we had to lean in close to listen to the audio.

“This is Sprocket, Overmare and Head Supervisor of Stable 56. This is the first weekly log for Stable-Tec’s records.” There was a pause and a faint breath. “The door sealed two days ago. We’ve settled in well, all things considered. No complaints after work assignments, no tech failures, no… nopony on the outside asking to be let in.

“The, uh… higher-ups told me we’d be in it for the long haul, and I believe them, but…” She sighed and paused again. “Two-hundred and twenty-nine. Two-hundred and twenty-nine lives in my hooves, and… who knows how many left behind. I think we’re still in shock that it actually happened; one minute you’re welcoming your husband home from work, the next Stable-Tec’s at your door, telling you that Las Pegasus and Canterlot have been hit by megaspells, that there are missiles bound for Ponyma City and Neigh Orleans next…” She trailed off.

“Then you’re loaded onto a skybus with your neighbors and the whole town gets evacuated. When the rush and the noise all come to an end, we’re underground with no clue if anypony else even survived. For all we know, we could be the last ones left... oh, please let the Princesses be safe…”

I bit my lip. It always felt surreal to hear the voices of those who had lived in the days before the war, who had walked with Ministry Mares and Goddesses alike in a world free from radiation, monsters, or psychopaths. Well, free of radiation at least.

“Anyway, production’s starting up tomorrow; I can only pray that somepony in Canterlot gets these supplies and puts them to use healing our nation.” The last pause lasted long enough that I almost believed the recording had ended. I reached for a key to close the log when Sprocket’s voice sounded one last time. “Things will go back to the way they were someday… they have to.” Her tone carried an utterly hollow optimism that couldn’t be masked in the slightest.

The terminal clicked and the recording ended. Sitting back in my chair, I chewed my lip as we ruminated on the mare’s words. Even Kyanite, usually able to lighten the mood of any situation, seemed pensive at the futility of the Overmare’s wishes. Navigating to the final entry in the extensive list, I selected it and listened as a new voice filled the quiet room.

“This is Overmare Die Cast, still broadcasting a distress signal to Stable-Tec for nearly two weeks without any response. As Overmare Sprocket detailed in log zero-zero-zero-two, the teleportation chamber malfunctioned the first day of production and thus hasn’t been able to export any of our products.”

Orange Kyanite looked at me. “Guess that explains why they placed a factory so far from Canterlot.”

“The Stable’s storerooms weren’t built for this much overflow, and we haven’t got room to continue manufacturing,” Die Cast continued. “We held a vote last week and came to a consensus: we’re opening the door.

“Stable-Tec told us the surface could be uninhabitable for decades if their projections were accurate, and we figure that a century is long enough for everything to have cleared up. A lot of ponies are getting cabin fever, myself included; two generations have been born without ever seeing the sun, and we need it. We need the sky, we need to know who else made it. I don’t care if the suits slap me with a fine for opening the Stable too early.

“If anypony from Stable-Tec is hearing this, know that everything’s still in working condition. We’ll be taking all the supplies we can carry just in case, but whatever’s left is yours. If you aren’t with them, well… finders keepers, right?”

The log ended along with the recorded history of Stable 56. I leaned back in the chair and lightly kicked the desk, spinning myself around to face Kyanite. He had an impressed look.

“So this place didn’t end up as a tomb like the others, huh?”

“It sounds like they were as successful as you could hope for after the war.”

Kyanite chewed absentmindedly on his bottom lip. “She said this place is still fully functional…” His eyes focused on me, lighting up in realization. “Quill, this Stable… this could be the answer to our prayers!”

Hope surged into my chest. Medical supplies were a true rarity in post-apocalyptic Equestria, and to discover facilities capable of producing new supplies was akin to the Goddesses themselves descending from the heavens to bless us with their life-giving presence. I felt myself launch out of the chair and wrap my hooves around Orange Kyanite. “Oh, Kyan, we’ve done it!”

He laughed with me, though as I loosened my grasp and leaned back, he tilted his head. “Done what?”

I raised my brows expectantly, waiting for Kyanite to catch on. When he only continued to blink, I answered, “Star Paladin? Head Scribe? I-I mean this kind of discovery is… is... ” I stammered, a flurry of thoughts rushing through my mind. “Unprecedented!”

“Heh, I mean, sure, but…” Kyanite didn’t share the same level of elation. “Weren’t there a few dozen other Scribes who had a hoof in this too?”

“Well…” I deflated a little. “There were…”

Kyanite brushed my mane aside. “Quill, we’ll get there someday. Trust me.” He gave me that warm smile I loved, the most noticeable of his many enamoring traits. “But I think you need… no, deserve a few more field assignments first.”

With a sigh and giggle, I admitted, “You’re probably right. I’ve been needing a fresh haul of books, anyway.”

We nuzzled for a moment until my partner lightly nipped my ear and cavorted away before I could get him back. “Neeerd!” Orange Kyanite called as he rushed for his helmet.

My wings spread and then I shot into the air, racing directly at him. Kyanite hoofed his helmet and suited up just as I reached him, intent on poking his snout in retaliation. His armor whirred as he turned to me, now impenetrable to my jabs. “Too slow, spitfire.”

I rose in the air to glare at him through his dark, reflective visor. “Surely you realize this means war?” I growled playfully.

The Paladin met my challenge. “Of course… and I wouldn’t change it for anything.”





We joined the rest of the expedition in the center of the atrium, where they had assembled a Forward Operating Base. A spark generator powered numerous floodlights that illuminated the tall room, as well as a terminal we’d hauled down to help inventory all of our spoils. As soon as we entered the glow of the F.O.B., Orange Kyanite had resumed his commanding demeanor.

"Alright, Vox, where're we at?"

The unicorn Scribe shook his head. "Still no luck. Ah swear, Ah ain't e'er seen this kinda interference before… or at least, not since we tried gettin’ into that M.A.S. hub up in Manehattan..." he furrowed his brow, looking up and past us in thought. "Were you with us for that?" he directed at Kyanite.

"I don't believe I was."

“Hm.” Vox returned his attention to the PipBuck. “Well, Ah can’t rightly know what’s on the fourth sub-level, not without goin’ down there myself.”

“Should we get on with the mission, sir?” Meringue Pie asked impatiently. She and Somber Heart seemed eager to start exploring the production floor through the door across from us.

Kyanite shook his head. “Not until we know every inch of this place is safe. I don't like the idea of potential danger just below our hooves.”

“So what’s the gameplan?” Ardent spoke up.

After a few moments of deliberation, Orange Kyanite turned to face most of the expedition. “Meringue, Somber, and Copper, you three sit tight. The rest of us’ll give the fourth floor a once-over and be back as soon as we can.”

After taking the door labelled “Reactor” on the atrium’s bottom floor, the five of us followed a short series of hallways that very gradually sloped downwards. Two right turns later, we’d circled around and had arrived at a new door. It was still in the industrial colors Stable-Tec had a fetish for and lacked any frills, but was a bit larger than normal and with a more secure locking system around the edges. As always, Vox went at the terminal while we chatted.

“I still can’t believe ponies chose to live in these places,” Aurora Tide remarked, studying a poster hanging from the wall. It featured a very familiar pink earth mare pointing at the reader, a playful grin on her lips but an unsettling intensity radiating from stern blue eyes. Bold pink text below demanded, “I want YOU to smile!”

Shrugging, I commented, “It was either dying from old age in here or getting flash-fried by the megaspells. Might not be that bad with some reading material.”

“Coulda done without the pervasive Pinkie posters everywhere,” Vox grunted. “Those eyes creep me out…” He clicked a button on the PipBuck’s interface and the door slid open, revealing a large, dimly lit reactor chamber.

In the center was the first of the great engines that powered the entire Stable, cold and dusty from years of disuse. There was still a very low hum that could be heard and felt beneath our hooves, however. Small blue lights dotted the ceiling in neat, sporadic rows, and a nearby vent dripped with condensation. The air was cooler down here than it had been in the atrium.

Vox nodded approvingly at the reactor. “These generators would be worth takin’ with us if we could fit ‘em on the Phoebe. You could power a whole city with a few of ‘em!”

“I’d settle for the auxiliary, if we could find it,” Kyanite reminded. “Is the automap working any better?”

“Nope. I’ll hafta bring the PipBuck around the whole perimeter to get it all recorded.”

“Of course…” Kyanite groaned. “... I know this seems like a waste of time, but-”

“It’s fine,” the four of us around him responded, varying slightly in our tones. While I’d tried to convey him some reassurance, Aurora was amused, Vox was dismissive and Ardent complained in exaggerated exasperation.

Our Paladin chuckled, shaking his head. “Thanks. Let’s get this over with.”

Vox proceeded to wander across the room, his PipBuck building a more detailed layout of the area as he went. Without much to do, I found myself examining the safety diagrams attached to the sides of the reactor. Extreme caution was advised when using magic around this amount of electric power; if not properly grounded, lightning could arc through telekinetic fields and fry the unicorn. There was a small maintenance door in the bottom of the reactor; repair ponies must have had to crawl inside to work. I didn’t envy their job.

Two passageways were connected to the side of the room, and as Vox continued through a bulkhead to the next reactor room, I took the detour and now found myself in a hall filled with pipes. Following the Stable’s plumbing, I paused when I reached an indentation to the side. Beyond a thick hatch was a chamber that glowed dimly with a pulsing blue light.

Beside an inactive terminal was a metal frame braced at every corner of the wall, leading down to a glowing crystal secured in the center. It shone with a weak but steady light, humming lowly.

I heard Kyanite’s clomping armored hooves before he had a chance to sneak up on me. Ducking through the threshold, he glanced around the small room. “What’d you find?”

“Is this a…” I pointed out the crystal. “A water talisman?”

Orange Kyanite leaned in, trying to examine the contraption. “Not like any I’ve ever seen.” Straightening, he told me, “Gonna call Aurora,” before his hoof clicked a button on the side of his helmet. He called our Apothecary’s name, his voice now amplified. Thanks to his warning, I’d had a chance to cover my ears from the booming call.

Once Aurora Tide joined us, she was shown the crystal, which she recognized fairly quickly. “That’s no talisman; it’s a water ward.”

“A ‘ward’?” I asked, inquisitive.

“It repels water,” Aurora said matter-of-factly. “They must be using these to keep the foundation dry from all this damp swamp soil. You know the Hoofer Dam, out west?” Kyanite and I nodded. “That was the first time wards like these were used in large-scale architecture.”

I tilted my head. “You seem… oddly versed on this topic.”

Aurora winked. “Remember, Quillwright, I was a Scribe before I was an Apothecary.”

“Wait, so…” Kyanite interjected. “You said these’re keeping the foundation intact?” Aurora confirmed with a nod. “So there must be more lining the entire base.”

I followed his line of thinking. “And surely somepony will pay good caps for a collection of functional wards…?”

Kyanite was surely grinning when he answered, “Eeyup.”

Aurora Tide rolled her eyes but agreed to help extract the ward from its frame. I returned to the reactor room to search the next series of hallways for the same rooms. As I entered the next chamber, I found Vox to be peeking halfway inside the generator, Ardent nearby. Only the unicorn engineer’s legs were visible, and I heard some bangs and clanks from within the reactor’s metal shell. He laughed.

“Hah, you were right; it does have one!” Vox yelled to Ardent.

“Busy mapping, I see?” I grinned as I trotted past.

Ardent gestured towards the reactor. “Yeah, we just thought to check it for a-”

WHAM!

The large bulkhead between the rooms suddenly fell shut, locking into place with a series of solid thumps. Ardent whirled around in surprise, shouting at Vox in irritation. “Luna… you scared the shit outta me, Vox!”

The engineer extricated himself from the machinery, sliding out and holding up his disconnected PipBuck, wearing a confused look. “That wasn’t me.”

There was a sinking feeling in my gut as I halted. The three of us galloped to the door, and Ardent banged his hoof against the solid bulkhead while calling for Orange Kyanite. Our Paladin arrived swiftly, shouting to us from the other side.

“Vox! What happened?”

“Ah dunno! Door just shut on its own…”

Ardent backed up slightly, looking all around the sizable bulkhead. “You reckon I could shoot this thing apart?” The grenade launcher on his armor was certainly capable of dealing a tremendous amount of damage.

Vox waved him off. “Forget it. This metal’s sturdy stuff; it’d take a dozen Knights to even start warpin’ it. Best bet is lettin’ me hack it open.” He reached for the switchbox, but paused as we heard Kyanite call out again.

“We… oh, Luna, we have contact!”

There was a sudden burst of automatic gunfire on the other side of the door; even dampened by the solid bulwark, it felt deafening in the otherwise silent Stable. My hooves connected with the metal. “Kyanite?!”

A small explosion and someone’s scream caused me to flinch, and then we heard our leader’s voice. “A-aurora! Everypony get back to the Phoebe, now!”

Ardent spoke up. “I’m getting seven… eight… at least eight hostile readings on my E.F.S.”

“Me too,” Vox confirmed, checking his PipBuck, which he still hadn’t linked to the bulkhead. Panicking, I flew to him.

“What are you waiting for? Get the door open!” I wailed.

“Ah know, Quill!” He jacked the connector cable into the box and looked back at Ardent, who was pacing back and forth. “We don’t know what they’re dealin’ with, though. We need to be ready to face whatever…” The color drained from his face as his eyes flicked to the ceiling. “Oh, hell…!”

Confused, I followed his gaze to see that the blue lights overhead had turned red, attached to several sentry turrets that descended from above. They all rotated to focus on Vox, who screamed something at Ardent just as the defense systems opened fire. Two bullets tore through Vox’s leg before our Knight managed to put himself in the way, the rounds bouncing off of his power armor. I scurried behind him, shaking with fear and adrenaline.

Ardent couldn’t turn to fire back without significantly reducing our cover, so I opened my saddlebags to retrieve my standard issue pistol. I didn’t use it all that much, as Knights always took care of the combat duties while outside of the Citadel. I had decent training and average experience, usually enough for a Scribe.

Unfortunately, being a Scribe also meant that I tended to hoard materials, and my saddlebags were absolutely packed with papers, books, magazines, writing utensils, and other supplies useful for my occupation. Items such as weapons found themselves buried somewhere near the bottom, and the pistol proved elusive.

The repeating clangor of turret fire deflecting from Ardent’s steel-plated form was ear-piercing, and he grunted under the torrent. All this concentrated fire could prove dangerous if he was exposed to the assault for too long.

Vox had almost fallen over after his wound, but the hardy old engineer was still connected to the door, waiting for his PipBuck to complete the link. All of a sudden, he froze. “The… the door’s power just cut out!”

At the same time, Ardent exclaimed, “Fuck! My gun!” as I saw his armor’s battle saddle jolt. The Knight shifted slightly, clearly trying to check the weapon that had just been damaged by the turrets. His back- our cover- had changed angle. I realized this just as Vox held the PipBuck towards me, his free hoof trying to unclip the device. “Quill, Ah need you to-”

With a wet zip, a bullet pierced the side of the unicorn’s head. Blood sprayed across my face and the wall, against which Vox was forcefully slammed into. His body slid down and painted a crimson stain down the cold grey metal as a prompt beeped on the PipBuck’s screen.

Just like that, Vox was dead.

“No, no! Vox!” Ardent bellowed. Blinded by sudden fury, he continued rotating, and I yelped as I hugged my saddlebags and threw myself against his legs, trying to avoid being shot by the relentless automated defenses. The Knight realized his mistake and crouched over me. “Goddesses… we’ve gotta move, now!”

Still shaking in shock from my longtime ally’s sudden and brutal passing, I peeked around Ardent’s massive bulk, spying the side passage. “That way!” I pointed.

Ardent checked and then psyched himself up. “Okay. Okay, I’ll cover you. Move with me and we can make it there in one piece!”

For a moment I looked to Vox’s body, hoping I could somehow carry him with us.

“Go!”

There wasn’t time. Carefully, we moved in step, the bullets still peppering Ardent’s steel form. Just as we were a yard away from the threshold, the turrets halted, hissing from the heat and clicking as they presumably reloaded their massive reservoir of ammunition. The pair of us took advantage of this brief opening to escape into the hall, out of range.

“Ky…” Knight Ardent grunted as he observed the damage. “Kyanite ordered us to get out, didn’t he?”

“He did.” I gaped in awe at the power armor’s condition. His left side was dented with hundreds of little pockmarks and the shotgun attached to his battle saddle had been shredded into pieces, hanging askew above the bullet marks. If Ardent had been shot for much longer...

“We need a way out,” Ardent said, adjusting his battle saddle. “Preferably one not guarded by sentry turrets.”

Even if I’d managed to grab the PipBuck, the hallways beyond and their destinations were mysteries. I didn’t expect to find much more than additional reactors and wards, but perhaps the path forward would eventually lead back into the Stable’s upper levels. We passed another ward room as I finally found my pistol hidden behind a clipboard in my saddlebags and took it in my mouth, but collecting the blue crystal was the last thing on my mind right now.

Skirting the sweating wall beneath crusty piping, the passage deposited us into a wider chamber, this time with two more halls sprouting from both ends and another large bulkhead in front of us. This one was already shut, however, accompanied by an inset terminal rather than a simple switch box.

Stranger still was how all the original ceiling lights in this area were still active, compared to only the auxiliary lights everywhere else in the Stable. I was about to bring this up to Ardent when I heard him park his armored rump in the middle of the room, reaching around to pull off the mangled remnants of his shotgun.

“I’ll get started on repairs,” he informed me. He then began stomping the fragmented weapon scrap into flatter pieces, ready to be fed into his suit’s converter.

I took a shaky breath. “Okay.” There weren’t any colored lights along the ceiling, so it seemed we were past the turrets. I turned to face the right doorway, intent on peeking through it to see what direction it led in.

Out of the darkness beyond the threshold stepped the figure of a unicorn, aiming an advanced laser rifle at me in a rosy field of telekinetic magic. The pony was clad in matte black body armor, and the helmet that covered his face also encased his horn and glowed with dim green lenses. The stranger spoke in a low, commanding tone.

“Drop your weapon.”

Frozen in surprise and fear, I blinked. I didn’t recognize the design of the formidable-looking armor or the small circular emblem on the side of the helmet.

“Drop it, now.”

I didn’t know what to do. Had Ardent heard the orders? Would this stranger just shoot me once I disarmed? To that end, why hadn’t he just shot me already? The Steel Ranger regulations on engagement usually leaned towards “shoot first, find out who you pissed off later.” If this unicorn was at all connected to the automated defenses that had already killed one of us, then I had to assume he had lethal intent.

My wings spread wide and gave one great flap to my left, dodging me sideways. The armored unicorn fired his rifle and a blue laser whizzed past my face close enough to singe the fur. Turning, I fled backwards while shouting, “Ardent!”

Ardent halted his repairs immediately. With the skill of a lifelong Steel Ranger Knight, he spun on his hooves, found his target, and fired off an accurate shot from his grenade launcher in one swift motion. The projectile struck the stranger and exploded in a brief, smoky burst of intense heat and shrapnel.

Landing next to Ardent, I panted with adrenaline, difficult to do with the weapon still held in my mouth. “Who… who wash’at?”

“Whoever it was, they’re nothin’ but a smear on the floor now.”

Lowering my head, I tried to still my quaking hooves. As the smoke began to clear, my eyes flicked up to see a faint rosy shimmer in the dissipating haze. The unicorn had conjured a magical shield, dropping his rifle; he now directed his horn at us as it began to crackle with energy.

Thinking quickly, Ardent shoved me aside, his strength sending me careening away and out of the range of the powerful beam that struck him. The magic damping talisman built into the power armor managed to absorb most of the spell, though the kinetic energy still sent the Knight sliding back several yards.

Struggling to stand, I watched as the unicorn charged out of the smoke towards Ardent. The Knight fired again, his grenade swatted aside by magic. The attacker was actually planning to engage a power-armored Steel Ranger at close range? He was at least wise enough to know that his rifle would be ineffective against the thick, reflective plates encasing Ardent.

Ardent kicked at his opponent, who swiftly dodged under and around while delivering strikes of his own. While his hooves couldn't even put a dent in the power armor, it was only a matter of time before he struck a servo or found some other exploit.

I raised my pistol and aimed, knowing my nigh-invincible ally could survive an errant nine-mil round should I miss. As the stranger slid around behind Ardent and into my iron sights, I bit down on the trigger.

Click.

Uninterrupted, our assailant drove his armored horn at Ardent's turret-softened side. The tip connected with the metal and punctured it with a resounding pop, as if driving a massive rivet. Ardent howled as he was shoved backwards, skewered on the end of the attacker's horn.

Luna damn it! I screamed internally, cursing myself for my negligence. Grabbing my saddlebags, I dumped their entire contents out onto the floor and frantically sorted through to find a loaded magazine. Papers, pencils, scrolls, random clutter, and tools were strewn about until at last I located one. Loading it into the pistol, I once again spun to face the battle only to find Ardent gasping as he wheeled about, searching for his target. The mysterious unicorn had vanished from sight.

“Where ish he?” I called out, words hampered by the gun in my mouth.

“He just… dodged behind and… disappeared…” I could hear the clicks and hisses of Ardent’s medical systems frantically working to heal his wound. We backed up towards each other, both twitching in anticipation. If our attacker was employing teleportation, he could come from anywhere at any time…

Sure enough, with a burst the unicorn appeared next to Ardent, kicking his hooves at the Knight’s flanks where the healing potions and combat drugs were housed. He managed to catch Ardent off-guard for a moment, but not long enough to deal permanent damage. My ally brought his full weight around and charged, knocking the unicorn to the ground. Rearing up, Ardent brought his hooves down but was caught inches from caving in the stranger’s skull by a conjured shield.

Machine and magic fought against each other, the whining of pneumatics and servos shoving against the sparking, glassy barrier that separated the two. Just as a large crack shot across the shield, I spied the unicorn’s rear legs pull in for a kick at Ardent’s underside, where the damping talisman was connected to his barrel. Realizing what his plan was, I aimed my pistol, firing twice.

The first shot went a bit wide and skidded off the floor, while the second struck the unicorn in the side. His body armor easily absorbed the nine-millimeter round, but he flinched and the shield dimmed in power. Before I could continue firing, however, the attacker’s hooves shot forward and caught the panel where the talisman was connected. There was a brief burst of sparking metal and then the stranger rolled away just as his shield finally caved in under Ardent’s bulk.

As the Knight pounded the floor with the force of a small bomb, the unicorn was up and aiming his laser rifle, which had skidded across the ground to him, retrieved with telekinesis. I lifted into the air to fire over Ardent, but a precise shot sliced through several feathers of my right wing. As sudden pain shot through my outstretched limb, I fell from the air and crashed to the floor, pistol knocked from my grasp.

Ardent fired a volley of grenades, each caught in the telekinetic net that rose to protect our attacker. As the floating explosives began to coalesce, Ardent and I both realized we were easy targets. I tried to stand and spread my wings but my back muscles had tensed up in pain, unsteady hooves slipping on the metal floor.

“Quill, get down!” Ardent boomed, placing his steel-plated body in between the stranger and myself.

The unicorn lowered his head and the grenades shot towards us at high velocity.

My wings swept up to shield against the blast and I braced myself.

The explosion that engulfed Ardent was beyond deafening, sending deadly shards of shrapnel whizzing every which way. The shockwave violently lifted me in its invisible aura and flung my limp form backwards like a ragdoll. My head struck the wall and every sense I once had suddenly and thoroughly ceased.
> Chapter 2: Forsaken
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------


“It’s not the loneliness that gets you; it’s being alone.”






A deep ache running the length of my spine prodded me back into consciousness. I was laying on my front, sprawled across the chilly floor and buried under layers of throbbing pain. As my eyelids parted uneasily, my half-numb hooves immediately grasped the sides of my head. Every heartbeat sent a biting pulse through the rear of my skull where a massive bruise had formed.

Remembering the final moments of the battle that had left me in such a condition, I raised my head and checked around for any sight of the armored unicorn. The explosion had damaged several ceiling lights, which made it harder for my dry eyes to focus. The room was empty, save for myself and the fallen form of Knight Ardent, his armor in a heap across the room from me.

I tried to rise, yet as my legs began to straighten they wobbled in pain. I could already feel that a rib or two had been fractured, my right ear wouldn't stop ringing, and there was what felt to be a piece of shrapnel embedded somewhere in my shoulder. There were numerous cuts and burns across my face, all of which were promptly sensed as I grimaced at my other wounds.

Turning my attention to my wings, I spread both and checked my left. Only a few feathers were bent out of shape; nothing that a quick preen couldn’t fix. Already feeling relief flood my brain, I turned to my right wing, pausing in confusion at the vacant space presented instead. Baffled, my eyes were drawn down to the base of my wing. A bloodied, splintered stump feebly wagged at me, trembling as it tried to outstretch.

Comprehension seemed to elude me. This was impossible. Where was my wing? I couldn’t have lost it; without it, I couldn’t... fly…

It’s gone.

Heat built up in my face, promptly liquefying into welling tears that partially blinded me. My breathing accelerated as I spun around like a dog chasing its tail, surely the victim of some sort of illusion. My wing was caught under my robe, or my tears were blending the colors… all of the red. Dark red... soaked… oh my Goddesses... Hyperventilating, only a strangled whimper could escape my throat as my mouth quivered.

I can’t fly.

My legs gave out and I collapsed to the floor, sobs racking my body. Now aware of the horrifying numbness that coated the stump and my right side, I could do little more than shiver in utter despair. The gory remnants of my pegasus heritage had been quite literally ripped away and dashed across the floor beside me, causing my already-churning stomach to heave.

One realization echoed in my thoughts like a claxon, each mental repetition growing louder and further filling me with terror. For all I tried to ignore it, to be thankful that I was alive at all, to instead redirect my grief to Ardent, I couldn’t drown out what I knew.

I will never fly again.

This couldn’t be happening. I shuddered as the surreal implications of my grounding began to rise. If all the others had returned to the Phoebe… if they’d left without me…

Oh Goddesses, oh Goddesses... Celestia and Luna above, please, please, please let this be a nightmare.

I must have laid there feeling sorry for myself for an hour before I finally came to terms with reality. Though I was flightless, I was alive.

Get it together, Quill. You can cry once you've exhumed yourself from here.

Looking once again to Ardent, I felt a rush of guilt; I should’ve been thankful that I’d survived the battle at all. I found balancing to be unexpectedly challenging without both wings as I moved to my fallen Ranger comrade. The fresh tears once again returned as I looked upon his body with sorrow. Ardent had been a friend of Orange Kyanite ever since the two were born into the order as Squires, equally competitive and ambitious. Kyanite might not have had the courage to initially ask me out had Ardent not constantly encouraged and nudged him forwards.

Ardent’s power armor was severely mangled, streaked with blackened burns across the front around a second stab wound. His flanks had been crushed by the unicorn’s magic, the medical systems contained therein rendered inoperable. The compartments were so badly twisted that my hooves couldn’t pry them open to access any healing potions that might have survived.

His helmet was, mercifully, easier to remove. I respectfully shut Ardent’s eyes and from around his neck retrieved his set of Steel Ranger holotags, engraved with his name, race, path, and an image of his cutie mark, a snowy-peaked mountain. Enchanted to near indestructibility, each holotag would be accepted by the Scribes back at the Citadel and recorded in our archives to forever honor our order’s sacrifices. To keep them safe, I slipped the chain over my neck, beside my own set.

The contents of my saddlebags that had been dumped onto the floor were scattered all about, most of it damaged or hopelessly disorganized. My bags had several shrapnel holes punched through them, but held together as I replaced my camera, some clipboards, a voice recorder, tin of Mint-als, an assortment of paper that wasn’t too crumpled or blast-streaked, and two intact pencils. My nine-millimeter pistol had been knocked into the corner of the room, still loaded with nine bullets. Slinging my supplies over my back, I was now faced with the question of what direction to head in.

In addition to the entrance, both side doors to the room were still open, but I didn’t want to risk encountering anypony from the Stable again.

The large terminal-locked door ahead was still shut. Curiously, I investigated the connected screen. Gently flickering emerald text requested login credentials from the Ministry of Wartime Technology, which immediately raised a red flag. What business did Equestria’s militaristic Ministry have doing here, in the depths of a medical manufacturing Stable hundreds of miles from Canterlot? Was the unicorn who had attacked us connected to the Ministry somehow? Was the organization still operating beyond this door in some capacity?

Though I felt tempted to try and hack the terminal, the way the Stable’s defenses had all focused on Vox when he’d attempted the same gave me pause. Remembering the Engineer, I knew that whatever lay behind this bulkhead would have to remain a mystery to me. Few things appealed more to me than knowledge of the pre-war world, but the cost of this secret was already far too high.

I retraced the path Ardent and I had taken from the generator room with a slow limp, muscles perpetually tensed. Every moment I expected the unicorn to step out from an alcove or doorway and shoot me, or for sentry turrets to suddenly rip me apart from behind, but neither occured. The Stable was deathly quiet, once again only disturbed by the low humming conducted through the floor.

Peeking into the chamber holding the generator and Vox’s body, I carefully studied the ceiling. The blue lights which I now knew to be turrets had returned to how they had been when I’d first entered, the weapon apparatuses retracted into their shells and laying flush with the metal surface. I had to summon all of my courage to set hoof through the threshold, bracing myself for the mechanical whir that would send me retreating down the hallway.

Nothing happened; had the turrets forgotten about their two escaped targets? Tentatively, I stepped fully inside. My nerves were singing like wires as I subconsciously muttered, “Okay… okay…” and made my way over to Vox at a hurried trot. I continuously checked over my shoulder at the lights, watching for even the slightest shade of bloodthirsty red to replace the passive blue.

Vox was where he’d fallen, crumpled against the wall underneath the door controls to the bulkhead. His PipBuck, still connected to the door, flashed with warnings of severe cranial damage.

My heart broke for Vox. The aged unicorn had been a grandfatherly figure to many of us Steel Rangers, providing sage advice between snarky quips. I'd known him for so many years that seeing him laying here before me seemed unreal. He was only asleep on the job, the victim of his tired old bones.

Yet the blood in my coat and mane spoke otherwise. Biting back another wave of tears, I removed Vox's holotags, inscribed with his gramophone cutie mark, and hung them alongside mine and Ardent's. I shut his eyes and laid his body into a more peaceful position, then turned my attention to the PipBuck.

To take it felt wrong, almost as if I was removing part of Vox himself, but I knew I stood no chance outside if I didn't have every tool I could find at my disposal. With reverence, I lifted the unicorn's foreleg and unclipped the PipBuck. The screen flickered out as it was separated from its host.

I attached the bracelet to my own leg, rebooting it with two quick taps of the power button. Lines of code flooded the display as the ancient processors whined, and after briefly flashing the Stable-Tec logo, finally completed their startup routines, leaving me looking at the DATA screen. Since the device was still connected to the door controls, there was a prompt in the corner to interface with the security.

I might be able to hack the door open… but doing so might turn the turrets on me.

“Horse apples…” I muttered.

To be honest, I was more afraid of venturing deeper into the uncharted Stable than taking this risk. I glanced back and forth between the PipBuck and the turrets for a minute before I braced myself and initiated the link.

The ceiling defenses were indifferent, I soon surmised through sheltering eyelashes.

A miniature terminal-style interface was now displayed on the PipBuck’s amber screen. I started the hack just like in the Overmare’s office, wishing Kyanite was once again beside me to give his patented words of encouragement. Just the thought of my partner had me worried. Kyanite had to have assumed I'd died… Celesta's mercy, how must he be feeling right now?

The small voice of my pessimistic subconscious was quick to interject. Assuming he made it out.

Of course he survived. He's a Paladin.

Oh? And who's to say that the unicorn who attacked you was working alone?

Kyan could handle them.

Didn’t you assume the same about Ardent?

I was growing angry with myself. There was no way Kyanite could die that way, he just couldn’t-

KA-THUNK!

I jumped in surprise as the bulkhead unlocked and retracted into the ceiling. Blinking at the PipBuck, I gave a single short laugh in disbelief; maybe I was better at this than I gave myself credit for! I disconnected the PipBuck and fed the connector cable back into its frame as I peeked past the doorway.

A wave of relief washed away many of my fears as I found the first chamber to be empty. The ceiling had been torn apart by an explosion, probably the aftermath of a missile from Orange Kyanite’s battle saddle. As my eyes trailed down from the wreckage, taking in the twisted hunks of turrets and ceiling plates, they found a small pool of blood on the floor. A few yards away lay Aurora Tide’s revolver.

Kyanite’s last orders replayed in my mind. He’d shouted Aurora’s name before commanding us to escape; the Apothecary must have been wounded by the turrets that descended from their side of the bulkhead. My heart went out to her and I sent a prayer to the Goddesses that she was still alive.

Picking up her pistol, I allowed the PipBuck a few moments to scan the weapon and generate an entry on the INVENTORY screen. My heart raced as I admired the weapon in my mouth. The long steel barrel, side covers, and cylinder had a beautiful black finish, and the mouthgrip was constructed from hardy walnut. Two small red lights shone in the body, just below the hammer. With a beep, the PipBuck had identified the .223 pistol, nicknamed “Riptide”, which was loaded with…

Hot damn!

Aurora had been prepared for the worst; her pistol had been fully loaded with five hollow-point bullets! If fired accurately, they were capable of killing or seriously maiming most flesh-and-blood ponies in a single shot. Five rounds weren’t much, but simply arming myself this soon with an equalizer this powerful meant I actually had a slim chance of survival out in the wastes.

Aurora Tide might have been dozens or even hundreds of miles away by now, but she had unknowingly just  saved my life.





I made it back to the Forward Operating Base without incident. Once again I thanked Celestia that I didn’t stumble across any corpses on my return. The F.O.B. was still the way it had been the last I’d seen it, though the terminal and one of the light fixtures had been knocked over. I righted the computer and checked it for any inventoried supplies. Nothing.

While I could theoretically escape the Stable right now, I couldn’t imagine getting far in my current condition. I was no longer bleeding, but the amount of steady, pressing pain that consumed my body was debilitating. A healing potion or two sounded simply divine right about now.

Lazily wishing for an elevator, I took the nondescript stairwell up to the third sub-level, groaning as I climbed each step. I came out next to one of a few doors on this level marked “Production Floor;” if there were any medical supplies to be found here in 56, this area was my best hope of finding them.

The room beyond was a prep area, consisting of a row of sinks, a box of mane-nets, and numbered cubby holes filled with polyester frocks. A sign overhead read, “Remember to wash your hooves!” alongside a diagram of the proper gowning procedure. Morbidly curious, I turned one of the faucets on, then recoiled in disgust as a thin brown sludge gurgled up and out.

Out of the gowning room I was faced with a junction. The halls lead left, straight ahead, and right, labelled as material production, assembly, and packaging respectively. Inquisitive to learn how the Stable’s supplies were put together, I decided to go forwards.

Along the wall were pictures of the most productive individuals and departments of each year. I began counting and found there to be ninety-eight total; as Die Cast had said, 56 had run for nearly a century. The last portrait was that of a young, cheery-eyed buck named Drop Forge. His bright face stared back at my own as my mind tried to imagine what his life must have been like.

Born underground, not seeing the sky until… by the picture, I figured he had to have been in his teens when the Stable’s population finally packed up.

What would it have been like for him, for the rest of his generation? To exit this sunless shelter, free of danger, into the hellish landscape that awaited beyond their door? Die Cast’s words about their desire to reconnect with the ponies they’d left behind seemed naive in retrospect, but I could hardly blame them. The lust to escape the confines of one’s foalhood was a feeling I was all too familiar with.

Opposite the portraits the room opened up into a massively wide, low-ceilinged room. It stretched much further than my PipBuck's lamp was able to illuminate, and I could only know that there was a far wall due to the auxiliary lights that lined the wall, stretching hundreds of yards ahead of me. All manner of machinery were arranged in rows, from presses to welders to conveyor belts to bottling machines to textile looms. Bundled wires snaked across the floor and under cushy mats while dusty old chalkboards stood with quotas, assignments, and notices scrawled upon them.

Carts and trolleys bearing crates of materials created roadblocks as I trotted forward. I stopped at a workstation containing packages of needles, plungers, and plastic casings. The neatly stacked paperwork nearby identified these components as an incomplete device referred to as a “stimpak,” a name which I'd certainly never heard of before.

In another row, one of the looms I had spied earlier had been in the process of mass-producing healing bandages, weaving them together far more efficiently than any pony's hooves or magic could ever hope to manage. I sought about beneath the contraption for any scraps I could acquire.

The Stable was remarkably tidy, more so than any pre-war ruin I'd ever experienced. I found nothing but castoff threads, though when I pried open one of the panels on the machine, I uncovered about four feet worth of bandage still left inside. As I wrapped it around my wing stump and the worst of my burns, I disappointedly discovered that these had not yet been infused with the weak magic that standard gauze was. Still, they would provide at least a modicum of defense from infection.

The scope and scale of how 56 could have affected Equestria had Canterlot survived its bombardment struck me. Would the wasteland have formed as it did if the Ministry of Peace could have swept the nation providing medical aid? Would ghouls have appeared if adequate radiation treatments had been available immediately? Would ponies have turned to raiding if the struggle to survive hadn’t been a day-to-day battle? My mind was lost in hypotheticals as I wandered around the production floor, taking in the many machines whose applications I couldn't even fathom.

I found a potion bottling machine across the aisle, its metallic conveyor belt holding several upright empty glass bottles. Under normal circumstances, I deduced from attached safety diagrams, the potions would have been filled at a constant rate as they rolled past, then were stopped with corks and hauled to packaging. A shame they didn’t use caps instead…

I once again combed over the area for anything left behind. It wasn't until I uncovered a cardboard box labeled “rejects” that I found nine potions encased in bubble wrap. The reason for their withholding? A nearby manifest cited both “discrepancies in the glassblowing” and “failure to add natural flavors in chemistry department”.

“Waste not, want not,” I muttered as I swiftly appropriated the lot.

The shrapnel in my shoulder was difficult to reach; in fact, I had to make clumsy use of nearby impromptu tools such as a ruler to help lever out the small, twisted shard of metal. Once it fell to the floor with a tiny ring, the wound was resealed with one of the potions. The taste was quite bitter, even more so than normal, but it functioned just as well as any other I'd taken.

As interesting as the production floor had proven to be, I knew I couldn't wander it forever. With a final lingering glance at one of the greatest lost potentials of Equestria, I exited, heading back for the entrance.





The stairs were easier now that the worst of my aches and pains had been washed away by the potion. At the top of the final staircase, I paused as I faced a poster for the Ministry of Peace. The wrinkled paper depicted dawn breaking over the top of a hill as a backlit Stable door rolled aside in the center, the glow of both creating a sun-shaped corona. Beneath was the phrase “Tomorrow Begins With You.”

This slogan had been mirrored before in Equestria; neither the words nor the art had been what gave me pause. Rather, it was the realization that I hadn't seen a single reference to Wartime Technology anywhere in the Stable besides the terminal at the end of the fourth sub-level. Meanwhile I'd seen enough Morale posters to wallpaper the whole Overmare's Office with Pinkie Pie's unsettling face.

Did the Dwellers here ever even know exactly what laid below them? Had the Overmare been privy to the covert machinations of the Ministries? I decided to pay a final visit to the office of the shelter's leader to find out.

Connecting the PipBuck to the terminal, I was able to access the logs once again and was offered the choice to download any I wished. Unfortunately, I found that as advanced as the PipBuck was, its hard drive could only hold a fraction of the over five thousand audio logs stored within the large maneframes that lined the walls. I settled for downloading the first and last fifty entries, looking forward to working through them on the trip.

I may have also basked in the soft chair’s embrace one more time, regretful that it hadn’t been loaded onto the Phoebe when we’d had the chance.

Once back at the entrance, I paused while taking one last look back at the atrium. Part of me still wanted to explore the living quarters and the cafeteria, but I was still apprehensive about encountering more turrets or black-armored strangers. I resigned that whatever meager supplies might be waiting for me weren’t worth expending the precious little ammunition I had.

I flipped a switch on the wall, watching as the entry door raised…

... And heard the whir of a turret as it spun to meet me. In the split second before I ducked into cover, I saw that the ceiling had once again been shot apart by Kyanite’s missiles. Only one mostly-functional turret remained, unloading lead at the space I’d just occupied a moment ago.

While this could have presented a... minor challenge to me normally, I now had a powerful tool at my side: the Stable-Tec Arcane Targeting Spell. Readying my pistol, I raised the PipBuck and whipped around the corner just as the turret’s volley ended, activating S.A.T.S.

... But nothing happened.

Now that the turret was already facing me, it could open fire faster than the first time. I cried out in pain and surprise as a bullet sliced clean through my leg, and barely managed to throw myself back into cover before I sustained any other injuries.

What the hell? Is the PipBuck broken? I spat out my gun and gritted my teeth in pain as I fished another healing potion from my saddlebag. Studying the PipBuck, the answer suddenly popped into my head, which I now felt like bashing into the wall behind me for being such a sorry excuse for a Scribe. The bulky casing, small screen, and visible vacuum tubes on the side would’ve been dead giveaways had I been in the right state of mind.

S.A.T.S. was a program developed relatively late in pre-war Equestria. Stable-Tec touted the magical spell by ensuring that all PipBuck 3000 models came pre-installed with S.A.T.S., providing every Stable Dweller a reliable means of defense against a zebra invasion.

But I didn’t have a PipBuck 3000; I had a 2000. This model had been produced and shipped out to retailers before S.A.T.S. was even a prototype.

“GODDESSES DAMN IT!” I shouted, stomping the floor and cursing myself for my arrogance. While my bullet wound was now healed, my self-esteem had been severely maimed.

My mechanical adversary clicked and beeped, scanners keeping a vigilant watch for the slightest movement past the doorway. They must have activated once the attack had begun on the fourth floor, but I still didn’t understand why the turrets had ignored us when we first entered.

Retrieving my pistol, I took a few deep breaths to calm down. Alright, Quill, focus. One turret, one bullet. S.A.T.S. is for rookies; I can do this.

Popping out again, I squinted down the barrel and let off a quick shot, which missed by an inch. I followed up with another shot, which hit the turret square in its housing and coughed up a shower of sparks. The last bullet from my pistol ripped the turret clean off its base, throwing the hull down the hall where it bounced to a stop at the far door.

A little rusty, to be sure, but not entirely out of shape.

The entrance was still as it had been, but now filled with earthy scents drifting in from outside. As I stepped through the threshold, I turned to the control panel. Uneasy at the thought of wild animals finding their way inside and eating Vox or Ardent’s remains, or of raiders taking up refuge and defiling a monument to the past, I linked to the controls. After a few button presses, I shoved the panel’s lever upwards and watched as the door rolled back into place, sealing Stable 56 once again.

Trudging back up the tunnel, I ducked through the hanging moss that covered the entrance into an empty clearing, the sky above darkening into dusk. The trees encircling the area had been reduced to silhouettes as the wildlife began its nightly chorus.

The Phoebe had departed, the only remaining sign of the airship being a rope cast from the side.

Despite expecting this ever since I awoke, I still felt dizzy as I once again had to accept the straits I found myself mired in. I was alone, surrounded on all sides by hundreds of miles of bogs and bayous, missing a wing, and armed with a total of eleven bullets. I knew next to nothing about the region, where to go or who to trust, or what kind of unique threats were waiting for their chance to end me.

What I needed was a town and somepony to point me in the right direction. If I was lucky, maybe even somepony to lead me that direction.

I took a long, deep breath, feeling the humid evening air coat my lungs. “Okay.” As I placed my first hoof forward, I exhaled, “Find a town.”





It had been less than an hour, and I already despised swamps.

The going had been manageable for the first mile or so, as I had been able to follow the traces of an old dirt road that led out of the clearing, the soil relatively firm and dry. While the foliage was overgrown to the point of obstructing my path at times, overall it wasn’t too unlike traversing the lands of Central Equestria. Towering, twisted cypress trees were abundant, their massive roots criss-crossing in a treacherous latticework that tested my step but also helped me over puddles once they began replacing the road, which faded into nonexistence.

Occasionally the trees would back away and I’d find myself in a small clearing, tall grass gently swaying in the quiet wind. Many beautiful flowers sprouted out of the ground or from vines draping from the branches above, and I found myself preferring to keep the distracting E.F.S. off to instead appreciate the scenery. In different circumstances, I would have considered the swamps quite serene.

Unfortunately, the swamp’s beauty didn’t last for long. As I was just reflecting on how lush the South’s plant life was compared to my home, I promptly took a wrong step and found my forehooves soaked in slime from a  knee-high puddle hidden by floating moss. Impressively, the PipBuck on my leg didn’t immediately short out; the waterproof seals still held their own.

As I lifted my hoof, however, a rapid clicking noise rattled out of the bracelet. Recognizing the sound of the built-in radiation counter, I quickly withdrew my other hoof and tried to shake it dry. Great. Rads.

Annoyed by my diminishing visibility, I switched on the PipBuck’s lamp. The glow seemed pitifully weak in the outdoors compared to its brilliance in the Stable. As the darkness around me continued to intensify, I felt the strangest sense of claustrophobia as the trees seemed to close in on me and the monotonous chirps of a thousand insects reached a fever-pitch.

Where could I possibly sleep? Or bathe? My stomach growled. Or find food?

I trekked through the marshy flora with determination, my hooves generating a sick squish every step I took. Moss was beginning to hang low enough from the branches to brush my head, which further dirtied my mane. Mosquitoes and gnats flitted about my face, landing on any exposed flesh they could locate. I swatted at them, my mind worriedly conjuring fears of contracting horrid diseases.

I rechecked the Eyes-Forward-Sparkle to ensure I was heading north and then picked up my pace. Moving from a cautious trot into a half-gallop, I forged my way through the undergrowth. My hooves began sinking deeper into the mud, and it didn't take long for me to stumble and fall into a shallow pool of disgusting, scummy water. It splashed up to my shoulders and in my face, stinging my eyes and wetting my lips. More diseases! the little pony within my subconscious shrieked hysterically.

With a groan, I spat and clambered out of the water, shaking the excess off of me and blinking to clear my vision. I scooped a clump of mud from the PipBuck’s screen and checked STATS for my radiation levels. They were still negligible, but as I switched over to DATA and studied the map, I compared the tiny arrow representing my location to the equally-sized gear that marked Stable 56. An hour’s worth of struggling through the environment and I hadn’t made it more than three miles; I would be positively glowing with rads by the time I made it back home.

You’re never going to do this! shouted the little pony, fearfully trotting in place.

“Yes I will!” I shouted back at myself. “I just need steadier ground…”

... And now I’m talking to myself. Welcome back to the wasteland!

I started forward again, head lowered in frustration. My robes were heavy with moisture, and even though the evening was relatively warm, I was soon shivering. I found myself wishing that there had been some spare Stable barding I could have brought along to change into.

The going didn’t get any easier, but I had learned my lesson and progressed with added caution. After ten minutes of very conscious hoof-placement, my light revealed that a stagnant, scum-covered river now blocked my path. Without any clear solution for how to cross the water, I opted to follow the bank as it gradually meandered slightly northeast. The flora around me grew ruined and appeared as though a massive storm had recently ravaged the area. An uprooted tree had fallen across the river, tempting me to use it as a bridge.

Clambering up onto the trunk, I carefully began across. The bark was slick and covered in mossy growths, and my hooves had poor traction. Beneath me, the PipBuck’s lamp reflected across the surface of the brown, murky water that rested almost motionless. Many smaller, splayed trees floated in the water, along with all manner of smaller plants and debris.

Once I’d reached the bridge’s halfway mark, the trunk at the other end began to gently sink into the muddy bank. The decayed branches on the tree’s underside dipped into the river, one prodding a particularly large, gnarled hunk of driftwood. In an unexpected and frightening turn, the wood descended even deeper into the water with a horrible gurgling sound.

Swallowing, I picked my way across slightly quicker.

From out of a great geyser of dark swamp water, the driftwood burst up and clamped onto the tree bridge. The dirty ivory teeth as long as my foreleg and huge yellowish-purple eye that rolled my direction sent an inner shudder of recognition through me.

A giant radigator!

I nearly pissed myself in fear as the gator’s momentum reversed, threatening to pull the entire tree into the water. Turning, I began to gallop for safety as the roots and branches at each end groaned and splintered. Just as the giant river monster was nearly resubmerged, it twisted its head and the trunk snapped with a crack as loud as a firing squad.

My footing suddenly stolen from me, I slipped and fell. For a long, yawning moment, I hung in the air, my body tensing as the river rushed to meet me. My single wing shot out in a vain attempt to catch my descent and glide me safely to shore.

Then I struck the freezing water, plunging beneath the surface and losing all sense of sight, sound, and direction. I could see nothing through the muddy haze, nor hear anything beyond the deafening rush of bubbles and the following silence.

I didn't know the first thing about swimming, but some beastial instinct took over and started kicking my legs and pumping my wing like a fin. If my saddlebags had still been as weighed down with crap like they had before the Stable, I don’t know that I’d have been able to reach the surface. Through a desperate effort to survive my head broke the surface, gasping for air as I paddled for all I was worth to reach the bank.

I was now literally pissing myself as abject panic flooded my mind. Every second in the river was spent expecting to feel a vicious tug on my hindlegs or tail which would drag me into the pitch-black fathoms, never to be seen again. When I finally found purchase on the floor, I pulled myself onto shore and checked behind to see the radigator’s glistening back slicing through the stirring water towards me. I screamed and fled into the woods as the monster emerged, snorting mist and growling like a beast out of Tartarus.

Branches whipped at my face and my legs were cut on roots and thorns as I galloped blindly forwards. The weak light of the PipBuck was hardly adequate to guide my headlong flight, but by the grace of the Goddesses I never fell into a quagmire or twisted a leg. Radigators weren’t renowned for their speed, and I was thankfully outpacing the monster, but I still needed somewhere to hide. I ran until my hooves felt solidly-packed earth beneath me; another dirt road!

I ran along the path northward until a flash of rusted red metal caught my eye: the leg of a derelict pre-war radio tower. It sat atop a concrete base with a small, accompanying operating station beside it. I turned and ran to the tower, bounding up its rickety steel stairs into the scaffolding. Panting, trying to whip my mane out of my eyes, I reached into my somewhat-organized saddlebags, considering which firearm to use. I could either spend the hollow-points to put some serious hurt on, or use my less effective, less valuable nine-mil bullets and risk simply infuriating the gator further.

As said moss-trailing creature barreled into view, I settled for the latter option, pulling out the dripping wet pistol and taking aim at the giant reptile. The monster was so huge, it could have swallowed me whole; the PipBuck’s lamp didn’t even reach far enough to illuminate its body beyond the front legs. I managed to get off two shots which glanced off the thick green scales before the gator slammed into the tower, eliciting a dangerous creak from the metal.

I stumbled and dropped the nine-mil, watching as it fell to the concrete below and out of reach. My hoof flew to replace it with Riptide just as the radigator opened its massive maw and lunged. I threw myself out of the way as the gargantuan flesh-and-bone trap snapped closed onto one of the tower’s crossbeams just a few feet away.

I could smell musty, decayed vapors escaping from between those teeth. The radigator’s eyeball was larger than my head, clouded irises divided down the center with wide dark slits. I could see my own horrified reflection in the huge glassy orb… as well as the muzzle flash from Riptide as I bit into the trigger, the giant cornea centered in my sights.

KI-THOW!

The hollow-point bullet struck the gator’s eye and blossomed on impact, shattering the lens like a mirror out of a nightmare. Gore exploded outwards and the monster let out a terrifying utterance of pain. It tried to pull its head back, but the many jagged teeth in its jaw caught on the broadcasting tower’s gantries. As the radigator continued to recoil, the supports shrieked as they were bent out and snapped apart.

With its base eviscerated, the whole top of the tower swayed forwards, the weight of the many dishes and antennas succumbing to gravity. I felt the entire structure shudder as it toppled, throwing me forwards into the puny railing which snapped against my weight. I fell to the wet concrete, landing atop my bags and on my wounded side with a wet crunch that I both heard and felt. Around me, the tower crashed down in an ear-splitting cacophony, an I-beam striking the foundation beside me hard enough to crack it.

Wailing in pain but without any time to lose, I picked myself up and limped to the broadcasting station, flinging myself at the door. It swung inwards as I dropped to the ground, kicking the door shut behind me.

While I heard the radigator rage away outside, I curled up into a fetal position and held my bleeding side. The waterlogged healing bandages slid uselessly off of my stump, and I shook uncontrollably as my sopping wet mane and robes clung to my body. I tried to draw in a breath, but could only whimper in pain and fear, which gave way to a sob and then burst open the floodgates I’d been holding shut so desperately.

I wept for the souls of Die Cast and Drop Forge, for all of the Stable Dwellers who had undoubtedly been consumed by the swamps and its monsters.

I wept for Vox and Ardent, their lives taken far too early and far from home.

I wept for my family, who I would never see again.

I wept for Orange Kyanite, who would never know my true fate.

I wept for myself: a filthy, shivering, flightless, pathetic little pony with no friends, no clue, and no chance.





When I finally came about, I felt even worse than I had when I’d awoken in the Stable. I had passed out in a ball on the floor, caked in dried blood, scum, and mud. My joints were throbbing, my ribs felt painfully constricted, and there was a splitting headache coursing through my skull.

My thoughts were an endless slideshow of last night’s horrors, the radigator’s terrifying presence still fresh enough to send my pulse racing. After sprawling on the dusty floor for what felt like hours, wishing the Phoebe would swoop down and rescue me, I finally sat up on protesting haunches. My muscles felt like they’d been run through a grinder.

Sickly yellow morning light filtered in through the stained windows facing the collapsed remains of the radio tower. My sore eyes stung but gradually adjusted to the faint sunrays as I studied the illuminated interior of the station. Just below the windows were a wide switchboard and a dead terminal. A chair was sat before both, the padding completely disintegrated from age. A lone filing cabinet, its drawers missing, stood by the door, and faded posters of pre-war musicians lined the walls. Cobwebs gathered in the corners, drooping heavily with captured flies.

There were signs that I wasn’t the first post-war pony to reside here; trash was scattered all over the floor, broken bottles of various beverages and healing potions were piled everywhere, and graffiti was scrawled across any blank surface, sometimes across the posters. I took a moment to read a few.

“I wish it would just kill me now.”

“FUCK CELESTIA AND FUCK LUNA!” followed by a smaller comment, “I’d rather fuck Luna.” A third responded to that one, “Seriously? What’s wrong with Sunbutt?”

“Mom, Dad, I just wanted to say that you were right about everything. I’m so, so sorry.”

“There’s a Stable just south of here, but the door was locked.”

“Moustachio rules!!!”

A line of dashes suggested somepony had lived here for thirteen days in a row.

“Brayton Rouge is all dead.”

“aLl Work and nO play makES jackHaMMEr a DulL Buck.” This was written multiple times, the already-poor quality fading into illegibility the farther down it went.

“Alloy, ‘77.”

“I left some smokes on top of the cabinet. Be courteous and only take one.” I checked, and sure enough, there was a half-empty pack of cigarettes resting atop the filing cabinet.

“THIS PLACE SUCKS.”

The next scribbling caught my eye. “If you’re lost, you’re close to Buckwater. Head northeast. From one pony to another, good luck.”

I reread those three sentences several times over. Buckwater. That must be a town. Whoever had written this, however many years ago, had given me a reason to keep going. Thank you.

With weak legs, I stood and stripped off my Scribe robes, which peeled off my coat in a way that made my skin crawl. The crimson fabric was now a splotchy rust color, sullied by multiple new holes and tears. I hung the robes on the edge of the filing cabinet alongside my undershirt. A stink hit me; I hadn’t yet realized how awful I smelled.

Examining myself revealed just how wrecked my body now was. My side was gruesome, the stump covered in discolored half-healed scabbing. It had gone through far too much strain last night and needed to be disinfected, but there wasn’t anything pure enough around that I would’ve trusted to wash myself with. Every leg was covered in fresh scars from running through the undergrowth, and I could feel dozens of itching bug bites. My graphite-colored mane and tail were both matted with grime, and my feathers were tarnished with muck. There was no way I would preen them before getting a bath of some kind.

I opened my saddlebags only to sigh in defeat. When I’d fallen from the tower last night, I had landed on my bags and shattered the healing potions. Only two bottles had survived, one of which I quickly downed with a grimace. Most of the other supplies were ruined by river water, including the camera, which was a crushing blow to my spirits. The voice recorder surprisingly still functioned, albeit with a little more static than it used to have.

Finally, the hardy old PipBuck was still kicking; even though the casing was coated with dried slime, it appeared otherwise undamaged. I wiped the screen off with a relatively clean corner of my undershirt and studied the STATS screen. I was still far from healthy, but I was certainly recovered enough to try and reach this nearby town.

I laid Riptide out to dry alongside anything else that had survived and sat back, rubbing my legs idly. This paltry collection was all I now possessed, so finding something to eat would be the first order of business once I set out. After that...

I had to find Buckwater.

Footnote: Level Up.

New Perk: Lead a Horse to Water, Rank 1: Despite never taking the plunge before, you've learned how to swim… or at least, how to avoid sinking.

New Quest Item Added: PipBuck 2000 - View detailed information regarding your health and location, detect radiation, manage and sort your inventory, interface with Stable-Tec technology, record or playback audio, and tune into radio frequencies.
> Chapter 3: Guiding Light
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------


“... And most importantly, you need to make some friends.”






Once my clothes and supplies had dried out, I packed them up and cocked Riptide. Cracking open the broadcasting station’s door, I peeked out, hoping I wouldn’t be face-to-face with another monstrous swamp creature. The daylight better displayed the aftermath of the radigator's destructive rampage: everything above the radio tower’s base had collapsed, snapping in half across the station’s roof. The muddy ground was riven with canyons and prints, twisted metal shards protruding like rusted saplings, while a trail of wrecked foliage led off to the south. I thanked Celestia that I wasn’t headed that way.

Stepping out of the station, I drew in a breath of damp, vaguely sweet swamp air. I activated my E.F.S. and referred to my compass, facing northeast. I anxiously hoped that Buckwater was reasonably near and welcoming of strangers; the idea of having to camp outside the settlement while a furious, half-blind radigator was still in the region wasn’t a pleasant thought. I searched for my nine-millimeter pistol for at least an hour before I conceded defeat. Wherever it was, I couldn't seem to locate it; all the metal wreckage, muddy gator tracks and a tree taken out by the tower had hidden the rather diminutive weapon. I took some consolation in the fact that I at least still had Riptide on me.

Hoping to locate some long-overdue civilization, I set out in the general direction the graffiti had suggested. The daylight was comforting, helping me place my hooves, and I managed to retrace my way back to the river without issue. The tree bridge from last night was split in half and stuck haphazardly in the center of the river, still surrounded by debris that could easily hide a gator. I kept a good twenty yards between myself and the shore, with Riptide easily accessible from my saddlebag; I didn’t know how far radigators could see while submerged, but I honestly didn’t want to test it. The hollow-points were still ready to be emptied into any other behemoths that dared cross the path of Scribe Quillwright.
The thick swamp canopy hung low, nearly brushing the river, and as I followed the shore I found myself walking into blankets of moss draping over the branches of the ancient cypress trees. As I fought to untangle my mane from a fluffy green clump of overgrowth, my struggling shook something from the tree, which splattered against a network of roots ahead of me. Looking up, I could spot odd fruit resembling grey, shriveled apples. I picked one from a low-hanging branch and examined it, puzzled.
The PipBuck provided a description: “Wilt Apple. Infamous regional weed-fruit.”
The wilt apple didn’t look appetizing, but it was the first food I’d seen since leaving the Phoebe and I was absolutely starving. Bracing myself, I took a bite. The apple’s skin was leathery, and the inside was mushy and bitter, but I forced myself to chew and swallow everything. Blanching, I could tell why they were infamous; the flavor was disgusting compared to a normal apple, but technically it was still a completely edible food. I'd tasted worse, but that wasn't saying much.
I forced myself to eat as much of the wilt apple as I could, knowing that I needed something to fill my stomach. I picked two more and stored them in my growing inventory, hoping I could afford to throw them away once I reached Buckwater.
It only took a few minutes for me to get bored. Turning my attention to the PipBuck, I remembered the device’s built-in radio, and managed a little three-legged hop-skip while using my intact wing to gradually tune through frequencies. Frustratingly, I only received static, save for one or two brief bursts of music or voices; if the destruction of the radio tower last night had hampered the signal, it would be an awfully dull trip ahead.
I was about to give up when a distorted laugh caught my attention. Dialing carefully, I tried to tune out as much interference as I could. A weirdly accented voice began pouring from the speakers; a drawl unlike any I’d ever heard, even from the earth-poniest earth ponies I’d met. It was fast and high-pitched, barely pausing for breath.
“... An’ Ah tol’ ‘er, y’ain’t e’er gon’ git tha’ smell outta ye’er coat!” This was followed with an utterly ridiculous laugh, and the sound of thigh-slapping.
Oh Goddesses, this is the radio host? I groaned. One sentence and I already can’t stand him… or UNDERstand him, for that matter.
“Heh… that is quite the story…” came another voice, vastly different from the first. It sounded… well, fancy, but in a unique way. “Je vous remercie, Gator Bait.”
“Mah pleasure!”
The second voice cleared his throat. “Well, there you have it: Vim-Vam Dark does not make for a very good dye!” He continued to laugh, a little uneasily. “Heh heh… yes… alright… goodbye!” I heard a door slam in the studio.
“Well now,” the voice sighed. “I must again apologize for the… ah… abundance of interviews recently, no? There simply has not been much news to report as of late.” He paused. “But! Could it be? A new development?” There was a pause, as if the host was waiting for his listeners to cry out something. “Yes!” he shouted in triumph. “You heard it here first: an airship was spotted outside my home, flying southward! Yes! A ballon dirigeable! A flying one!”
My heart jumped. The Phoebe had been spotted by at least one pony living here!
“Who was piloting it, you ask? Sadly, I do not know. But I am sure that whoever was aboard is a newcomer to our land, so let us give them a very warm Mulisianan welcome, yes?”
Did it pass by the other way?
“Other than that, still no news, at least nothing happy. No. But! If you are passing by my home, do not be afraid to pop in and say bonjour! I am always eager to conduct an interview with anyone who has a story to tell.”
I bit my lip, concerned. The radio host had seen us on the way here, but so far hadn’t seen the Phoebe returning north. I desperately hoped that it was only due to Cider Vinegar steering the ship along a different route.
“And to get us back into the music, here is Big Dipper with his wonderful song, Life in Pink.”
A catchy piano and trumpet ballad began to play from the PipBuck. After a minute of a strong beat, a deep, guttural, yet elegant stallion’s voice poured out.

Hold me close and hold me fast
The magic spell you cast
This is life in pink
When you kiss me, heaven sighs
And though I close my eyes
I see life in pink…

The beautiful melody echoed hauntingly through the trees, the acoustics strange thanks to the sound-dampening veils of moss surrounding me. After the first chorus, the singer was accompanied by another, a mare with a very high voice. The two complemented each other surprisingly well, the mare’s sweet soprano weaving in and out with the stallion’s rumbling baritone.

When you press me to your heart
I'm in a world apart
A world where roses bloom
And when you speak, angels sing from above
Everyday, words seem to turn into love songs
Give your heart and soul to me
And life will always be in pink!

The songstress had begun to shout that last line a little too excitedly, but the two held the final note harmoniously. As the song came to an end, I found that my downtrodden, cautious trot had shifted into a half-prance, my head nodding to the beat.
The radio station continued to play all kinds of jazzy music, none of which I’d ever heard from any of Equestria’s stations. The DJ didn’t return, so I assumed he only broadcasted himself whenever there was news to be delivered or interviews to be held.
The river soon opened into a large, reedy bayou, and down the murky shore I could make out a wall surrounding an uneven collection of buildings. A few trails of smoke rose from the settlement, and a watchtower stood at one end.
“Yes yes yes!” I shouted, now fully prancing in delight. Finally, something had gone my way!
As I trotted briskly towards Buckwater, I came across the remnants of an old highway. The ancient asphalt was cracked and faded, weeds growing from every split. The road led past the entrance to Buckwater; turning off the road, a short dirt path lined with what looked like railroad ties brought me to the gate. The wall surrounding the town was a crude but functional fusion of planks, boards, corrugated metal, doors, and just about anything else that was tall, thin, and sturdy. As I neared, a guard lounging within the watchtower jerked into alertness as he saw me. Standing, the unicorn telekinetically lifted a beefy machine gun, aiming it at me.
“Who goes there?” he shouted.
I halted, switching off my radio and waving a hoof in a peaceful gesture. “Just a new visitor!” I yelled back. “Is this Buckwater?”
The guard nodded, his eyes still narrowed. “Yeah. Yeah, it is. You new ‘round these parts or somethin’?”
“I am, actually.”
The guard assessed me for a few moments, then lowered his gun. “Alright, head on in. Just mind yourself,” he grumbled. He turned to the gate, focusing his magic. I heard a few clicks behind the wall, and then a green aura surrounded the large, grimy Sparkle~Cola billboard that served as a gate. It slid to the side and was hooked onto something behind the wall.
I nodded to him. “Thank you!” He didn’t seemed concerned enough to reply, instead returning to his seat and harrumphing.
Stepping inside the worn ramparts, I took in the town of Buckwater for the first time. Four prominent structures were lined up on the center street, all of them constructed from what looked to be the same kind of wood, resting on two-foot-high stilts. Jutting from two of the buildings’ roofs were towering metal smokestacks that coughed an occasional cloud of soot. The bayou itself was being utilized by farmers, who moved about with buckets on their backs, picking small purple berries from clusters of floating vines. A low-hanging net separated the cleaner water cultivated by the farmers from the rest of the marsh, which was strewn with debris and varnished with undisturbed algae.
Inland, dozens of small shacks, lean-tos, and tents separated the main buildings from the shore; a few campfires smoldered, surrounded by ponies roasting various kinds of animals on spits. On the opposite side of the main street, rows of sallow corn stalks and pens of brahmin and chickens filled the rest of the walled-off perimeter, a lone farmer tending to the crops. The wall wrapped around the entirety of Buckwater, each end gradually dipping into the bayou.
The main street in front of me was a muddy rut covered in hoofprints, trash, and puddles. On each side of the street were makeshift sidewalks constructed from warped and weathered planks, along which many townsponies and traders meandered about. I followed one of the sidewalks down the row of buildings to what looked to be a saloon, judging from the sign hanging above the door reading “Rotgut’s Spirits”.
Pushing open the door with a hoof, my shadow was cast into a dim, candle-lit room. Ponies of all shapes, sizes, and colors sat at tables conversing, gambling, and drinking. Several paused and turned to watch as I entered, their conversations lulling for a moment. Though I could feel eyes on my wing, I drew myself up and strode confidently to the bar, most customers returning to their activities. Plaques lining the walls displayed objects of interest, from mounted mirelurk claws to an old ship’s wheel to an old banjo. Fishing nets were suspended from the ceiling, dangling lanterns and brightly colored floaters over the tables.
The bartender, a large, steel-grey earth pony wearing a stained apron and a straw boater hat, was in the middle of a presumably funny discussion with a patron sitting at the bar. I stepped up, planting my hoof on the counter, and waited. The bartender let out a final guffawing laugh, and then turned to me, his amused expression unchanged. He sneered as his eyes ran me up and down.
“What’s with the getup?”
He’d likely never seen a Steel Ranger before. “Uh…” I brushed my hoof against my starched, discolored robes, but couldn’t come up with a witty response. “It’s comfy?”
The bartender gave me a disbelieving look. “If’n you say so. I’m Rotgut, an’ I own this joint. You want somethin’ t’ drink?”
“Well… what’s the cheapest thing here?”
Rotgut reached under the counter, lifting a jug. “Rainwater. Stuff ain’t anythin’ special, but it’s better than nothin’.” He poured a small serving into an old coffee mug. “Since I've never seen you 'round here before, you get a free sample.” He pushed it to me. “Any more, I’ma need some caps.”
“Th-thanks!” I peered into the cup at the slightly green water. “Also, I uh... I was wondering if there was a map I could look at or some kind of guide here.”
“You lookin’ to venture through the swamps?” He pointed to a table in the corner. “Best bet’d be Willow Wisp. You've got good timin’, she just got back to town yesterday.”
I thanked him again and worked my way through the maze of tables towards the back, taking a quick swig of rainwater. The water contained minor radiation according to the PipBuck, but not enough to be of any consequence.
I slowed as I reached the table Rotgut had pointed to. The unicorn sitting behind it looked conspicuously out of place compared to everypony else I’d seen thus far; she was clad head-to-hoof in a dark cloak, the hood pulled far over her face and a grey horn poked out of the top. A half-empty glass of ale was before her. I took a seat across the table from Willow Wisp, stowing my saddlebag under the table and trying to make eye contact with the unicorn.
“I heard you're the pony to see if I need a guide,” I ventured.
The mare turned her head towards me calmly. “You heard right. And who might you be?”
Straightening, I replied, “Head Scribe Quillwright of the Steel Rangers.”
Willow tilted her head slightly. “And a Steel Ranger needs my assistance because…?”
“I became separated from the rest of my unit. I need to get to the border of Equestria, but I can't make the trip on my own.”
Willow scoffed. “All de way to de border? Dat’s crossing more den five hundred miles of de deadliest expanse of land in all of Equestria.” Her accent was yet another I’d never heard before; like a combination of earth pony drawl and the fancy talk I’d heard from the radio DJ.
I set my jaw. “I know. That’s why I’m asking for your help.”
With a harsh and scornful laugh, Willow shook her head. “You sure look like hell. Where’d you come from, anyway? How’d you even get dis far sout’?”
I lowered my head. “We have an airship, and took it all the way from Fillydelphia to Stable 56, which is nearby. Some… complications arose, and the others left without me.”
Willow sat back, whistling. “Some friends.” Gazing around the room, she commented, “I dunno. Are you sure you're up for some'ting like dis?”
“Of course. Are you?”
Willow leaned her head forward, and I could see her eyes glint. “Nopony in dis town knows dese lands better den I do. If you want my help, den it's gonna run you five hundred caps upfront.”
I barely held back a groan. Five hundred? I don’t even have one! Externally, however, I remained stoic. “Three hundred.”
Willow shook her head again, and I could hear a faint jingle from somewhere in her cloak. “Not’ing less, no. You ain't got a clue about de type of merde dat's out dere.”
I need an edge. Thinking quickly, I reached for my drink only to accidentally tip it over. The mug fell over the edge of the table, cracking on the floor and drenching the passing waitress's hooves.
“Watch it!” she shouted in irritation.
“Sorry!” I apologized, dropping beneath the table. In a flash, I withdrew the Mint-al tin from my bag and consumed one. My ears felt like they’d popped from a change in altitude, picking up even the softest noises surrounding me. The termite-eaten wood beneath my hooves sharpened in detail, and my brain felt a rush of inspiration. When I rose, placing my cup back on the table, I felt like a whole different pony.
“Three hundred when we depart, seven hundred upon safe arrival at the border; my allies will be waiting for me there.” Hopefully.
My perceptive eyes could see the glint under Willow’s hood widen. Quite a bit, actually. “One t’ousand total?” Her voice had a hint of incredulity; I needed to reassure.
“I'm a Head Scribe for the Rangers. A thousand is a drop in the bucket with a paygrade like mine.”
“You've got a salary?”
I waved her off with a hoof. “Not all of it is caps; the wealth of technology we uncover on a daily basis would surprise you.” Lowering my hoof but raising my leg, I let the candlelight gleam off of the attached bracelet. “Not every Ranger gets a PipBuck.” Please don't recognize how outdated it is.
Willow paused; I was getting through. Time to play my ace.
“Plus, I can tell you’re just aching to leave this dump.”
Underneath the table, I had noticed one of Willow's legs bouncing with anxious energy. She wasn't one for staying still; she liked being in the wilderness or an adventure. She might be playing it cool now, of course, but it was a hunch I was willing to play off of.
The unicorn took a deep breath, leering at me beneath her hood. My heightened hearing could just barely make out a “dammit” under her breath before she sighed.
“Fine. A t’ousand, in hard caps.”
“I'll count them out myself,” I sussed, internally pumping my hoof in triumph.
“I expect my advance payment wit’in twenty-four hours. ‘Til den, I'll be in my home at de edge of town, fixin’ for de trip.” Willow stood, moving next to me. “I can mark it on your PipBuck.”
Once my map had been updated with her home’s location, Willow looked at me. Closer, I could see that she wore what looked like a thin scarf around her mouth; paired with her hood, it was impossible to see her face.
“An’ you’ll wanna make some supplies for de trip, ‘cause I won’t be packin’ for bod’ of us. I'm a guide, not a foalsitter.”
I nodded, just glad to have made progress. “Understood.”
“See you in a day.” As she left the establishment, she exchanged nods with a few patrons and with Rotgut. Willow Wisp seemed to have a reputation around here.
I returned to the bar, placing my mug on the counter with the large split down the side facing away from Rotgut. If he noticed, he didn’t appear to care.
“What’s the best way to earn caps around here?” I asked the bartender.
He smirked. “Willow charged a bit much, eh?” Watching me nod in response, he continued, “Well, you can swing by the general store and sell most anythin’. Maybe help the farmers with odd jobs, an’ there’re a few ruins to the west, includin’ an ol’ Ministry hub. Somepony with a PipBuck like yours might be able to find somethin’ that ain’t been picked clean.”
Looking pleadingly at Rotgut, I prodded, “You... don’t have anything that needs doing? A delivery? Something that needs fetching? Radroaches in the basement or something?”
“What? No… we ain't even got basements here!”
Oh yeah. “Uh… nevermind. Thanks for everything.”
After crossing the street, trying to avoid as much of the litter, muck, and filth as possible, I trotted down the sidewalk to the general store. As I entered I spotted a purple unicorn propping his head up in boredom behind the front counter, fiddling with an abacus while he telekinetically sorted through a stack of papers. Around the room, various pre-war products, tools, and knick-knacks were propped up on desks, end tables, and shelves. Several magazine racks displayed assorted reading material, and upon a few rickety clothes racks were all manner of barding, armor, and gear.
A grizzled, armored pony leaned against one of the walls, conversing with a similarly-clad griffon. The pair turned and appraised me, their suspicion slowly morphing into amusement. I was getting really tired of these judgmental glances I was attracting around Buckwater. Either no one’s seen a Steel Ranger before, or they have and I’m the sorriest-looking excuse for one they’ve met.
I took a few steps forward, and the store owner at the desk shouted at me in irritation.
“Hey! Wipe your hooves!”
Halting, I glanced down, realizing I’d tracked wet mud inside. Stepping back ashamedly, I dug my hooves into an old, frayed mat just inside the doorway. Once I was acceptably sanitary, I approached the storefront.
“Sorry,” I murmured.
The unicorn kept a stoic face, still flipping through his stack of receipts. “Yeah. I’m Tough Sell. You new here?”
“Is it that obvious?”
He only nodded. “Well, in case you couldn’t tell, this here’s the only proper store in town.” Gesturing over my shoulder, Tough Sell continued, “Rotgut’s got the food and drink. You want anything else, you come here.” I noticed with curiosity that there were several pristine sets of Stable 56 barding hanging from the wall behind the merchant, and the glass case that served as the front counter displayed neatly organized rows of “stimpaks” like I’d seen in the Stable’s manufacturing floor.
“How’d you acquire all these Stable items?”
Tough Sell sighed; I figured he had to explain this to most customers that came in. Straightening, he pushed the papers and abacus to one end of the counter. “Buckwater here was founded by the Dwellers of Stable 56. My grandparents were among them; almost two hundred ponies left the Stable, and a bunch of 'em decided this spot would make for a decent settlement. The rest all went off on their own separate ways.” Tapping the glass, “We've made it pretty good for being such a slimy mudhole. We’re the original home of stimpaks, and we sell ours at a bargain compared to what you'll pay for 'em in Divide.”
I raised a brow. “What’s so special about them?”
“Say you’re looting some ruins and take a bad step. You land wrong, breaking your leg; I know you pegasi have hollow bones, right? Healing potions can’t repair bones, you don't have a horn or a helpful unicorn doctor nearby. Suddenly, the woods around you begin chirruping.” He leaned in close, his voice dropping dramatically. “Goremoths. There’s a swarm coming, but you can’t move fast enough to hide. The bugs swoop down and bite your flesh with their pincers, stripping it clean from your bones and overpowering your pathetic attempts to fight them.”
‘Gore-moths’? This wildlife sounds delightful.
“But before you're left bleeding out on the floor, let’s go back to the fall. You were cleverly prepared, and brought along a stimpak.” Tough Sell slid the back of the case open, floating out one of the syringes. “You inject it into your leg, and bam; your bones fuse themselves back together immediately. No braces, no magic, just good old-fashioned science.” He placed the stimpak before me, smiling. “Only fifty caps each.”

“That sounds like magic to me."

With an exasperated roll of his eyes, Tough Sell groaned, "Look, I don't know exactly how they were made, alright? These are what were left over from the Stable, I didn't build them myself. Besides, these days it's better to avoid too much connection to magic. I wanna keep my horn intact."

I didn't quite know what that meant, but I admitted, "They're definitely impressive. I came here to sell, though."

Tough Sell seemed to deflate for a moment, but recovered promptly. Returning the stimpak to the display case, he exhaled. “If it has any value, I’ll buy it.”
Dropping my saddlebags, I sought about inside, retrieving an inkwell. “Let’s see… first, here’s plenty of extra ink!” I grinned, presenting it to him.
He lifted it with his magic, held it up to an attentive ear and shook it. Listening to the contents churn within, he considered for a moment. His eyes darted to a sheet of parchment on the counter, covered in sales figures. “Hm… four caps.”
I was still feeling charismatic thanks to the Mint-als. “Ten.”
Tough Sell nickered. “It’s ink. Ain’t worth the same as a half-loaded magazine.”
“And you brought over a hundred years worth of ink out of the Stable?”
He shook his head. “Passing merchants always seem to have some on hoof. They’ve never charged more than five.”
Crap. I was hoping I could pull off another slick haggle like I had with Willow Wisp, but either my bartering skills were that terrible compared to Tough Sell or the Mint-als were already wearing off. I relented, “Okay then, five.”
“Didn’t you hear me?” He sat the inkwell on the counter, stern eyes watching me. “I said four.”
He’s too good at this. “Fine.”
Tough Sell placed four bottlecaps on the glass next to the inkwell with a clink.
I pulled the voice recorder from my bag. “This still works,” I spoke loud and clear while holding down a button on the side. Releasing it, I hit the playback button. “This still works,” croaked the recorder, the static suddenly sounding a whole lot worse now that I was trying to sell it.
“Eight caps.”
“Ten. How many working recorders have you seen?”
“How many diaries do you think I keep?”
Uh… He didn’t really seem the type to just ramble out all of his thoughts for somepony else to find a century later. “Nine?”
“Eiiight… caaaps,” he said slowly, enunciating as if I was hard of hearing.
“Right. Eight it is.”
The caps were added to the stack, and the recorder was set next to the inkwell.
Next came the camera. Tough Sell seemed impressed at its condition until I explained to him, “It’s water damaged, but I know there are some valuable components inside.” Before he could set down a price, I tried to take control. “Thirty caps.”
The store owner laughed. A real, genuine laugh. “Thirty for that? Oh, Luna, you’re a riot.” Seeing my expression shift to uncomfortable humorlessness, he quieted. “You're serious.”
I nodded my head.
Tough Sell narrowed his eyes. “Listen, filly. This is my store; I decide the value, and that camera isn’t worth any more than fifteen to me. I’m not building M.E.W.s here.”
Take it! the little pony in my head eagerly recommended.
“Deal. Sorry about jumping the gun.”
Tough Sell seemed pleased. “It’s fine; just do well to remember it.” The camera was exchanged for caps, which had grown into a multicolored pile of twenty-seven. Not too shabby. Only two hundred and seventy-three left.
“Anything else?” my buyer asked.
I thought for a moment, but shook my head. “Nope.” As I reached over the counter to scoop the caps into my saddlebag, Tough Sell’s eyes lit up.
“Does that PipBuck work?”
The bottlecaps poured into my bag with a satisfying rattle. “Eeyup.”
“I’ll buy it for three hundred caps.”
I froze. Three hundred? With that, I could fund my trip right now, and with the extra, layover in town for a night and even buy dinner!
"Why would somepony from a town of Stable descendants need a PipBuck?" I asked, trying to buy myself some time to consider the offer.
Tough Sell's expression fell into a begrudged glower. "Guess those Stable-Tec folks ran outta their budgeted bits when they constructed such a huge Stable, 'cause they only gave the supervisors PipBucks." The store owner's frustration only seemed to double. "Most o' them led a group to Mareami when the Stable cleared out. Only PipBuck left in town was inherited by Guilty Pleasure..." he trailed off, his eyes focusing past me with a jealous glare as he presumably fantasized about having one of his own.
I studied the advanced bracelet's deteriorated but sturdy frame, still guarding a two-century-old spark processor. Staring into the gently flickering screen, I could only think of Vox. It wasn’t mine to sell.
“It’s not for sale,” I replied simply.
Tough Sell winced. “Four hundred.”
That’s almost half of what you promised Willow! my little pony reminded me. You’d be rich!
And I’d also be dishonoring Vox and the Scribes who had entrusted the device to our safekeeping. I wasn’t about to pawn it off to the first pony who offered to buy it from me.
I poured on my best Tough Sell impression. “Nooot… fooor… saaale.”
The store owner seemed taken aback. I swore he was about to offer five hundred caps, but decided better of it. He resignedly picked his newly procured items off of the counter. “Whatever. The offer still stands if you change your mind.”
Thanking him for his business, I left the general store. The day was at its brightest, which was to say it was still an overcast “afternoon”, with an added piss-colored tint. I could visit the farmers and see about helping them, and then perhaps find those ruins spoken of by Rotgut. I still had an entire day to gather the remainder of the caps I needed. I felt pretty optimistic, all things considered.
My Mint-al high had worn off by now, muting the vivid senses I’d been taking advantage of. I’d used Mint-als before and was used to the crash when they wore off, but still missed the ability to acutely eavesdrop on discussions across the street.
The farmers were knee-deep in the brown water, their legs covered in mud and their faces splattered with berry juice. I cantered up to one, peeking over his shoulder at the floating plant he was attending to.
“What are these?” I asked, curious.
“Tarberries,” he answered, tossing a small bunch into the bucket sitting on his back. “A local speciality.”
“What do you use them for?”
Finished with his current patch, the farmer moved to the next. “Well, they c’n be eaten as-is, an’ go well wid’ meat ‘er corn. We c’n also press ‘em inta juice, ‘er ferment ‘em inta wine. Far as Ah know, they only grow ‘round these parts.”
I studied the tarberry cluster. The vines spiralled outwards, with the small purple berries sprouting every few inches. Wide lilypad-like leaves grew from the bottom, giving the plant ample buoyancy, and thin roots extended into the water from the base of the leaves. The “harbor” of Buckwater was filled with several dozen patches, and therefore hundreds of berries. It was quite a prospering farm they had set up.
“Do you need any help?”
The farmer looked at me, a tarberry hanging from his mouth. Questioning in his eyes, he spit the fruit into his bucket and asked, “Help? Why’re yew feelin’ so generous?”
Hot shame crept into my face; he’d been expecting me to help out of the goodness of my heart. “Well, I… kinda need some caps.”
“That ‘splains it,” he grumbled. “Ah guess yew could help pick that row there.” He nodded to the line of tarberries next to his, about six patches long. “There’d be ‘bout ten caps in it fer ya, Ah guess.”
I let out a sigh of relief. “Oh, thank you! I promise I’ll do a good job!”
Ten minutes later, I’d taken off my robes and rolled the sleeves of my undershirt up, leaving my saddlebags and PipBuck on dry ground. I was getting used to the feel of swamp water and mud covering my legs, which I supposed was a good thing. The tarberries took a bit of effort to pick from their vines without being crushed, and I’d already bitten three in half by accident as the generous farmer explained the work to me. They tasted amazing; I made a mental note to pick as many as I saw in the wild, despite the farmer’s certainty that Buckwater was their only home.
Farming was surprisingly therapeutic, helping to take my mind off of my relentless anxiety. Another worker, an earth pony mare, was filling her own bucket next to me, and we struck up a friendly conversation as we worked. She had lived in Buckwater her whole life, as had the rest of her family, who was descended from Stable 56’s Dwellers. Out of the Stable, the first few days for her grandparents had been very rough indeed. Under constant threat of creatures like radigators and goremoths, the large group had struggled across the soggy terrain, trying to find a suitable home. The radiation back then was much stronger, as well; thirty-seven ponies died the first day alone. Twelve died the next, and on the fifth, a tropical radstorm blew in which killed over forty.
Unwilling to make the long journey to either Neigh Orleans or Brayton Rouge, the group came across the bayou here, where an old steamboat had washed ashore. Almost a hundred voted to stay here and repurpose the craft, while the rest sought their own futures. The steamboat had enough wood and resources to construct most of the buildings on the town’s main street, and by scavenging the Ministry hub nearby and a small township to the east, the settlers gradually built up a place they could call home, farming the abundance of tarberries growing on the bayou. Along the highway, wanderers began to stop by, and trade started up with other postwar settlements around Mulisiana. The rest, she concluded, was history.
Once I’d finished my row, I presented my harvest to the old farmer, who thanked me and rewarded me with a small pouch filled with ten bottlecaps. Two hundred and sixty-three to go.
Reequipped, I referred to the regional map on the PipBuck’s DATA screen. A small marker had been placed a mile to the west, where the old Ministry of Image hub should be located. The day was far from over, and I figured I could make it there and back before dark. I didn’t know what I was going to do for dinner or a bed that didn’t involve caps, so maybe I could find something to take care of both in the ruins.
A bridge built by the ponies of Buckwater crossed the river just before the mouth opened into the bayou. While decently sturdy-looking, it took me several tries to work up enough courage to make it across, the entire time spent scanning the water below for any minutiae of movement.  Thankfully, no radigators interrupted me this time, and I was back in the swamps again.
The trip was uneventful, the tunes from the newly-discovered radio station keeping me alert. Faint sunrays filtered through the trees and shimmering dazzlingly across the many fens covering the landscape. In an hour, I’d reached a small glade where a one-lane road led into a gated complex. The walls were crumbling with age and the gates themselves were rusted frames barely able to stand on their own, vines intertwining with the black bars. I stepped inside and observed the first remnants of pre-war society I’d seen in Mulisiana.
The drive led into a cul-de-sac that branched off into three buildings while wrapping around a tall, ancient-looking tree. Directly ahead was the tallest of the three, an elegant white structure with flowing architecture, to the left was a wider, less showy building and to the right was a pile of rubble and ruined wood. Only a few splintered supports stood as evidence that a structure had once been here; I guessed that it had been made almost entirely of wood, scavenged by Buckwater's founders. A blackened, desiccated mattress lay amidst the rubble, implying that the building was once some sort of home or quarters.
Rounding the tree, the husk of an old passenger wagon rested on the curb, its metal frame warped with rust. Next to the tree was a mound of dirt as long as me, with an old shovel nearby, the grave of someone long gone. Leaves carpeted the asphalt, crunching underhoof in a very satisfying way.
I entered the wider stone building, which was revealed to be housing a number of old printing presses. The remains of parchment and posters were dissolved into the floor, eaten away by time, weather, and insects. The room’s white, purple, and blue wallpaper was peeling and stained by years of rainwater, creating a gross mixture of colors.
A nearby printer sat open, the type scattered across the floor like old teeth. Trying to read the backwards and incomplete phrases in the machine, I could only make out one legible line: “The Ministries Are Fighting For You.”
Desks with typewriters sat alongside the presses, and I excitedly grabbed a nearby folder containing several relatively clean sheets of paper. An old quill, dirtied by the elements but still in usable condition, joined the papers in my saddlebags, as did a half-empty ink ribbon under a desk. I studied the presses and typewriters, prying off anything that looked to be of use, and a short while later I had several pounds of metal components that I would try selling later.
The other building was an administrative office; the front desk held an old silver bell which, amusingly, still rung after I tried it. A back room seemed looted of anything valuable, including what must have been a large desk, judging by the empty space in the center and the imprint left on the old shag carpet. I flipped over a painting resting askance in the corner, taking in the smudged oil image. A white unicorn with a styled purple mane sat alluringly in a plush chair: Rarity, Mare of the Ministry of Image.
While the painting might have fetched a good price once, it was far too worn-out to be appealing, and there was no way I’d be able to haul it back through the swamp. Leaving it, I was about to exit the room when I noticed an old terminal dumped onto its side, likely tossed off the desk. It was long-dead, but using the connector cable from the PipBuck, I was able to access the computer’s hard drive. The stalwart casing had managed to protect the information it contained, and I downloaded a few messages, not expecting to find anything interesting.

“Gussy,
I heard you’ve had the team working overtime there, and I just wanted to check in and see if you were doing alright. It can’t be easy, isolated out there with only your coworkers for company. I know you knew what you were getting into signing up, and I was hoping to learn that it’s everything you expected it to be.
-M.”


“It’s a damn nightmare down here. The printing hasn’t been much of a problem, but the cultures down here are so diverse that trying to track down all zebra-related material is almost impossible. Neigh Orleans is the worst; when you’ve got a harbor city as trafficked as it is, you’re going to have way too many opinions to try and manage and too many books to rectify. Even two years after the zebra relocation, we still have ponies there who have no idea that Equestria’s in immediate danger of all-out war. I swear, I didn’t think much of Mulisiana before coming here, but I’ll be more than happy to leave this humid hellhole once we exterminate those striped bastards.”


“Gussy,
I’m sorry to hear that; I know Rarity’s been sending you her regards, but frankly she’s just as overworked as the rest of us. I’ve got your well-being in my prayers. BTW, I remember you mentioning a gift for her?
-M.”


“I feel for her. But yeah, I’ve got quite the present for her, once I get back to you all in Fillydelphia. I have to keep it under wraps since I had to slip into Brayton Rouge one night to buy it, but it’ll blow Rarity’s mind. I can see myself getting at least two promotions for this.”


Intrigued, I wondered what this gift spoken of could be, and where it had been hidden. Scouring the administrative building, I couldn’t find any containers that hadn’t already been cleared of their contents. I was about to concede, assuming the gift had been taken by a scavenger at some point in the two hundred years since the messages were sent, but paused while trotting past Gussy’s office. There was one location I hadn't checked yet… but I hadn't had a reason to until reading the terminal's entries. Gripping the edge of the rug in my teeth, I pulled it back to reveal a metal plate in the center of the room, and beneath that I uncovered a crate protected by a nearly burned-out water ward. Inside was a well-preserved ten-millimeter pistol lying atop a gorgeous purple dress and feathered hat.
Jackpot! I cut a little celebratory dance, not caring that it was more akin to the throes of a mentally unhinged pony.
The dress was really something incredible; it was a white southern belle design with flowing, frilly edges, elegant diamond motifs and purple details running the length. The hat was similarly fancy, matching the dress flawlessly. Very carefully, I folded the dress and managed to stuff it into my saddlebags, but I would have to carry the hat separately. Or wear it! my little pony reminded me. Eh… sorry, but it just doesn’t match my robes.
Exiting the administration building back out into the hub, I hummed a tune stuck in my head since this morning. I breathed in the earthy, cloying scents gently drifting through the air, which were gradually becoming familiar to my senses. Trotting down the front walk, I activated the PipBuck’s lamp and started towards the gates. In a few moments, my lust for music nagged too insistently to ignore, so I paused to switch the radio on. As the clip-clop of my hooves and the crunching of leaves halted, however, my ears perked to a new noise in the distance.
It was difficult to tell if I was imagining it or not; concentrating intently, I could sense a shrill dissonance echoing through the trees ahead. The best comparison I could draw was to the cicadas I’d heard last night, but this seemed higher pitched. I neared the crumbling gates, all tunes in my head muted, and peered out as far as the PipBuck’s light reached. A flapping of wings startled me, and I jumped back as a flight of bats shot past overhead. They squeaked urgently, and I watched as they scattered around the hub’s tree and seamlessly regrouped around it, fluttering back into the darkness.
I sighed in relief, but as I turned back to the entrance, I noticed that the noise was still there; louder, now, and certainly not from the same direction as before. I racked my brain to ascertain what the noise could possibly be, until the little pony in my head finally recalled a relevant quote for me.
‘Suddenly, you hear a chirruping in the woods around you: goremoths.’
I felt an electric shock of fear burst through my veins, causing me to start. I began backing towards the tree in the center of the hub. The sound was growing louder, approaching, and my rump was pressed back into the trunk, my eyes straining to discern the dusky environment. I spotted a group of silhouettes dart across the sky and redirect towards me; dropping the hat, I spun and started to gallop towards the admin building. I stumbled as I caught a hoof on the shovel next to the grave; thinking quickly, I picked the tool up in my mouth and sprinted for the door.
I felt large, silky soft wings brush my mane as a goremoth landed on my back, the insect chittering loudly. I screamed through my teeth, trying to shake the thing off of me, but its barbed feet had a firm grip on my robes. I rushed back inside the administration building and kicked the front doors shut just in time to hear my pursuers thunk against them at high speed.
The goremoth’s wide, flat pincers bit down against my spine, pulling up and getting a… mouthful… of robe and skin alike, and with a violent tug, it tore both from me. I shrieked in agony as I felt my flesh separate, the cold feeling of exposed tissue quickly covered by a warm gush of blood, running down my sides and onto the floor. I twisted and bucked, unable to detach the insect as it then inserted its proboscis into my back, not unlike the prick of a needle, and I felt it beginning to feed.
My mind went utterly blank with horror, all thoughts other than survival pushed aside. I threw myself into the wall, cushioned by the shiveringly-soft goremoth. My weight was enough to stun it for a brief second, and its grip loosened. Thrashing, I threw the moth across the room, where it landed on the floor with a thump. It began furiously beating its blood-vessel-covered wings as it tried to right itself and escape.
I was faster, however, and charged towards it, leaping into the air and bringing my hooves down on the insect’s abdomen. It crunched disgustingly, its pale guts and crimson blood squirting over the grey floor, and I blindly trampled its carcass, still in panic mode. After turning the goremoth into a fine paste, I backed up, trembling with pain and shock as tears leaked from my eyes. Sliding off my saddlebags, I retrieved a healing potion, which began to reseal my flowing wound. I was still dizzy from the amount of blood the goremoth had managed to drain from me, and sat quivering as I looked at the front door.
A single goremoth had nearly been able to kill me, and there’d been at least eight in its little flock. They were still outside somewhere, no doubt lying in wait for me to attempt an escape.
I racked my brain for options. Riptide still had four shots, and the newly-acquired ten-millimeter from the admin’s office had nine. The shovel I had carried in was still just inside the doorway, where I’d dropped it. Nopony had mentioned how to combat goremoths, and I’d been too shortsighted to ask. I’d only ever seen the tiny “normal” moths from Equestria, which I’d never minded. I am never gonna see them the same way after this. Thinking of small moths did inspire an idea, however.
Moving to one of the tall windows next to the door, I peered out, trying to see past the accumulated lime and dust. It was too dark to discern much, but the goremoths certainly weren’t in my direct line of sight. I quietly unlatched the window and slid it open, and then unclipped the PipBuck from my leg. With the lamp function still activated, I flung it out of the window. The brightly glowing device bounced twice on the dead lawn and rolled to a stop on the sidewalk, the screen facing towards me.
I flinched in surprise as the goremoth swarm, which had been clinging to the building’s front wall in complete silence, launched itself forward and swarmed the PipBuck while emitting nightmare-inducing calls. My targets now highlighted and grouped together, I aimed the ten-millimeter pistol over the sill and emptied the magazine. The sheer amount of bullets compensated for my lackluster aim, shredding the fragile insects’ wings and bodies. I managed to kill or maim all but one, which launched into the air and shot towards the open window, screeching.
Dropping the pistol, I turned and lifted the shovel. As the goremoth swooped over the sill, I swung hard. The metal spade connected with a meaty thud, launching it into the far wall like a baseball, dropping to the floor. The insect’s broken wings fluttered weakly as I shut the window; the subtle irony of the image not lost on me, I proceeded to lift my shovel and beat the ever-living shit out of the goremoth.





Buckwater was still just as lively in the evening, and I made it back into Tough Sell’s shop just in time to witness the pony bartering with a frail old mare who was presenting a ceramic dinner plate to him. Rather than waiting in line behind her, I investigated the magazine rack while I listened.
“... ’An lastly, this plate was my mother’s, an’ her mother’s, an’ her…” the customer’s voice was quavering reverently.
“I understand.” Tough Sell wheedled. “It’s… quite elegant. Very floral.”
“This ‘ere plate survived both megaspell strikes on Neigh Orleans, an’ the floods, an’ the Great Storm, an’ attacks from slavers, an’...”
“Yes. Very resilient.”
I glanced up from a copy of Popular Moochanics to see Tough Sell turning the plate over with his magic, inspecting the condition. He looked bemused, likely ready to close up shop.
“I can’t help but notice, however, there are quite a few… hairline fractures down the center…”
The mare nodded solemnly. “Yessir, this 'ere plate was in my dear granny’s pack when she were attacked in Saint Mare’s by slavers, she were struck by a wild pony usin' a…”
Tough Sell frowned. “Yes, well, the patterns are quite pleasing to the eye from a distance, but in daily use…” He squinted, sighting down the edge. “I can’t imagine the plate being useful for anything beyond some kind of tacky wall decoration.” He gingerly placed it on the counter. “Four caps.”
“F-four?” The old mare looked offended. “Do ye’ even know who made this?”
“I frankly don’t care.” I wanted to buck that smug look off Tough Sell’s face so badly. “Take it or leave it.”
After shaking her head in dejection, the mare finally agreed. “... Alright.” I felt sorry for her as she surrendered her heirloom to the indifferent merchant. She scooped her caps into a tattered old coin purse and ambled out, leaving Tough Sell to glance over in my direction.
“Hey! I’m closing up, it's time to leave,” he called.
I feigned surprise as I looked up from an article detailing Solaris Incorporated’s newest robotic achievements. “Huh? Oh, I… I have some things to sell.” My tail kept the hat out of view as I returned the magazine and trotted up to the counter. I placed the few random bits of printer parts on the counter, a paltry collection barely the size of a hoof. 
Tough Sell smirked and opened his mouth to give a condescending appraisal before I interrupted him. “Oh, and one more thing.” I pulled the dress from my saddlebags, watching in satisfaction as the stallion’s jaw fell to the floor.
“Wh-where…?” he choked, incredulous.
I laid it out on the counter, resting the hat on top. “M.O.I. hub.” Not even trying to hide my smug grin, I looked to him. “I think we both know how much this is worth.”
“Th-three hundred caps…” Tough Sell sputtered.
I didn’t even need Mint-als as I replied dryly, “Three-fifty.”
The merchant paused, still shocked at my find. “... Three-forty.”
“Done.”
Learning even more about Mulisianan economics, I received a bag of forty caps, a mixture of red Sparkle~Cola caps and green-and-white caps with an ornate letter V engraved into the steel. Three of the caps were black with an especially intricate green V printed into the top; these special designs, as Tough Sell explained, were worth a hundred standard ones, and kept large amounts of currency manageable. I also sold the pistol which earned me a blue-and-white cap worth fifty, and got three caps for the components pulled from the printing presses. I could fund the first payment to Willow Wisp and still have a hundred and thirty left over.
I left Tough Sell’s in high spirits, spying the inn that sat across the street. I planned on getting something better tasting than wilt apples at Rotgut’s and then finding myself a proper bed for the night.
"Hey, honey!" I heard a sultry voice call out in my direction.
I instinctively turned, searching for the speaker. My gaze met that of an earth pony mare in a seductive dress standing outside the building next to Tough Sell’s, which I only now realized was a brothel. Her sky blue mane fell across her shoulders, pleasantly complementing her pale pink coat. She leaned against the porch's railing, her head tilted and shooting me a welcoming smile.
I swallowed. "Uh... hi..."
The… mare of the night… tilted her head to the other side. "What's your name?" she asked, clearly beckoning for a conversation.
"Q-Quillwright."
"That's a pretty name.” She left the porch, sauntering up to me. “I'm Guilty Pleasure, but you just call me Pleasure. You settling down for a while?" She stopped with only a yard between us, flicking her mane out of her eyes. This close, I caught a whiff her perfume; it was cheap, but the fact she had any on at all meant she smelled better than ninety-nine percent of wastelanders.
My words barely escaped in the right order. "No, actually, uh, I'm leaving. Tomorrow."
Pleasure cocked her brow. "Where to?"
"North. To Equestria."
"That’s quite the journey; the swamps are dangerous, and you don't want to be directionless. Are you sure you know what you’re doing?"
"I've hired a guide, actually."
Her smile shifted slightly; still a smile, but now a knowing one instead of an alluring one. "Willow Wisp?"
"Um... yeah. How'd you…”?
Pleasure laughed softly. "Well, it seemed a safe guess, what with her being the most reliable guide I know of in Mulisiana and being a personal friend of mine.”
I felt a blush coming on at that implication. "Oh."
"She's... different.” The mare’s smile faded slightly. “Just a word to the wise: she's very hot-headed, but she knows the swamps better than anypony I’ve ever met, besides her parents.”
"So... I can trust her?"
"Yes. As long as you pay her and you don't piss her off." Pleasure locked her azure eyes with mine. "Seriously. Please do not piss Willow off."
I blinked. "I-I wasn't planning on it."
"Good.” Guilty Pleasure’s smile returned, and she tilted her head again, her eyes tempting. “Now, would you like something to help you... relax for your big trip?" Her flanks swayed subtly, making her long tail swish.
I was visibly trembling, flustered. "N-no thanks, I'm not into mares."
Pleasure laughed, her face looking like she was listening to the naive words of a foal. "Honey, you do know we also have stallion whores?"
"No…! N-no, I'm taken!" Not to mention I probably look and smell like death under these robes.
Pleasure grinned knowingly, winking. "If you say so, honey.”





Buckwater’s inn consisted of one large room filled with all manner of beds, ranging from mattresses to sleeping bags to thick piles of hay. There were several others already asleep; wanderers, traders, mercenaries and anything in-between shared the same roof, under the watchful eye of the guards behind the counter. The innkeeper offered to secure my belongings in a wall of safes behind him, but I passed on it. Boarding was ten caps, and I found myself a suitable bed in the corner of the common room.
My saddlebags slid off my back and I flopped down onto the bare mattress, sighing in exhaustion. It felt like it’d been a week since I last slept in a proper bed, not two nights. Sure, the fabric smelled like grease and was only further staining my Scribe robes, but it was still softer than concrete and my weak body only cared about that detail. The poor robes in question were in tatters; after a moment’s rest, I gingerly removed them, the gaping hole in the back large enough to fit my hoof through. My undershirt was in even worse condition; tomorrow morning I’d need to find nicer clothes at Tough Sell’s, in addition to some extra ammunition.
Sitting on the edge of the mattress, I unclipped the PipBuck and stood it on-end as an impromptu lamp, then unwrapped a skewer of radigator meat I’d purchased from Rotgut’s and chewed on it. The meat was a bit stringy but with a unique and zesty spice added. Admiring the taste, I amusingly reflected on how pre-war ponies were strict vegetarians; apocalypses did wonders to expand appetites. I followed my meal with a bottle of rainwater, the radioactive liquid tickling my stomach.
No longer aching from hunger, I rolled onto my back and toyed with the PipBuck for a little while, manually inventorying everything from my bags into the list on the device’s ITEMS screen. Connecting my earbloom and tuning into the radio station, I enjoyed more jazz while I pulled the other spoils from the Ministry from my bag: clean writing materials.
Now laying on my front, I withdrew the papers and set them atop their folder, then cracked open the ink ribbon and poked the quill inside. I began to recount the events of the last few days, beginning with the arrival at Stable 56. I managed to detail everything important leading up to tonight and still had several blank pages to use, so I wasn’t in immediate danger of running out of materials.
A headache began creeping into my skull, so as soon as I finished writing the folder was returned to my bags. I stretched out and soon drifted off into slumber.

Footnote: Progress recorded. Level Up.

New Perk: Big Leagues - Swing for the fences! You deal 10% more melee weapon damage.

New Objective Added: Return to Equestria.
> Chapter 4: Infection
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------


“It's amazing how infected that the natural world and all its things can be!”






“Ye’ sonuva mule! I’ll bash yer Goddess-damned ‘ead in, Ah swear!”
I watched nonplussed as a burly stallion, inebriated out of his wits, reared up to kick at an equally drunken pony who had been egging him on for the past half hour. His pitiful attempt came up far too short and instead pitched his face into the floor, causing his foe to snigger.
“Heheh… I think you… *hic* ...missed.” He grinned, chugging his third tankard of foul-looking beer.
How can anypony in their right mind drink at this hour?
I sat at a rickety old table in Rotgut’s, fighting to keep my eyes open as I hovered over my half-eaten breakfast of tarberries and radigator eggs. My mind had been swimming in a feverish haze ever since I woke with a sore body and throat. I’d initially shrugged it off as a symptom of all the stress I’d been under recently, but that had been disproven once I found that the faint morning light was sharp enough to force me to shield my eyes. There was little doubt left in my mind that some kind of sickness was growing within me. Whether it was from my dismembered wing’s wound, all of the gross swamp water I’d touched, the insects that had stung me, or the horrible goremoth attack… I didn’t know. There were so many potential causes, and it terrified me further that I couldn’t identify the source.
The tarberries that had tasted so juicy yesterday were flavorless in my mouth; the eggs, similarly devoid of any appetizing qualities they may have once possessed, had been abandoned after one bite. Even Rotgut had questioned my haggard demeanor, genuine concern in his eyes, but I’d waved him off and reasoned that I was just tired from exploring. He didn’t look convinced but had been drawn away by impatient customers.
“F-fu… fu… y’... muh...” The pony sprawled on the floor had taken a violent hit to his jaw when he’d collapsed; his slurred speech was now even more unintelligible, a tongue lolling out. His intoxicated opponent attempted to coolly rise from his seat, but immediately lost his balance and pinwheeled into the bar, prompting Rotgut to shout at him in annoyance. Fed up with all the clamor, I wrapped up the remnants of my meal and stowed them in my bags, bought two bottles of rainwater, and then headed across the street.
Inside Tough Sell’s, I noticed he’d put the dress and hat on display behind the counter, using an old worn-out mannequin. He’d mentioned last night that Guilty Pleasure’s mares would fight each other tooth-and-hoof over purchasing the set, providing a special form of entertainment for him.
“Do you have a doctor in town?” I asked Tough Sell, trying my best to appear hale.
Tough Sell was once again chipping away at his stack of receipts, and gave me a questioning glance. “A doctor? Whatever for?”
“Um… for doctoring?”
“Hey, if you’ve got something that needs fixed, I’ve got healing potions, a few bottles of this remarkable old tonic, and of course, our invaluable stim…”
I cut him off, not needing to hear another advertisement. “I meant for an illness.”
This gained his full attention. “... Why? You aren’t sick with anything, are you?” His tone was accusatory, and he subtly leaned away from me, wary.
“No, I’m just… asking for future reference.”
The merchant clearly didn’t believe me, but answered my question anyway. “Well, we did have one a few years ago. Loopy fellow, that one.”
“... Loopy?”
Tough Sell nodded. “Loopy, ditzy, unstable; whatever word you prefer, he was never quite right in the head, and we couldn’t ever figure out why. He diligently ran a small clinic out of Buckwater for a year or two, but just up and vanished one day. A real shame, too, because he was damn good at his job. Never found out what happened to him.” He snorted derisively. “Rotgut’s gone an’ convinced himself that it was the Institute; snatched him up in the night without a trace.”
“The ‘Institute?’ ”
Tough Sell sighed. “Look, if you want conspiracy theories, ask Rotgut. He’ll talk your ear off all day spouting his wild stories. Now, are you gonna buy something or not?”
I purchased a brush and a bar of soap, hoping that washing up might rejuvenate my senses. The inn had a small shower wedged between two outhouses connected to the side of the building. Inside, I doused myself with half a bottle, lathered up as best I could, and then scoured as much dirt and muck from myself as possible. The brush was forcefully tugged across my coat and caught in my tangled mane several times, but after a few minutes of struggling, my sandy beige fur began to regain some of its color.
The area around my wound was gingerly cleaned, but without disinfectant there was no way to directly clean what still remained. My single wing was rinsed off and preened, satisfactorily aerodynamic despite its missing counterpart. Filthy water ran out through the floorboards while my mane clumped together, dark beads dripping from the ends.
There was a basin and a washboard in the shower as well. I filled the basin with the rest of the bottle and attempted to clean my robes, but the hole in the back split apart down the spine as it was scoured against the board’s corrugation.
“Dumb fabric…” I growled as I held them up, certain that my rudimentary mending skills were no match for this amount of damage. I certainly didn’t want to throw my robes away, though, so I folded them up and crammed them alongside the rest of my belongings, hoping that somewhere down the line I could find a competent tailor. I could already tell that the bloodstains marring the undershirt were never coming out, but I spitefully scrubbed it anyway, furious to have lost a rather comfortable piece of clothing. Glaring at the permanently-discolored fabrics, I crumpled the shirt up and tossed it into the corner of the shower in frustration.
Later, I browsed Tough Sell’s small clothing section, trying to determine what attire was best suited for swamp traversal. After considering a grey hoodie for awhile, my eyes were caught by the bright yellow 56’s hanging on the wall.
“How much is the Stable barding?”
“Forty.”
Slipping into a suit, I was surprised by how comfortable the fit was; the fabric stretched enough to keep pressure off my wound, and it breathed well, in addition to feeling resilient. I purchased it along with nine bullets for Riptide. Thirty-eight spare caps still rested in the bottom of my saddlebags, hopefully enough to cover any trip expenses for a little while.
As I left Buckwater, I ruminated on the contract I’d formed with Willow. A thousand caps was a large amount, and I couldn’t be sure that I’d be able to scavenge seven hundred by the time we reached the border, however long that took. Anxiety and a low fear burned in the pit of my gut as Guilty Pleasure’s warning about Willow’s temper echoed in the recesses of my memory. How would the guide react if I didn’t have the payment by then? Uncovering the dress yesterday was a stroke of luck the kind of which was allowed maybe once in a lifetime. I couldn’t expect the wasteland to ever be that forgiving again.
And on a related note, I’d told her that my allies would be waiting for me at the border, when I didn’t even know if the Phoebe was still in one piece. Regardless of its condition, we’d only brought a meager sum of caps, maybe two hundred total, having assumed we’d never need to land for anything. It could be possible to resell some of the weapons in the armory or any rations that hadn’t yet been consumed, maybe Vox and Ardent's belongings…
No. No, I wasn’t selling anything of theirs. I’d already turned down Tough Sell’s offer for the PipBuck; why would I think like that, anyway?
You kept it because it’s a PipBuck, obviously. But they no longer need their clothes, weapons, books…
I halted, looking up at the sky and collecting my thoughts. Three days in and I’m already thinking more like a scavenger than a Scribe. This train of thought had to stop now. Preserve, don’t pillage. I needed a task to occupy my thoughts, so I studied the details of the regional map on the PipBuck while I walked to Willow’s home.
The residence in question was a small, run-down shack with a shallow porch resting on a hillock overlooking Buckwater. Curious as to why Willow Wisp had chosen to live outside the city, I wondered once again why she’d chosen to conceal her identity within Rotgut’s.
An old dog lounged at the base of the front door; I hesitated as I got nearer. I’d barely seen any of these creatures in the Equestria, and I’d been led to believe that most of them had died out. The dog raised its head and I jumped back in surprise, but it just stared at me with sad, tired eyes for a moment and then returned to its slumber. Concluding that the dog wasn’t a threat, I stepped over it and knocked on the door, its panels slightly warped from age.
“Willow Wisp? It’s me, Quillwright!” I called, trying to mask the hoarseness of my voice. “I’ve got your caps, and I’m ready for the trip.”
I heard a few noises from inside, like somepony rearranging furniture. As I was about to knock again, Willow yelled from inside, “Just wait on de porch, yeah?”
There was a rickety old chair next to the dog, and I eased myself onto it, stretching my new barding. The dog looked up at me, and I stared back.
“What?” I mouthed.
The dog just blinked and lowered its head again, eyes occasionally flicking my direction.
I looked out in the direction of the town below. The fog hadn’t cleared yet, so the town wasn’t currently visible, but a nicer day would’ve afforded a pleasant tableau of the bayou and surrounding landscape. After the commotion inside finally died down, Willow cracked the door, peeking out at me. To my surprise, she was once again wearing her long black cloak, with the hood pulled over her face. “You got de caps wid ya?”
“Three hundred.” I offered the three emerald caps from my saddlebag. Willow lifted them in a field of her magic, a soft golden glow, and held them up to eye level; which is to say, she floated them under her hood to study them.
“So what’s with the cloak?” I asked.
Willow shook her head before disappearing back into her home. “It’s… uh… comfy.”
Hey. That's my line.
When she next emerged, Willow Wisp was packed with her own set of gear, including brimming saddlebags, a long double-barreled shotgun, and a worn-looking pistol holstered to her leg. I rose from my seat, and now that we were both standing, I noted that Willow was quite a bit shorter than I was; granted, I was fairly tall for a pegasus mare. “You fixed for at least a week?” she asked.
Shifting, I lied, “Yeah.”
“We’ll be headed nort' to Divide. Dere’s some shit to trudge t’rough, but dere’ll be a few stops too."
“I’ll follow your lead.”
Willow bent down, stroking the dog’s greying fur with a hoof. “Let’s go, cher.”
“He your dog?”
“Family pet,” Willow answered. She made a clicking call and the dog stood, droopy eyes loyally transfixed on his master. His gaze followed Willow’s as she looked back at me, appraising my new outfit. “Steel Ranger yesterday, Stable Dweller today, yeah?”
I breathed in deeply, the breast of the jumpsuit stretching firmly against my fur. “Just wait ‘til you see me tomorrow.”
“Sure,” the guide snorted. “Alright, dis way.”
We started northward, Willow’s dog weaving his way across a worn path down towards the bridge. After crossing it, we were back in familiar wilderness, ancient trees towering over us and marshy soil underhoof. Deviating from the path leading to the Ministry hub, Willow guided me along muddy trails that sliced through the vibrant undergrowth. The fog had begun to disperse, allowing faint sunlight to brighten the air.
Just by watching Willow Wisp, I was already beginning to learn how to safely traverse the swampy environment. There was an art in deciding where to place your hooves, spotting the telltale signs of a hidden puddle, and cautiously navigating tall grass. She was clearly experienced, and within an hour I was keeping pace with her.
We hadn’t spoken since leaving, aside from Willow offering me assistance if I needed guidance over an obstacle. The oppressive concentration of trees gradually thinned out, and the morass that surrounded Buckwater had fully given way into firm soil. We entered a field where an overpass stood ahead, continuing the road that had run past town.
“So... why aren’t we following the highway?” I asked, needing at least a little conversation to break the monotony of travel.
“Don’t know what it’s like for you up nort’, but down here we've got two types’o ponies,” Willow explained dryly. “Good ones who live in de settlements and mind dere own business, and bad ones who prowl de wilderness, lookin’ to kill anypony dey set eyes on. Some bad types watch de roads.”
“Raiders? Slavers?”
“Slavers, yes. Raiders... dat label’s kinda broad. Define it.”
“Marauding and murderous rapists who lack any and all morals?”
“Well, we got tribals. Lotta dem could fit dat description.”
I kicked a branch out of my path. “I’ve heard they’re cannibals.”
“Eh… depends,” Willow stated. “Lots o’ different colors. Some are friendly, some’ll fillet ya up an’ eat you. Ot'ers will enslave you, a couple like to just torture you for years, and I know at least a few’ll sacrifice ya to dere voodoo gods or some shit like dat.”
“ ‘Voodoo?’ ”
“Tribes here deal in all kinds of black magic, yeah.” Willow turned to regard me as we trotted into the shadow of the concrete overpass. “You tellin’ me dere ain’t none of dat in Equestria?”
I shook my head. “I don’t really know, I mean… I wouldn’t be surprised. I’ve never read about it or personally seen a unicorn use any spells like that.”
“Well, voodoo’s designed for non-unicorns like yourself.”
I slowed my pace. “Wait… so... you’re saying somepony like me could use magic?”
Willow nodded. “Mostly basic stuff like telekinesis or teleportation. It's not too unlike de PipBuck on your leg,” she gestured at the device. "Dat grants anypony wid targeting and detection spells, yeah? It's just in a cleaner package."
This was news to me, and as we continued, I contemplated the implications of voodoo. Perhaps it was best that Equestria didn’t have potentially destructive magic widely available to any who desired it.
The field gave way back into swampier ground, and as we neared a wide creek, we reached a network of makeshift bridges formed from lashed-together planks. They weaved across the water and around trees, floating inert atop the undisturbed creek. After Willow assured me that the waters here were too shallow for radigators, we set about following the bridges. I mentioned to my guide how I’d already encountered a giant gator my first time venturing through the swamplands.
“Dey’re annoying, but dey sure taste good. Not de worst t’ing out here, t’ough.”
“What do you mean?”
Willow chuckled. “Well, sure, we got gators, but we also got giant snakes, spiders, leeches, mot’s, lizards, plants, everyting you could tink of. Plus de aforementioned raiders, tribals, an’ skeleton machines, too. Add in pockets of radiation, tropical radstorms, an’ eart’quakes, and you’ve got de beautiful quagmire we call Mulisiana."
We finished crossing the creek, and continued over tree roots and ground that alternated between mud and sandy grit. A diverse array of trash was scattered up and down the banks.
“ ‘Skeleton machines?’ ” I inquired as we passed a fossilized wagon axle.
Willow’s voice was forming an annoyed edge from all the explaining she was having to do. “De synt’s, yeah. Same shape and size as you or me, but wid glowing eyes, metal an' wires for insides, razor-sharp hooves, and advanced weapons. Ya don’ wanna tangle wid dem; dey’re always hostile.”
I still had a mile-long list of inquiries, but figured it’d be better to refrain for a while. With little else to do than walk, I switched on the PipBuck’s radio and allowed the soft music to accompany us.

A little bird told me that you love me
(That you love me)
And I believe that you do
(I believe)
This little bird told me I was fallin’
(Really fallin’)
Fallin’ for no-pon’ but you
(No-pon’ but you)
There’s no use denyin’, I might as well confess
Of all the colts I know, dear, I’m sure I love you best
The little bird told me we’d be happy
(Oh, so happy)
And I believe that it’s true
(So true)

An hour later, Willow called for a lunch break. I was relieved; my legs were weary with exertion. I had kept up a healthy facade for as long as I could, clearing my throat to mask my coughs, but all this walking had my stomach churning. There was a warm, unpleasant tingling feeling at the base of my throat that flared painfully every time I swallowed.
The highway had doubled back across our path, and the trail led up to a resilient old passenger wagon stop. Both the small bench and awning were overgrown with vegetation and discolored with age, but I happily collapsed onto the seat with a sigh. Willow gnawed on a radigator skewer as she fed her dog a few scraps.
“You eating?” she asked me.
I shrugged and pulled a wilt apple from my pack. I studied it, my stomach blanching at how unappetizing the fruit looked.
“Dey’re better if you peel dem,” Willow explained. “Scrape de insides off de skin like mashed ‘tatoes.”
The mental picture of mashed wilt apples was enough to finally kick my gut over the proverbial edge, and I felt bile rise in my throat. Groaning, I barely managed to round the corner of the stop before I completely regurgitated this morning’s meager breakfast. I could hear Willow mutter, “Dey ain’t dat bad…”
Once my stomach was done heaving, I coughed a few times, shakily supporting myself against a faded, defaced advertisement for the Brayton Rouge Museum of Natural History encased on the stop’s side wall. Normally this would have garnered my interest, but that was difficult when my entire head was pounding in tandem with my heartbeat. Hot tears had welled up in my eyes, rolling down my cheeks.
I can’t let Willow see me like this. If she suspects I’m sick, she might think I’m trying to freeload medical assistance from her…
I spat, sniffed my running nose, wiped my eyes dry, and then returned to the bench, where I quickly shoved the wilt apple back into my saddlebag without looking at the offending fruit. Busying myself with the PipBuck, I tried to avoid the gaze that I knew Willow was laying on me.
“You alright?”
I cleared my throat. “Yep. I’m fine.” My voice croaked out, barely audible, and I internally cringed at how blatant my lie was.
“T’rowing up’s just part of your daily routine den, yeah?” Willow’s dog moved to sniff my bile, but the guide called him back. “Ah-ah! No, Wick!” He dutifully returned to her side, looking mildly disappointed.
“I’m just… not used to the smell of wilt apples,” I offered, hoping that Willow would drop the conversation.
She didn’t. “’De smell’s de least shitty t'ing about dem,” Willow replied. She leaned forward, voice serious. “I t'ink you’re lying about some'ting.”
Resignedly, I shut my eyes and bit my lip. No use in digging the hole any deeper. “Okay, I’m… I’m sick.”
The guide’s expression was hidden as she nodded. “And when did you t'ink it’d be a good time to tell me dis?”
“Look, it just came up this morning,” I explained. “I’ve been through a lot the past few days, and I don’t exactly know how it happened. I didn’t plan on telling you, since I know you weren’t planning on having to help me…”
Willow cut off my ramble. "I’m not, no; I’m no medical pony. But dere’s some friends of mine up de road dat might have some'ting dat could help you.” She gestured down the highway. “It’ll cut into de travel time, but I reckon dat continuing while you’re sick wouldn’t be any faster.”
“Thanks,” I grimaced. “I’m sorry…”
Willow’s dog, Wick, perked up and peered around the woods, alert. Ignoring him, the guide stood with a sigh. “Don’t matter to me; I’m not in any hurry.” She helped me to my hooves. “... Just don’t cough on me.”





“Shit.”
Willow managed to fit more dread into that single word than I thought was possible. The canopy covering the road had begun to thin out, and we had just been afforded our first clear view of the sky ahead, including a plume of dark smoke that rose into the dirty clouds above. The guide’s pace quickened, and I struggled to keep up as she began to gallop, Wick running alongside her.
The highway led past a roadside diner, the burnished silver sides stained with years of exposure. A tall sign out front identified the establishment as “Quick Serve’s Shakes.” Ramshackle defensive walls surrounded the building, several sections reduced to smoking ashes, some still flickering as the last of the flames hungrily consumed the wood. The front gate was hanging wide open, swinging gently as a soft breeze caressed the unlatched door. Bullet holes peppered the sides of the building, and a few of the boarded-up windows had been defaced with a crude red, green, and purple insignia.
Willow’s shotgun was out as she rushed to the gate, leaning inside and checking the area for any hostiles. Satisfied, she hurriedly moved to the diner’s entrance and nudged the door open, Wick following closely.
“W-wait!” I wheezed, just now reaching the wall. My body throbbed with my pulse, completely out of breath. Drawing Riptide from my bag, I turned back to find that Willow had already entered the diner alone. Fearful for her safety, I poured on the coals and galloped across the cracked parking lot to the door. I passed one dead body, but didn’t stop to check who or what it was.
Inside, Willow’s horn had lit up into a warm golden beam, and she panned it around the darkened interior. Thin shafts of sunlight poured inside through cracked and bullet-riddled shutters, gleaming off of spent casings littering the floor. I activated the PipBuck’s lamp to see that several tables had been overturned, while various clothing items, empty boxes, and kitchen utensils blanketed the tiled floor. It was hard to place a hoof anywhere without stepping on something.
Behind the front counter, Wick was snooping around the corpse of a pony. Half of his head was missing, and based on the color and lack of decay, he hadn’t died more than a few hours ago. His body was slumped against the counter, and adjacent was a door leading to the kitchen, its window shattered and dangerously lined with jagged glass shards.
Willow clicked at her dog, who abandoned the body and returned to his master. The unicorn raised her weapon, inching close to the door, and softly called out, “Harvest?”
“I told ya to stay away!” came a shriek from inside the kitchen, and all three of us flinched as a shotgun blasted buckshot through the window. The shot whizzed across the diner and embedded into a booth at the far end in a fantastic puff of upholstery.
“Marigold! It’s Willow Wisp!”
The screaming paused, the shrill voice now disbelieving. “W-willow? Why… I… oh, Celestia…” This was followed by heavy scraping as metal was dragged across tile. A few moments later, the door opened inwards and out stepped a quivering, wan mare who regarded us with apprehensive hope. Her carmine mane was a mess, swept out of eyes reddened with tears. Wordlessly, Marigold lunged forwards and embraced Willow, who stiffened but didn’t object, her telekinetic field lowering her shotgun to the floor. At this, I stowed Riptide.
“Oh, Willow, th-they shot Harvest and took him, a-and I tried to stop them but I couldn’t, and Harv told me to barricade myself in the kitchen like we’d designed it, and I did, but they dragged him away, and I could hear him screaming, but I couldn’t go out and stop them, and then…” She sucked in a breath. “They tried to get in, b-but I shot him, and then they left, but they said they’d come back, and... oh…” The mare sobbed uncontrollably, while Willow patted her on the back with a consoling hoof.
“Shh…” she eased. “I’m here now, it’s gonna be okay. Where did dey go?”
“I-I don’t know, we’d never seen them before!” Marigold wailed. “It was horrible, their faces were… were all painted up, and they had these knives, and…”
Willow finally pried the mare off of her, a hoof still on Marigold’s shoulder. “Tribals, yeah? Dey said dey were comin’ back?”
Marigold nodded. “Said I was next. Oh, Willow, they’re gonna kill Harvest…”
“Hey. Hey.” The guide straightened as best she could, still shorter than either myself or Marigold. “I’ll get him back. We just gotta…” she trailed off, looking around the ruined diner. “Damn fuckin' savages! Dis’s too far.”
Marigold had composed herself, and noticed me. “And who’s this?” Seeing my jumpsuit, “A… Stable Dweller?” I'd left the front of the barding partially unclipped, so she was unable to see any "56" designation.
“No, I’m a Steel Ranger. Quillwright’s the name,” I clarified, unable to hold back a cough.
The mare didn’t seem to recognize my title, so she just gave me a quick and polite smile. “Quillwright. I’m Marigold… I… I live with my husband, Harvest, on our little homestead here.”
“Okay, introduction’s over,” Willow interrupted. “You need to get to Buckwater.”
Marigold looked taken aback. “What? No, I'm not going back! Harvest needs me!”
“You’re in shock, no state to fight in.” Willow said, matter-of-factly. “An' we can’t, ‘cause Quill here’s sick.”
“I am not leaving my husband to be sacrificed or… or eaten by those monsters!”
“Dere’s no way to know where he is!” Willow yelled. “Unless you saw him getting dragged off, we ain’t trackin’ dem back to any den. I’m sorry, but dere’s not’ing we can do.”
“If they’re coming back, we can catch one. Make him talk.” Marigold was defiant. “If I die trying, then so be it, but I’m not living without Harvest by my side.”
“Damn it!” Willow shouted. “Mari, you…” She bit her tongue, whirled around and stormed off, clearly done trying to reason.
Marigold placed her hooves on the counter and sighed wearily as she watched Willow telekinetically shove her way through the front door, Wick slipping out behind her. “I’m sorry, you’re probably a customer of hers…?”
I nodded. “Yeah.”
“I don’t want to involve you two,” Marigold gritted her teeth. “But I can't let those animals abduct my love like this. I won’t let them win.”
“I understand,” I reassured her. After a tick of silence, I asked, “Excuse me for asking, but… would you have any medicine I could take for a fever?”
Marigold perked up all of a sudden. “A fever? Um… yeah, just wait here a minute.” She crossed the diner and began to dig through the looted containers that had been spilled all over the floor. I groaned in exhaustion, shivering slightly.
“So where are you headed?” Marigold asked me as she lifted a cabinet back onto its feet.
“Equestria,” I grated.
“Is that your home?”
“Yeah.” With my throat still irritated, I wasn’t feeling very talkative.
The mare returned with a clear orange bottle. Twisting it open, she presented a small white pill to me. “Here’s a painkiller. I’m afraid the tribals stole any other medicine we had.”
I thanked her and swallowed it, wishing the pill was an instant remedy. As Marigold continued to clean the ransacked interior, I cautiously exited the diner, searching for Willow. The surroundings were still, the only sounds audible being the ambient chirping of insects and very sporadic thunder many miles away. The light had taken on an amber glow as the sun began its descent into the western horizon.
I found Willow sitting by the corpse out front. While her face was hidden, her hood was intently focused on the body. I approached, unsure of her emotional condition.
“... You alright?” I ventured timidly.
Willow didn’t respond.
The tribal’s body was sprawled before her, laying in a dried pool of blood that suggested his chest had been blasted with a shotgun. His coat was pale green, his face painted purple with a design that started around his eyes and then ran back and down his cheeks, ending in a crude streak. He had been clad in dark, sodden clothing, covered in small bits of moss and gossamer. A couple of flies were buzzing around his face, eager for the corpse to begin decaying.
“Look, I know you want to help, and…”
“And I would, but I’m just one mare. You’ve got places to be, an’ Marigold needs support from de folks in Buckwater now.”
I lowered my brow. “I know. What I’m saying is that we can help.”
Willow turned. “ ‘We?’ ”
“You and I.”
“You’re sick.”
“Not sick enough to try and help.”
Willow shook her head. “I don’t involve my customers in matters like dis for a reason. Eit’er of us gets injured, it could slow de whole trip down. I didn’t pack enough medical supplies for some'ting like dis.”
“You don’t have to spare them for me,” I responded grimly.
There was a pause. “Why do you even care about dis?”
"... Excuse me?”
Willow looked at me, her tone dismissive. “You're de first Steel Ranger I've ever seen dat wasn't just a slogan on a poster. Why do you suddenly want to help us?”
I was caught off-guard by the contempt buried in her words, but my surprise quickly morphed into indignation. “Because I too was born and raised on the surface. I'm not some Dashite from above the cloud curtain or a pony born in a cushy Stable. I joined the Rangers of my own volition, because I believe that they have an incredible capacity for good, but I'll always be a wastelander first and Steel Ranger second.”
Willow was quiet, and I sorely wished I could see past her hood and know what expression she wore at that moment. I continued.
“We're a much more diverse group than you might think, in both background and beliefs. Many are too calloused to care about ordinary ponies like Harvest or Marigold, whom they’d consider a lost cause. But on the other side of the bit, there are those of us who believe that they’re worth fighting for and that technology shouldn't be our sole focus.”
The guide was quiet, and then sighed, “If you say so.” She looked back at the corpse. “But we’re still at a disadvantage.”
I studied the ruined barricades around me, chewing a lip in thought. “I think we’ll stand a chance if we refortify the diner,” I offered. “We have the element of surprise, too.”
Marigold joined us a minute later, and we discussed the possible ways to shore up the homestead's defenses. The existing walls varied in strength from untouched to disintegrated; the lock that held the front gate closed was busted into pieces, and a few shutters were badly damaged. The diner’s parking lot still held two rusted wagon carcasses, both resting on cinder blocks with their wheels long since looted: the right size to patch up the two largest gaps in the wall, on the diner’s front and left sides.
Willow’s telekinetic strength was barely strong enough to lift either wagon, even with Marigold and myself helping to support the frames, but we successfully plugged both holes. The gate was left open to invite any attackers through without much suspicion, and we tried patching up a few shutters with random scraps of cardboard scrounged from the corners of the building. They wouldn’t stop any bullets, but after this was all over, the couple wouldn’t have to worry about open windows.
As the sunlight began to fade into dusk, we lit two fire barrels and positioned them on either side of the gate. From inside the diner we had a view of the entire front and side area, and while the rear of the diner was out of view, the single back door had been sealed before the war. The only way somepony could flank us was if they could slither in through the thin, elevated windows reinforced with metal grates.
Together, we were armed with Riptide, Willow’s shotgun, Marigold’s sawed-off and an old varmint rifle that the settler had retrieved from her storeroom. Unfortunately, the majority of ammunition that Harvest and Marigold had owned had been stolen in the first attack, so we needed to make our shots count. Willow reminded us to aim for the legs if we had any hope of taking in prisoners for questioning.
I sat in a moldy booth, my pistol on the table before me, while my sore eyes continuously scanned the diner’s left wall. The lanterns within the diner had been left extinguished, the only source of light being the fire barrels and a faint twilight haze in the sky above. Willow was stationed at the front, while Marigold watched the right side, opposite me. I had the responsibility of keeping the front door clear. Every second that had passed was one of discomfort, quelling any conversation, but even now I was beginning to doubt whether or not the tribals were returning tonight.
“You think maybe they were just dissuading you from following?” I asked aside, not looking away from my post.
“I could tell by his tone…” Marigold assured me. “He was frustrated that I’d run them off.”
“Regardless, dere’s no point in leaving de diner vulnerable,” Willow said. “Dey had one successful attack, which means dey’ll be confident enough to try anot’er.”
I suddenly jerked awake as I remembered my Eyes-Forward Sparkle. Booting up the PipBuck, I anxiously tapped my hoof against the table as the display swam into focus. My condition was not-so-helpfully registered as "ill", and the ammo stuffed into my Stable jumpsuit’s pockets ensured that I had nine bullets available in addition to four hollow-points. There were no hostile readings as of now, but I felt infinitely more secure with the E.F.S. active.
My reignited attentiveness only lasted for ten minutes, though, and I felt my eyes begin to droop shut in exhaustion. Just as my head was nodding forward, there was an urgent “Psst!” Willow was signaling that there was movement at the gate, and sure enough, at least seven more lifesigns had been registered on my compass, all of them red.
I could see through the front of the diner just enough to watch the group hesitate at the sight of the fire barrels, clearly remembering that the wagon frames hadn’t been propped up against the walls last time. A less-cautious tribal tried peeking in through the front windows, having no idea that he’d just lined up his eyes with the end of Willow’s long shotgun barrels.
“Fuck off and die!” the guide shouted as she pulled the trigger.
KA-BAM!
Nice job aiming for the legs, Willow.
The sight of their ally’s cranium being reduced to a cloud of crimson mist spurred the remaining tribals into action, a shotgun slug blasting apart the shutter just next to Willow. Three tribals split to my side, while one moved to the right. I rotated, trying to get a good angle on the trio as they skirted the wall, and fired Riptide as the sights centered on the figure of a unicorn. The bullet caught the side of his face and violently twisted him to the ground. One of the red marks on my compass winked out.
As I heard Marigold shout in pain behind me, my remaining two targets backed off from the wall and galloped with reckless abandon for the door. My next shot whizzed past the lead pony, who halted and turned to aim at me. I recognized the faint silhouette of a battle-saddle-mounted assault rifle just in time to scream as the shutter in front of me was shredded apart by his volley. I threw myself to the floor, chunks of wood and dust pelting me.
The entrance was bolted shut, but the assault rifle tribal unloaded half of his clip into the door’s glass windows, shattering them. As he reached inside, trying to undo the lock, I stood and fired two shots, both of which hammered him in the chest and neck. He grunted, falling backwards, and emptied the rest of his rifle in front of him, aiming wildly but wide enough for one bullet to punch through my thigh. I reflexively gritted my teeth in pain and caused Riptide to fire inadvertently, almost giving me whiplash and emptying the cylinder of its final shot. I stumbled and dropped the weapon, which clattered to the floor, and watched as the second tribal drew the latch back and hooked her hoof on the outer handle.
Rushing forward, I barreled into the door before she could pull it herself; it swung out and whacked her muzzle. The tribal shouted in surprise at my preemptive attack, but my injured leg gave out and I tumbled out onto the concrete. She’d kept her balance, and growled aggressively as she advanced with a wickedly-sharp bowie knife clenched in her teeth.
My mind raced, but came up empty for solutions. Willow was busy defending the front, and Marigold sounded as if she’d been wounded. Riptide still lay inside the diner on the floor, and I had no backup weaponry on me. I raised my hooves in a feeble attempt to block my attacker’s strike as she lunged at me.
Suddenly a shrieking blur collided with the tribal’s side, sending her to the ground, writhing in panic. We both screamed; a goremoth had appeared seemingly out of nowhere, and bit ferociously at her exposed belly. My brain already seizing at the sight, I scrambled backwards only to bump into something behind me. I turned and tried to rise, dreading that my eyes would meet some new horrible creature, but instead I found myself facing a wild-looking earth pony wielding a revolver. He was clad in a mishmash of clothing, with half a dozen saddlebags and satchels hanging from his back, a gas mask around his neck, and a bandolier slung around his shoulders. He raised a hoof and shoved me back to the ground.
“Shtay down,” he grunted around his weapon, and then charged forward, completely ignoring the goremoth, which had just finished mauling its unfortunate victim. The bug, likewise, expressed no reaction that a blood-filled pony had just left his back exposed. It instead spread its wings and flitted over the top of the diner, shrilling.
Considering myself a bonafide expert on goremoths by this point, I hauled flank back inside the building to retrieve Riptide. As I lifted the pistol and whirled back to leave, I spared a glance at my allies to find them watching the booms and flashes from outside. Their weapons were lowered, Marigold clutching an injured shoulder but transfixed on the action before her. Was my mysterious savior attacking the tribals?
I limped over and peeked through the ruined shutters just in time to witness the stranger’s revolver blast a fleeing pony in the back. The tribal crashed into the mud and began desperately crawling forward as the stranger nonchalantly opened his revolver’s chamber, emptying the spent casings and plucking more from his bandolier. Willow swiftly realized what was about to happen, and shouted, “Wait! We need him alive!” while she spun and ran out of the diner. I helped support Marigold and chugged a healing potion as we followed.
We rounded the building to find the stranger pinning the tribal down, leaning on one hoof and holding his revolver loosely in the other. His mane was short and cream-colored, his coat a dappled brown beneath his light grey shirt, streaked with old bloodstains and smudges. He looked up at us as we neared, and my heart seized in terror as the goremoth swooped down onto his back.
“Duck!” Willow yelled, raising her shotgun.
The creature didn’t attack, instead folding its wings and clinging to the tough hide barding strapped to the pony’s back, as if it were a perch. Willow’s weapon hovered cautiously, but she was waved off.
“Save your ammo.”
Willow’s head tilted in confusion, while her weapon lowered half an inch. “Dere’s a goremot' on your back,” she spoke slowly.
The earth pony nodded. “You’re correct. Impressed you can see outta that hood well enough.”
I found that I’d been holding my breath and staring at the giant moth ever since it came into view, and I let it out in a trembling laugh. “Heh heh… it’s like… a… a pet…?”
“That she is,” the stranger smiled. “Ain’t Molly beautiful?”
“You… you named that giant blood-sucking insect ‘Molly?’ ” My voice was teetering between laughing and screaming.
The earth pony’s eyes narrowed. “I did. She’s the best companion a stallion could ask for, too.” The tribal he was holding down squirmed, and he leaned into his hoof, eliciting a shout of pain. “So what d’you want this wretched thing for?”
“We need to interrogate him and find out where they’re coming from,” Marigold spoke up. “They took my husband.”
“Before dat,” Willow cut in, “Who in de hoof are you?”
The stranger nodded. “Name’s Cam. I’m… a medical practitioner.”
Willow’s shotgun clattered to the ground. “Doc? Doctor Camphor?”
I recalled Tough Sell’s description of Buckwater’s former doctor, and so far this pony was fitting the bill to a T. ‘Ditzy’ indeed; he was allowing a goremoth to sit on his back without so much as a reaction. The mere sight had sent my skin crawling and pulse racing.
“That’s me... how…” the stranger’s eyes alit with recognition. “Aha… how’d I ever forget that accent? Sable Glow, right?”
“Her daughter. Willow Wisp.”
Doctor Camphor chuckled. “Willow… I ain’t seen you since you were knee-high to a balefire fly. You earned your cutie mark yet?”
“... I have.” There was a creeping sense of embarrassment in Willow’s voice, likely due to my presence. “Look, Doc, it’s nice to see you again, but we’re in a hurry. Mari here was attacked earlier today, an’ de tribals made off wid her husband, a stallion named Harvest.”
The doctor nodded. “I’ve been keeping an eye on this tribe, and they’ve been abductin’ ponies from the surroundin’ area for the past month or so. Haven’t been able to intervene myself since they’ve traveled in packs of at least seven or eight.” Camphor glared at the tribal pinned underhoof. “Got themselves a comfy, fortified position in Saint Mare’s.”
Marigold groaned.
“I kill you!” the tribal screamed. His thick accent, vaguely similar to Willow Wisp's, suggested that Equestrian wasn't his first language.
Camphor looked at us, concern in his gaze. “They’re new. Really new. In two months they’ve expanded to a size that other tribes have taken years to accomplish, and they’re extremely aggressive.” He dug the edge of his hoof deeper into the small of the tribal’s wounded back, evoking another howl. “Spreadin’ like a fuckin’ sickness, these ones.”
Marigold turned to Willow. “That’s it then; we know where Harvest is.”
“... Yeah.” Willow made an exasperated shrug. “If you tink it’s doable… den we can try to get him back.”
Camphor returned his pistol to his mouth and then casually unloaded a bullet into the tribal’s head. I flinched as gore splattered the doctor, who was unfazed. “We’re headed to Saint Mare’s, then.” He holstered his weapon and retrieved a rag, wiping the blood splatter from his front and hooves, and then noticed that Marigold was still gripping her wound. “Looks like you need treatment ‘fore we leave.”
We returned to the diner, where Camphor helped Marigold to lay flat upon a desk. While he cleaned her wound, Willow assembled our supplies and organized the remaining ammunition. Wick had fled the building the moment he laid eyes on Molly; the goremoth sat calmly near Camphor while it busily rubbed its antennae with slender forelegs. With nothing for me to do, I simply huddled in a booth, legs drawn up in a vain attempt to becalm my shivering, sickness-addled body.
Even though I was surrounded by allies, I still made sure to keep a watchful eye on the oversized, carnivorous insect only a couple yards away. Able to view the idle, unaggressive Molly in better light, I took a moment to further study the goremoth’s anatomy. Its folded wingspan was as wide as my shoulders, the sandy-colored wings covered in intricate networks of defined veins. The insect’s body was fat and fuzzy, its small triangular head held two large, dark, glittering compound eyes, and its bristled antennae were at least a foot long. There was also a small blue tag clipped to the edge of one of its wings, differentiating it from any other goremoth encountered in the wild.
I soon coughed, which caught the attention of Camphor. “By the way,” he mentioned in my direction. “I don’ believe I got your name.” He hovered over Marigold’s shoulder with tweezers clenched between his teeth, his eyes meticulously observant.
“I’m Quillwright.”
Camphor grunted in confirmation, carefully lowering the tweezers into the entry wound. Marigold had turned her head to the side, eyes shut tight and teeth digging into her lip. In only a few seconds the tweezers had emerged with a small bullet clamped in its metal jaws, which was deposited into an empty bottle with a clink. Camphor leaned back, dropping the tweezers back into a hoof. “Bit uncommon to see pegasi ‘round these parts.”
As the doctor cleaned his instrument and offered a healing potion to his patient, I answered, “I’m from Equestria.” I coughed again, this time getting a suspicious glance from Camphor.
“You look a bit pale.”
“I haven’t been feeling great today,” I admitted.
Camphor beckoned me over, and I hesitantly rose and made my way over to him as Marigold rejoined Willow. The doctor pulled his surgical mask over his mouth and then began circling me, looking my body up and down. “Symptoms?” he queried.
“Sore throat, tired eyes, aching joints, headache, upset stomach, chills…” I listed off, shifting uncomfortably as Camphor paused at my side. I let out an “Eep!” in surprise as he grabbed my wing and extended it to its full length.
“Pegasus… feather flu?” he muttered to himself. Raising his head, he peered over my back to see my wing stump. “You’re missin’ a wing.”
“Grenade.”
“Ah. That would do it.” He returned to his diagnosis. “Hm… hay fever, maybe?” Suddenly he had pulled one of my eyelids down, and he leaned in close, studying my eyes. “Any vision or hearin’ problems?”
“My ears feel a bit stuffy.”
“Any diarrhea?”
“Um… no, just indigestion.”
Camphor pried open my mouth and peered in at my tonsils. “Any contact with possible contaminants in the past week?”
Once he let go, I answered, “A couple.”
“Oh?”
“I’ve fallen into and probably ingested swamp water, been bitten by insects…” I glared at Molly, who was still passively watching us. “... And was mauled by a goremoth.”
Camphor backed away, brow scrunched in thought and seemingly oblivious to the jab made at his pet. “Well, it’s a bit of an educated guess, but… you’re in the early stages of typhoof.”
“You ‘guess?’ No offense, but… how are you even considered a doctor?”
“Ain’t the first to ask, won’t be the last.” Camphor smiled. “I’m self-taught. Grew up outside the Neigh Orleans ruins; there’s a big ol’ hospital there, and I spent months explorin’ the entire place.” He took off his surgical mask as he continued. “Found plenty o’ pre-war medical journals. Stuff was fascinatin’ to me, and I reckoned even an earth pony like me could become a doctor if I just put my mind to it.” He gestured to himself. “All that studyin’ means I’ve got about a decade more experience on the topic than most wastelanders. Not gonna lie an’ say I’m perfect, but I try my damnedest.”
His backstory still hadn't reassured me much, but I shrugged. “Okay… well then, how is typhoof cured?”
Camphor drew a bottle of pills from his bags and rattled it. “We can start flushing it out with plenty of clean water, but we'll need some strong antibiotics to really purge it. I’ve been out of them for over a year, but I think I know where we can find some.”
“Saint Mare’s?” I moaned in dread.
The doctor nodded solemnly. “We need to get you properly treated soon. If this sickness is left unattended for too long, you’ll start developin’ a rash and then it all goes downhill from there.”
“Typhoof. Fantastic...” I shut my eyes, rubbing them with the heels of my hooves. As I tried to let out an exasperated sigh, the air snagged in my throat and I let out a painful, hacking cough. “I really hate swamps.”

Footnote: Level Up.

Perk point banked.
> Chapter 5: Excision
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------


“Don’t need Old World medicine to kill you.”






Doctor Camphor led our group out of Harvest and Marigold’s homestead once we were adequately prepared. Wick refused to tag along while Molly still rode atop Camphor, but Willow assured us that he’d find his way to us later down the line. We were back on the road, having passed a battered green sign half a mile back notifying travelers that the next exit would deliver them to Saint Mare’s. It had also finally designated this strip of concrete that forged its way through the wild swamplands: Route 40.

Behind the cloud cover was a full moon, and the pale glow filtered through strongly enough to give the landscape a ghostly luminance. It was sufficient to navigate by while Willow's horn and my PipBuck’s light further aided our eyes in the darkness. Around us were the same sounds I’d heard my first night; countless insects trilling and chirping, the distant calls of egrets, and the monotonous crunching of leaves and twigs beneath us.

Willow bantered with the doctor while I trotted alongside Marigold, draped in an old blanket that the doctor had lent me out of his saddlebags. It was threadbare and smelled faintly of rubbing alcohol, but it provided a sufficient ward against the cool evening breeze. The painkillers that Marigold had provided were beginning to wear off, and as they subsided the chills and aches had begun creeping back.

“I’ve been wondering for years, Doc… why’d you leave Buckwater?”

Camphor nodded. “I’ll admit, my departure was a bit sudden. I don’t know if you were old enough to remember it all, but one day a family of ghouls arrived at the town. They’d escaped from a local band of slavers, and were on the run looking for safe haven, Buckwater bein’ the only real settlement ‘round these parts. They begged and pleaded at the front gate to be let in.” He frowned. “But they were turned away.”

“I… tink I recall somet’ing like dat,” Willow pondered. “And how were you connected to dis?”

“As they galloped back into the wilderness, the colt of the family kept checkin’ over his shoulder at the town’s wall, expecting somepony… anypony to change their mind an’ let him in.” He took a deep breath. “I just…couldn't sleep that night. Somethin’ in Buckwater had changed since I first arrived; compassion had mutated into indifference. Coulda been the potential threat of slavers, what with everythin’ that’s brewed in Neigh Orleans for the last decade. Maybe it was the common fear of ghouls turnin’ feral, or maybe it was just the wrong moment for their charity to be tested.

In any case, the next day I just packed up and left at nightfall. I didn’t even bother lettin’ anypony know since they wouldn’t sympathize with my reasonin’.” Camphor’s face was grim as he continued. “Took me three days to catch up to the ghouls... three days too late. The slavers had recaptured ‘em, killed the parents an’…” He paused, and I could see his jaw quiver slightly. “... An’ the children had been beaten within an inch of death.”

Willow let out a barely audible, “Oh, no…”

Camphor swallowed, clearly distraught at the recollection. “After I dealt with the slavers, I helped nurse the young ones back to health. They were good kids put through a living hell for how they looked, with some of the purest hearts I’ve ever encountered in my life. When we parted ways, I realized that there was an entire wasteland out here filled with ponies just like them with nobody to turn to for help. I’d been sittin’ comfortably inside Buckwater’s walls while others were sufferin’.”

“Dat why you never came back?”

Camphor nodded again. “Started wandering the country, movin’ from tribe to tribe an’ aidin’ all that I could. I learned which ones were friendly, which to avoid, an’ a great deal about how to deal with these kinda ponies who grew up in the wilderness.”
“You’ll be glad to hear dat Buckwater’s a little more welcoming of ghouls nowadays,” Willow remarked. “But I can’t say de same for goremot’s.”
With a wistful sigh, Camphor slowed, giving his pet a fond smile. “Figures. I usually hafta leave Molly outside settlements an’ tribes. Misunderstood little critters, they are.”
‘Misunderstood,’ my flank.
Willow voiced the question that had surely been on all of our minds since the doctor arrived. “You didn’t have it back in Buckwater, so… when… how… did dis happen?” She gestured to the odd duo beside her.

“I was leavin’ Tacksonville about three years back when a big ol’ monsoon swept in. I ducked into some ruins for shelter an’ came face-to-face with Molly here,” answered Camphor. “She was soaked, her wings battered by the rain. Spooked the daylights outta me, but Molly just sat and watched me, not tryin’ to attack or anythin’.”

Molly seemed to flit her wings at the mention of her name.

“I’ve always been fascinated by insects, goremoths ‘specially. I started studyin’ her anatomy, an’ she kept still. Eventually I got close enough to touch her, an’… I did.” Camphor smiled. “Molly was totally friendly. When the storm cleared, she started followin’ me, an’ we’ve been travelin’ together ever since!”

“Huh.” Willow’s voice was skeptical. “Dat’s... some story.”

The doctor gave a shrug. “You know how some ponies just have a connection to animals? I think Molly an’ I understood each other the moment we met.”

Willow sneered, “Next you’ll be tellin’ me you chat wit’ her.”

“I do, actually.”

“You’re kidding,” the guide snorted.

Camphor looked offended. “I’m not! How else d’you think we became such a synchronized team? There were these creatures ‘fore the war called falcons, an’ they could be trained just like Molly.”

“Uh-huh...” Willow nodded slowly. “So what d’ya even feed it? You don’t let it... drain you, right…?”

Camphor stopped her with a wave, reaching into a saddlebag and withdrawing a vial wrapped in a protective cushion of gauze. As he unwrapped it, my PipBuck’s light shone through the glass, illuminating the red fluid within. “I make full use o’ my cadavers.”

I blanched, and heard Marigold make a disgusted noise. Willow shook her head. “You’ve got a screw loose, Doc.”

“Au contraire,” Camphor responded. “So what’ve you been keepin’ up to since I left, Willow? An’ what’s with the black cloak?”

“She says it’s comfy,” I muttered.

Willow scowled. “It’s… I’ll have to explain it to you later, Doc,” she snapped. “I’ve mostly been busy leadin’ customers to and from de Rift. Rich n’ ignorant types come west from Mareami needin’ somepony who knows how to get dem to LaFarrier, or some merchant needs an escort to Buckwater, or a bounty hunter’s lookin’ for a mark in de sticks. Now I've got a Steel Ranger wantin’ to reach de northern border.” She indicated at me.
“A Ranger, huh?” Camphor shot me a look, but quickly turned back to Willow, seemingly disinterested in my affiliation. “Well, I’m glad you’ve got a steady source of income.”
“It’s… fairly steady,” Willow replied.

As we exited the dense foliage, the ruins of Saint Mare’s lay before us, a relatively small town that was halfway reclaimed by nature. Many of the houses on the outskirts were completely overtaken by moss and vines, their wooden frames rotting and collapsed. The road leading into town was blanketed with leaves, and reeds had sprouted in the countless potholes marring the pavement. A faint glow emanated from the far side of town, discernable only due to the immense darkness that blanketed the surrounding swampland.

“Here we are...” Camphor muttered. “Slavers an’ malignant tribes keep resettlin’ this place like worms feastin’ on a carcass.”
“Wish we had a balefire bomb to wipe dis place out for good,” Willow added.
Marigold anxiously rubbed her foreleg with a hoof as she asked, “So what’s our plan?”
Turning to us, Camphor bit his lip. “Well…” He glanced at me quickly. “Sorry, Quillwright, but priority one is still findin’ Harvest. After we free him an’ anypony else they’re imprisonin’, we’ll find a way inside the pharmacy and get you treated.” He looked at Willow with a knowing glance. “But ‘fore we do any of that, we need to find some place we can rendezvous if there’s trouble.”
We entered town cautiously, searching for a structurally sound refuge. Many roofs had caved in over time, while several buildings were inaccessible due to locked or boarded-up entrances. After finding the post office’s front door to be jammed shut, Camphor took a moment to check in on me.
“How’re you holding up?” he asked.
I reiterated my still-present symptoms. When the doctor acknowledged this, I figured I’d ask him a silly question that had been on my mind for a while. "Why's it called typhoof?"

"Pardon?"

"Typhoof; it doesn't have anything to do with hooves. Something like hooferia I understand, but this... the name just doesn't make any sense."

Camphor shrugged. "Beats me. I ain't the pony that came up with it."

"Well, whoever named it clearly never contracted it..." I muttered, feeling frustrated and needing something to channel it towards.

Close to the town’s main street we found a well-preserved laundromat; its front door was still attached to its hinges and the front windows were coated with calcium deposits but intact. Marigold entered first, pushing the swinging door which creaked and popped on rusty hinges.

The interior was dark and chilly, the floor covered in dried mud and dust. Several washers and dryers hung open and were filled with brush and foliage, suggesting they had once served as nests of some kind. Empty bottles labelled “Vim-Vam-Pop!” were piled in front of a matching vending machine that sat open and looted across the room. Its elegant green-and-white logo with red highlights was the same one on many of the caps I’d earned from Tough Sell.

Just inside the door were flyers like I’d found within the Ministry of Image hub, below a poster taped to the wall. Its background was a harsh and jagged pattern of black-and-white stripes, overlaid by red text chiming “Help To Protect Your Home; Report The Monochrome!” There was a basket beneath offering a couple of the flyers, which were titled, “How To Root Out Zebras and Zebra Sympathizers.” I stashed one quickly, my compulsion to study pre-war materials still present even through my illness.

Rows of tables were interspersed through the middle of the room, covered in pre-war barding, shirts, and dresses that had been hastily folded or strewn about in a rush. After relocating an overflowing hamper in my way, I eased myself onto a wide wooden bench against the far wall. A sigh escaped as my smarting back was relieved of its burden.

Willow and Camphor had hung around outside for a moment before they entered. As the doctor slid off three of his four saddlebags and sat them on the table before me, he spoke up. “Willow an’ I have decided that it would be best if we went on ahead, while you two kept this place secured.”
I objected. “No. No splitting up.” That lesson had been learned in full within Stable 56.
“I didn’t come all this way to just sit around uselessly,” Marigold agreed. “I’m not waiting here.”
Camphor seemed to have a response prepared, but Willow answered faster. “Quill is sick and you got no experience wid dis kinda ting, Mari.” She hefted her shotgun with her magic, slinging it across her back. “Dis isn’t a discussion.”
The settler shook her head. “I’m not a foal.”
“Please,” Camphor sighed. “I know you want to find Harvest, but we have no idea what we’ll be walking into, an’ it’s best if we keep quiet until then. If we don’t return within an hour, then...” He paused, frowning. “Then come look for us.”
Marigold glared at him, and then at Willow. Her eyes darted to the ground, where she seemed transfixed on a pile of dust bunnies. After a few moments she finally shut her eyes. “Fine. Just… hurry,” she resigned.

The doctor and guide readied their weapons and departed, entrusting Camphor’s unwieldy saddlebags to our care. As Willow reached the door, she took notice of the anti-zebra propaganda, slowing her pace. She briefly examined one of the flyers before she stomped her hoof atop it and dragged the paper through the pile, scattering them. Her telekinetic aura then ripped the poster from the wall quite vehemently, crumpling it into a ball and tossing it aside.

In its delirium, my fevered mind entertained an outlandish idea: is Willow a horned zebra? Do those even exist? The question of why she insisted on wearing her cloak at all times or why she lived outside of Buckwater had never left me, only growing the more I was around her. She had to be keeping her appearance secret for some reason; in fact, she didn’t seem too keen on letting me know anything about her.

The thought of Willow Wisp actually being a zebra had stirred a feeling of… well, it was hard to place. Resentment? Mistrust? I wasn’t fond of zebras; in fact, I didn’t know a single Steel Ranger that didn’t hold some sort of reservation for the race that had destroyed Equestria. Aurora Tide might have been an exception, but the stripes were universally despised by all wastelanders for ushering in the apocalypse.

Ponies hadn’t been the aggressors. On the contrary; Equestria had been a thriving hub of commerce, richly diverse in races and cultures, with a loving populace known for its collective geniality; a stark contrast to the secluded and xenophobic zebra empire. Their belligerence and opposition to the ideals of ponykind were what sparked the escalating arms race that ended in balefire. Zebras had murdered the Wonderbolts. Zebras had massacred foals in Littlehorn. Zebras were the ones conducting assassination attempts, many of them successful.

While I’d never personally known a stripe, as they were so uncommon in this day and age, the idea of unknowingly taking orders from and surrendering every cap I could scrounge up to one was offensive. These thoughts swam around in my fading consciousness as I tried to stretch out on the flat bench. Marigold had taken to pacing back and forth, quietly whispering to herself as she occasionally checked the size of clothing articles she neared. Feeling relatively secure, I started drifting off to sleep. Just half an hour and I’ll feel better.

I pulled the blanket up to my muzzle, trying to cover as much of myself as I could. As they rubbed against my fur, the frayed threads revived a memory long-buried in the recesses of my mind as I passed into slumber...


***


A dirty, skinny beige pegasus huddled beneath the wagon’s wreckage, draped in nothing but a ratty blanket and silky shadows. Her leg trembled with pain, a twisted gash running from the base of her hoof to her knee. It had been slowly but steadily bleeding for well over an hour and she was beginning to feel light-headed.

A buffeting wind swept through the canyons of steel, glass and stone above her. Haunting moans and screeches echoed past, reminiscent of the radhogs that had nearly maimed her. She’d ran until her lungs nearly gave out, lost in the winding maze of downtown. When her leg had started to shake in pain, she’d instead taken to wing, but that wasn't helping to slow her bleeding. After scrounging a blanket out of a suitcase buried inside the wagon, she had taken some time to evaluate the situation, curling up to stay warm.

She was so utterly, unfathomably alone. She had known that the wasteland was empty, but it had proven to be so much more expansive and barren than she expected. Manehattan had stood as a potential bastion of civilization, but if there were any ponies left here, she hadn’t seen a single one. After encountering those horrible mutated creatures, the city had enveloped her in its winding passages and endless displays of ruined storefronts and rubble-covered streets.

There was nopony she knew that could help her now. The realization of her isolation had hit her and filled her with terror. The pegasus couldn’t stand being by herself; the only company she had was a pessimistic voice that had manifested itself in her mind, whispering forlorn thoughts. She hated it.

The sound of approaching voices caused the filly’s ears to swivel around. She raised her head to see multicolored beams of light cutting a swath through the evening sky as a group passed by a few blocks away. After a very short internal debate, the pegasus lifted herself into the air and carefully moved down the street, ensuring that she remained out of view of the group of strangers. She didn’t know where their allegiances lay or if they were even safe to confront, but at this point she was too desperate to be choosy.

Once the filly had caught up, she peeked around the corner of an intersection to see the group arrive at the front of an ornate, fancy-looking building. A granite welcome stone identified it as the Manehattan Public Library. Focusing her ears, the filly listened in on the ponies’ discussion.

“... One outside. Defer to Missive’s judgment once we’re inside; this place is big, and there’re more books in there than you could ever read in your lifetime.”

The curiosity of the pegasus was perked. She watched with intent as a unicorn telekinetically hauled apart the double oaken entrance doors, which were practically gates. One pony remained behind, a large metallic form that panned a headlamp to and fro across the front lot. The filly watching the figure was hesitant, unsure whether the stranger could be trusted not to shoot her on sight. Her throbbing leg soon trumped her misgivings, however, and drew her limping out of cover.

The imposing figure before the filly was completely encased in burnished silvery armor. While fearsome, it also inspired a sense of security, as if a knight from one of the pegasus’ storybooks had stepped out from the world of paper and ink and into hers, intent on rescuing fair maidens and slaying horrible monsters.

Having advanced from the side, the filly managed to reach the stranger without being spotted. Gathering her courage, she spoke up. “E-excuse me, Mister Knight?”

The metallic pony jumped slightly, but wasted no time in turning a battle-saddle-mounted laser rifle towards the filly. “Who the…?” The voice was feminine, scratchy and artifical through the speakers of her helmet. “Damn tribals…” She faced away, resuming her patrol for more substantial threats.

“Um…” the pegasus ventured. “Missus Knight? Can you help me?”

She was met with impassive silence.

“I’m hurt, and lost, and I need help…”

The Knight continued to ignore the pleas.

“I…” the filly wasn’t sure why she didn’t even seem worthy of a dismissal. “I don’t know exactly how…”

“Piss off,” the armored earth pony deadpanned.

	The filly’s ears flattened, but she was insistent. "Please,  I... I don't need much, just a bandage..."

	"Are you Goddess-damned deaf?" the Knight snapped, cocking her laser rifle. The weapon began to hum with a dangerous, low-pitched whine as the barrel was directed at the filly’s wide-eyed face. "You've got five seconds to clear out 'fore I paint the lot with your birdbrains!"

	"Key Lime!" shouted a stern voice. "What are you doing?"

	Both ponies turned to see a unicorn emerge from the library's entrance. Her coat was a beryl blue, and her jet-black mane glittered with streaks of iridescence. She was dressed in simple robes, the fabric a pale yellow color with pink accents.

	"This doesn't concern you, Aurora.” The Knight shook her head subtly. “Civvies..." she muttered.

The unicorn’s face was disapproving as she walked closer. “Lime, you know full well that dealing with wastelanders is my ‘concern’ .”

“Don’t you have more important things to worry about right now?”

Aurora Tide’s horn flashed, yanking the end of the Knight’s laser rifle skyward and away from the filly’s head. “Don’t you have bigger targets to save those cells for?”

The Knight scowled behind her helmet. “More runaway Enclave scum, I reckon.”

"She's just a filly!” Aurora retorted. “She doesn't even have her cutie mark yet!" She turned to the pegasus, leaning down to the same height. "What's your name, little one?"

	"I’m… Quillwright."

	Aurora echoed the answer with a warm smile. "That's a lovely name. Now why don't you come inside and let me take a look at that leg?"

Quillwright’s eyes darted to the imposing Key Lime who still loomed behind Aurora, but the unicorn kept herself between the two and the attention on herself.

“Come now. It’s alright.” She guided the filly towards the door; Key Lime grumbled but let them pass.

The interior of the Manehattan Public Library was a sight to behold: an almost perfectly preserved bastion of pre-war knowledge and learning. Quillwright gaped as she took in the several thousand colorful book spines that surrounded her. The shelves spanned two floors, curving in an elegant, wavy layout. Thick stone pillars supported the soaring ceiling, sculpted to resemble towering oak trunks.

Beautiful gilded carvings of scenes from popular folklore hung between bookshelves. The floor was covered in a vibrant mosaic of tiles illustrating a forest floor, divided by a creek which led to a long-dried fountain, rising tall in the center of the room. Its centerpiece was a gracefully posing unicorn surrounded by swirling books, and the stone pony’s horn ended in a spout which once arced a stream of water over visitors’ heads into a smaller pool nearby.

It was the single most incredible scene that Quillwright had ever witnessed.

Clearing several of the ground-floor shelves were a dozen or so ponies clad in drab scarlet-colored robes resembling Aurora’s garb. A few sat and sorted through the masses of reading material, quickly scanning the covers before gently setting them aside. Quillwright could see two more metallic ponies across the room, in addition to three that were more lightly armored, their heads and tails unconcealed.

Aurora guided the filly over to the fountain, where she eased the injured pegasus onto the flowing benches carved into its sides. She politely pulled the blanket off of Quillwright’s back. "Now," Aurora Tide began, “Let’s see what the damage is.”

She gently lifted Quillwright's leg with her hoof, eyes scanning the cut. The unicorn's horn began to glow with a brilliant spectrum of colors. "Just relax." The wave of healing magic flowed over the filly’s leg, encircling it and caressing it as gently as a summer breeze.


***


But instead of feeling my wound seal up, there was another sensation. Something being shifted, removed...
The memory was interrupted as my heavy and unfocused eyes fluttered open to find Marigold lifting my left foreleg. Her hooves were struggling to grip the sides of the PipBuck while she studied its form.
“What’re you...” I began, before she located the release latch and hooked the edge of her hoof on it. I tried to pull away, but the earth pony mare was far stronger than I was. The device swung apart as it was unclipped from my foreleg, and the E.F.S. faded out​ as the spell was disabled. “M-marigold, what are you doing...?” I coughed, trying to grab her tail or do anything that might keep her from leaving.
She attached the PipBuck to her own leg, her features framed in resolve. Without saying a word, Marigold managed to reboot the PipBuck and headed towards the laundromat’s front door.
“Don’t... leave…” I rasped, trying to drag myself off the bench after her. The mare grabbed her saddlebags, slung them over her back, and exited the building, briskly trotting down the street. My legs proved to be shakier than I anticipated, and as I tried to rise from the bench I wobbled and toppled onto the tile floor, groaning in agony. The floor was filthy but cool against my hot, sweaty hide, and I simply laid there, shivering with sickness and too weary to return myself to the bench. I coughed, my delirious brain still trying to fathom why Marigold had just stolen the PipBuck and abandoned me.

I wasn’t sure how long I was sprawled there; my consciousness drifted in and out constantly, my body feeling the worst yet. My muscles were drained, the act of quivering agonizing even as a subconscious action. Having been outstretched, my empty stomach awoke and cried out for something… anything... to fill it.

Eventually I came to as my ears picked up the sound of scratching against the glass of the front door. I was too exhausted to even turn my head as I heard the door creak open slightly. Panting and clicking approached me, and I felt hot breath on my mane. With effort, I managed to roll over and found that Wick was scenting me.

“Hey, you… you finally caught up!” I scraped out.

His wet nose moved in close to my face, dabbing my muzzle with moisture, and he whined quietly. The dog circled me, sniffing my hooves, tail, flanks, and mane, and then returned to my face and licked me. I coughed as dog breath invaded my sinuses.

“Wick, back,” I couldn’t help but giggle in mild delirium as the dog’s sad eyes kept staring at me with unflinching interest. Wick whined again, bobbing his head.

Though I’d curled back into a fetal position, the dog sat down beside me, resting his head on my forehooves. I couldn’t help but feel a little safer with a companion nearby as I began to drift off again.





When I next came to, Wick had excitedly hoisted himself to his paws, tail wagging as he made for the front. I noted that I felt a little better now; perhaps my fever had finally broken. There was the telltale creak and pop of the door opening, and I twisted; through the dim light I  could see the silhouette of a unicorn. Their horn flared with golden light and spilled over my prostrate form, forcing me to shield my sensitive eyes.

“Where’s Marigold?” The hurried voice belonged to Willow.

I coughed, propping myself up. “S-she took the PipBuck and… went out by herself.”

Willow growled, stomping the floor with a hoof. “Of-fuckin’-course. I told him dis’d happen…” I could hear her mutter, “Mule trapped in a pony’s body…” as she absentmindedly ruffled the fur of Wick’s head, who had greeted her eagerly. The unicorn trotted up to me, helping me right myself.

“And where’s Camphor?” I asked of her.

“He…” Willow started, but stomped again, her voice strained with rage. “We took out a few perimeter guards wid a knife and his goremot’, but den…” she shook her head as she finished. “We were spotted. Few patrollin’ tribals saw us and started firing; one hit de Doc in de leg, his mot’ flew off into town, and... and I had to leave him, yeah?”

“Crap.” Could today get any worse?

“... And now dere’s a group of tribal hunters chasing me.”

Please stop speaking so soon.

We moved to retrieve Camphor’s saddlebags, and I groaned in surprise as I tried to heft one onto my back. How many bricks does he carry around with him? I had to give him credit; the doctor was a lot stronger than he looked. Through the front windows we could see beams of light and accompanying voices making their way down the street. Cursing, Willow spun and led us through a back hallway. We came to a heavy iron door, its engaged lock steadfast against Willow’s desperate shoves. Uttering a constant stream of foul language, the guide looked to me. “D’ya know how to pick a lock?”

Memories of an old friend, Scribe Scold, briefly resurfaced. While he’d been oddly experienced at handling bobby pins, he was an invaluable asset, able to pry open most any container the Knights hauled back to the Citadel. Despite requesting him to pass his skills on to me, it wasn’t something that I’d ever been able to pick up, figuratively or literally. While I could create flowing and elegant calligraphy upon parchment without magic, my teeth weren’t quite dextrous enough to tinker with delicate tumblers. “Nope.”

“Shittin’ hell…” Willow seemed utterly overwhelmed by the situation, putting a hoof to the side of her head. “Okay, just… mais la!”
I sought about the darkened hallway for a solution, my eyes catching on a dull blue sign. “The bathroom?” I suggested.
The creak and pop of the front door caused the three of us to jump; somepony else was in the building with us now. Wick’s ears were practically molded to the shape of his head, his tail as straight as a plumb-line.
“Yeah, go,” Willow urged.
We slipped into the cramped restroom, which absolutely reeked of mold. I was having a hard enough time breathing with my sickness, and this oppressive atmosphere threatened to inflame my sinuses; I had to scrunch my nose and pin my nostrils shut with my hooves to stifle a building sneeze. Willow stood at the door, keeping a sliver pried open to peek through, while Wick hunkered against me fearfully. For half a minute there was nothing but silence, and then Willow drew back from the door as I saw a weak flashlight beam pass over her. There were echoing hoofsteps as somepony moved down the hallway towards us.
I could feel my pulse increase, but as I moved to position myself next to the door, Willow held me back. Unable to see her or ask what her plan was, I was pushed backwards until my rump met the crooked sink behind us. As the hooves outside slowed down, I tensed up, certain that we would have to fight our way out. The door swung open, and in the split second before the flashlight was aimed at us, I saw Willow dip her head forward and a very low thrum came from her horn. The hunter’s light went dark.

The pony groaned in annoyance. I heard him take the device out of his mouth, rapping it against a​ hoof in an attempt to relight it. He tried for a few seconds, but quickly grew frustrated. He pulled away from the door, muttering something in another language, and let it swing shut. I heard him clip-clopping back down the hall at a more leisurely pace.

Willow let out a breath and relaxed, her horn briefly flashing; the soft burst hung around in the air like the afterglow of a lightbulb. We waited for several minutes, until the front door creaked and popped again and the voices had faded away. Creeping out of the restroom, I sighed in relief as fresher air cooled my windpipe.

“Did you and Camphor get a lay of the land?” I asked.

Willow nodded. Her voice was slower and less frantic than it had been before we hid; whatever magic she’d just utilized must have drained her reserves quite a bit. “Dere’s a school on de west side. Got fortifications around it, and a tennis court outside serving as a slave pen.” She led us back into the main room, still cautious of lingering tribals. “Harvest could be dere. Didn’t have anyting to unlock de gate wid’, short of shooting it open. Might be a key on a tribal or in de school.”

Wick sniffed the floor inquisitively, presumably picking up the scent of the wild ponies who’d nearly discovered us.

“Mari didn’t mention where she was headed, no?”

“Nope.”

The unicorn sighed. “I don’ really know where to start. We could try and get de slaves out now, or find a way inside de school and investigate...” She trailed off, and I realized that she was asking for my opinion.

I weighed the options. Without knowledge of where Harvest, Marigold, or Camphor were, there wasn’t a clear best choice. The school would be filled with tribals, but the slaves could prove difficult to free without raising an alarm. In the end, I suggested, “How about we go for the slaves first?”

Willow agreed, and we left the building, cautiously making our way down the street heading west. The shops lining both sides of the path were covered by vegetation, windows busted and brick sides covered in layers of graffiti. At the first intersection, Willow looked down the street that led south back into the wilderness, and then turned to Wick.

“Go, Wick!” She clicked her tongue, pointing a hoof at the outbound path.

The dog slowly considered her indication, and then looked back to her with all the immediacy of a turtle. He made a questioning moan as his paws remained rooted to the ground.

“Go!” Willow repeated. “Get!”

More splitting up. “Are you sure we need to send him away?” I asked.

The unicorn nodded. “Dere’s no way we’re getting t’rough all dis wit’out a fight, and dat ain’t what he’s here for.” She made another shooing motion. “Go!”

Wick finally obeyed, albeit with slow, downtrodden steps. His pitiful eyes kept begging Willow to let him stay, but she was undeterred. Once Wick was sulking a block away, the guide turned back to me. “Let’s keep moving.”

I gazed about the town as we picked our way down the street. At one intersection I could see the sizable remnants of a military convoy fallen close by, the dull green wagons somehow still standing at attention on their wooden wheels. One carried a recognizable shape, even if it was draped in a web of flowery creepers and moss, with metal plates a shiny teal from exposure: a massive sentry bot. I’d seen one before in Equestria, an active one; they were fierce enough to even make a Knight think twice about engaging.

At the end of the main street, I blinked in surprise at the establishment we paused at. Though vines spilled over the roof and veiled much of the front, I could still make out a red thermometer on the sign. A poster half-peeled from the window offering free vaccinations all but confirmed my hopes.

“Willow!” I hissed. “The pharmacy!”

The unicorn lingered to cast a look back at me. “Can dat wait ‘til we get de ot’ers back?” She sounded annoyed.

A small, selfish part of me wanted to just find the medicine now and ensure that my sickness would be cured, but doubted I could actually properly identify exactly what I needed or prescribe myself a safe dose. That wasn’t the main reason I wanted to duck into the building, however. “I can’t keep carrying these, but we can stash them inside,” I explained as I rolled my shoulders, indicating Camphor’s bags. My weary muscles threatened to give out beneath the weight dangling from my sides.

Willow conceded. “Fine, but let’s keep it snappy, yeah?”

The door was shoved inwards with a crack, raining splinters as the warped door was pried out of its frame. We quickly tucked the bags just inside the door, behind a chair in a waiting area; lightly hidden from the wrong eyes. Before we left, Willow’s light washed over the rest of the pharmacy, and my spirits nosedived as I caught a glimpse of the barren shelves. Hopefully whatever stock was in the rear of the store hadn’t been looted yet.

Back outside, we cut through a side street. Past a beaten-down chain link fence at the end were a hundred yards of open field separating us from the school, the uncut grass nearly at chin level and swaying in the wind. We snaked our way across the expanse, sufficiently out of view within the wavy shrouds of green.

The road leading to the school merged into a roundabout which had once allowed wagons to drop students off at the front doors; nowadays it was surrounded by a wall of dumpsters and overturned wagon frames with fire barrels ringing the perimeter. The gate was simple but effective: a yellow school wagon, parked sideways. A pair of guards were within, conversing with a group of hunters that had collected outside, possibly the same group that had been searching for us only minutes ago.

My attention was stolen by an effigy of a dun-colored unicorn stallion that was propped up outside the entrance. It had been stitched a red horn and wore a crown composed of twisted wire. Various offerings were piled at its base, items such as flowers or caps and smaller, assorted knick-knacks that I couldn’t discern.

“You seeing this?” I asked Willow, still entranced.

The guide shook her head, impatient. “What, de idol thing?”

“Yeah… who is it supposed to be?”

"Honestly, Quill,” Willow huffed. “Who gives a shit?"

... Me, whined the little pony in my head.

“Looks like they're worshiping it.”

“Most o’ dese tribals ain't got two brain cells to rub toget’er; dey’re superstitious enough to worship anyt’in’.”

We reached the wall and began to skirt it, keeping ourselves bathed in darkness and out of any eyes that might be directed our way. As we neared an open window, a painful scream, that of a mare, sounded from above us. It was muffled yet unmistakably a cry of pain, and my blood turned to ice as I imagined Marigold being tortured by the tribals.

I turned to ask Willow what we should do to find her already at the window, climbing over the sill as her shotgun floated beside her. Following, we both slipped into the dark school hallway. Stacks of cherry-red lockers greeted us, occasionally interspersed with water fountains, benches, or waste bins. A wide variety of posters were plastered across the white concrete walls. Between an advertisement for an upcoming hoofball game with the Tacksonville Timberwolves and a recruitment sign for the school newspaper was the same anti-zebra poster from the laundromat.

We headed towards the rear of the school, hoping that there would be less concentrated amounts of tribals at that end. Rounding the corner, we ducked back as we witnessed a tribal pony cantering down the center of the hall, away from us. Hugging the wall, we followed until we reached an inset stairwell. Ensuring that nopony was waiting at the top for us, we cautiously worked our way up the stairs, treading lightly to keep our hooves from echoing too loudly. At the top, we found ourselves in a candle-lit hallway.

Following the sound of Marigold, we briskly trotted down the drafty hallway. The cries of pain only grew more agonized as we approached a heavy wooden door with a short etched sign reading “BIOLOGY” attached to the front. Taking positions on either side of the entrance, I nodded after drawing Riptide, and Willow shoved the door open, her weapon quickly locking onto the pony closest to her.

Yet there was a moment of hesitation as we took in the scene before us. I expected something horrific: a blood-covered room filled with flayed and mangled corpses hanging from hooks, a chained-up Marigold being cut apart by savages, her still-beating heart pulled from between her ribs…
This wasn’t any of that. Lit by several luminous lanterns, the room was surprisingly clean, the grey and white tile floor covered in various old homework assignments and science reports. Alembics and beakers were intermittently arranged atop the wide stone tables ringing the edges of the room. On the walls were smeared chalkboards and diagrams of male and female ponies of every race, along with various animals, some of which I recognized and some I couldn’t identify.

At the far end of the room, a mare sweating profusely with a face twisted in pain lay on her side atop one of the tables, heaving and shouting. She was ringed by tribals, most of whom were unarmed and seemed to be eagerly observing as Doctor Camphor sat before the mare, ready to…

Wait. Camphor? The mare was in labor, and the doctor was helping birth a foal?
Everypony before us had turned to address our sudden interruption with a mix of confusion, shock and anger. The nearest tribal, her face painted with the same design seen at the diner, began to speak up when Willow’s shotgun cut her off. The slug punched into the pony’s chest and hurled her backwards into one of her friends. In an instant, the room exploded into chaos.
The only tribal with a firearm drew his rifle, but Riptide was able to put him down before he had a chance to aim. His rifle spun out of his magic and landed beneath a nearby desk as Willow decapitated another foe. With a war cry, one of the tribals charged me, brandishing a used-looking machete. The blade whooshed towards my head and I barely backed out of the way, trying to find room to line up a shot. My attacker growled and stabbed forwards as I hopped back; the blade’s tip missed my skin by a hair’s breadth, instead slicing into the edge of my barding and snagging in the fabric.

I just bought this! I punctuated that frustrated internal exclamation with two shots at close range, forcing the tribal back. As he fell to the floor, gurgling through a hole in his neck, I tried to wrest the blade out of my clothes. Next to me, Willow Wisp telekinetically lifted a heavy-looking microscope and struck a tribal full in the face with a savage thud. She tried to bring her shotgun to bear on the last tribal, but the foe reached out with her magic and gripped the weapon.

The two unicorns struggled for control over the barrel’s direction for a heartbeat, but Willow forced the weapon to the floor and instead charged at the tribal, lowering her head. Both ponies locked horns, engaging in a lethal dance, each trying to twist the other to the ground.
I couldn’t risk a shot lest I struck Willow, so I was forced to keep my distance as the pair shouted and snarled, their horns sparking as the opposing magical auras scraped against each other. The tribal seemed experienced at horn-to-horn dueling, and continuously feinted to the side, forcing Willow’s hoofwork to be flawless to keep from tripping.

Both combatants drove each other through stools and chairs, oblivious to all but the immediate fight. Hoofmarks were scuffed into the tile floor and glass shattered as beakers and chemistry tools were knocked from tables. Just as the tribal had paused for a moment to catch her breath, Willow retaliated.

Willow's horn overloaded with magical energy and burst in a blinding flash of golden light. The tribal mare disengaged and reeled back, half-blinded by the unexpected move, and Willow charged. Her opponent never even saw her death coming as the guide ducked and drove her slender horn up through the underside of the tribal's jaw and into her skull with a sickening crunch.

Shaking with adrenaline, Willow threw the twitching corpse to the floor and turned to Doctor Camphor, who had been shielding the pregnant tribal with his body. Both were unscathed, but as he backed off of his patient, Willow’s voice was accusatory.

“What... de hell... are you doing?”

Camphor returned to his prior position, surgical mask hiding his mouth’s expression but brows displaying resolve. “She's been in labor for well over a day. One o’ the tribals recognized me an’ brought me in to help; they’re convinced she’s gonna birth some sort of holy child.”

Willow’s magic retrieved her shotgun, breaking it open and replacing the one spent shell. “Move.” The unicorn’s voice brooked no debate, but the doctor didn’t budge.

I joined the guide, looking over my shoulder at the door we’d entered through. “Somepony had to have heard all this.”
Camphor was still busy as he continued, “I know some of the ponies here; they must've been merged from other tribes. Might help explain the boom in their population…”
Willow was completely out of patience. She stormed up to Camphor and tried to pull him out of the way, but the heavier earth pony stood fast. “I’m not leaving her.”
“She’s a savage! I’m not letting her spawn anot’er one of dese animals!”
“The foal is innocent.” Camphor had risen to his full height, towering over the unicorn.
“Fuckin’ stallions and dere chivalry...” Willow growled. “... Takes a mare to shoot a mare.”
There were distant shouts past the half-opened door. “Guys…?” I warned.
The pregnant mare groaned and then cried out again. Camphor instinctively gravitated closer to her but didn’t dare turn his back to Willow, whose shotgun was still trying to get a bead on the tribal.
“We don’t have time for dis! Marigold’s missing and Harvest is still out dere somewhere!”
“I started this, and I’m finishin’ it. I won’t let any patient of mine come to harm, no matter who they are.”
“And what d’ya tink dey’ll do to you once you’ve finished? You’ve killed several of dem already!”
Camphor didn’t immediately answer. “This is different,” he stated, his voice containing a slight tint of uncertainty. “I’m still a doctor, first and foremost.”
“And here I was, still wondering whether you’d taken the Hippocratic oath or not…” I muttered sarcastically as I fit fresh bullets into Riptide's cylinder.
“De fuck do hippos have t’do wid anyt’ing?” Willow scowled and finally gave up as she turned her attention to the door. “Oh, Luna fuck me wid…”
Another scream from the tribal cut her off as Camphor returned to his post, speaking to the mare in their language. Willow shut the door, but she could only knob-lock it; that measure wouldn't last more than a minute. “Maybe you don’t care whet’er you live or die, Cam, but I do,” Willow said, telekinetically overturning a few desks to create a partition in the room and shoving a few in front of the entrance. “Quill, I need you to leave. Find de slaves and get dem out.”

I thought I'd made it clear before that I didn't like splitting up. “I'm not leaving you two again.”

Willow whirled to face me. “We need more den us if we're standing any chance against a whole town o’ dese inbred morons. Rally de ponies dey've captured and we just might make it outta here alive, yeah?”

There were kicks at the door; the tribals had arrived.

“Quillwright, go. If dey don’t see you, dey won’t know to look for you.”

Every part of me felt wrong to abandon these two in such a dire situation, but the little pony in my mind was right. Willow’s plan was solid, and in truth it was the only plan we had. I chewed my lip and hurried to the open window, poking my head out and over the sill. It was a twenty-foot drop onto concrete, but there was no other way out. I clambered out and spared one last look at Willow, who had raised her shotgun at the pregnant tribal and was decently defended behind a row of desks. Doctor Camphor was urging the mare in their language; the foal had to be close to birth.

As the door reverberated with what sounded like a hammer strike, I let go. My wing spread instinctively but only spun me around so that my front gracelessly whomped into the ground, my weak legs unable to take the impact. I avoided breaking anything or knocking myself out, so I considered my landing a success.

Above me I heard the door burst open and Willow shout, “Don’t fuckin’ move! I’ll shoot her!” She added something else in the tribal’s language, likely a repeat of the Equestrian sentence. I hesitated for a moment, but there were no gunshots; they were safe for now, but she surely couldn’t keep the pregnant mare as a hostage forever.

I set out around the school’s perimeter, keeping close to the wall and blending into the shadows as best I could. I halted as a fire exit door ahead opened, several ponies rushing out. Only some were dressed in the tribal robes, and none had purple facepaint. Though it was difficult to tell in the darkness, there appeared to be two foals in the evacuating group. They all headed for the fortifications at the front of the school, where there would surely be a massing group of tribals.

It would only be a matter of time before the whole town was brought down on Willow; I had to act quickly. I subconsciously reached for my foreleg to activate the E.F.S., but my hoof instead only poked the soft flesh of my leg. With a groan, my tired memory finally caught up and reminded me that the bracelet was no longer in my possession. My short time with the PipBuck had seriously spoiled me.

Once I reached the corner of the school, I could spot the slave pen across the playground. I checked to make sure the coast was clear, forcing myself to stop waiting for the E.F.S. overlay, and then darted out towards a seesaw. From there, I slunk behind a slide, and then crawled through the playground mulch over to a roundabout. Now that I could see the pen in better detail, I noticed that it seemed to be a combination of a tennis court and a cloudball court, with tall fences surrounding the perimeter of both rectangles.

A gate in the center was padlocked shut, and a few dozen silhouettes were moving about or prone within the enclosure. Three were up against this side of the fence, within earshot of the action taking place in the school. I snuck over to them, and as the figures came into view I noticed that all of them were earth ponies. A yellow stallion who stood against the fence did a double-take as I slid up close. “Who’re yew?”

“A friend,” I whispered. “Listen, I need to get all of you out of here.”

The buck grinned. “Yer tellin’ me! Yew e’er…” he trailed off, his expression falling. “Ah, shit…”

“Oi!”

I flinched as I heard somepony call out behind me. The ponies before me had all backed away, and as I turned I espied an earth stallion tribal approaching, a pistol in his mouth. Riptide was still in my saddlebag, and it would take far too much time to find it and draw before the tribal shot me dead.

The tribal’s eyes were narrowed in suspicion. I noticed he wore the same dusky robes and purple facepaint most other tribals had been clad in, but an eye-catching necklace also dangled around his neck. It was crafted from thickly coiled twine, with bones, feathers, and beads along the sides and a crudely-hewn ruby secured in the center. “Qui es-tu?” he managed to ask around his weapon’s grip.

I didn’t know what that meant, but it likely wasn’t anything good. I raised a hoof in a passive gesture, grinning. “Uh… hi…?”

“Tourne-toi!” he shouted, making a circular gesture with his pistol. Assuming he wanted me to turn around, I complied. As he neared, I could see the panicked expressions of the slaves. Here I was, perhaps the first glimmer of hope they’d seen since being abducted, about to be disarmed and thrown in with them. The tribal reached out and pulled my saddlebags off, tossing them to the side. He gestured towards the gate.

I nodded and began to turn. In a blur, I extended my wing and spun, the edge of my primary feather clipping the barrel of his pistol and knocking it from his grasp. The gun sailed through the air in a wide arc but was surrounded by a deep purple aura of magic, almost black. The telekinetic energy struggled to keep the weapon aloft, but while it dipped low, it rotated to aim at me without touching the ground. Confused, I quickly searched for the unicorn I must have overlooked.

My jaw and ears fell in unison as I realized the tribal’s necklace was now floating in the air before him. His eyes were alight with violet flames, identical to the magic surrounding the pistol.

An earth pony was demonstrating telekinesis before my very eyes. I’d admittedly been a bit skeptical of Willow when she’d mentioned the existence of black magic, but here before me was hard evidence that it was real. The tribal seemed to be exerting himself to reach so far, and thanks to that I was able to snap myself out of shock quick enough to lunge at the tribal as he fired the pistol. The bullet sliced through the spot I’d just been standing in, my flank able to feel the wind following the projectile.

I headbutted him in the windpipe, lamenting for the millionth time that I wasn’t a unicorn. The tribal choked as he stumbled backwards, and his magic sputtered and died. The necklace  went dark and fell from the air in tandem with the pistol. I dove through the dirt, jaws clamping down on the pistol’s grip as I rotated onto my back. My foe hollered and ran forward, intent on trampling me, and I fired thrice, the last shot finding its mark between his eyes. The tribal’s corpse fell towards me, but I rolled out of the way to avoid his body as it landed with a thump and an accompanying cloud of dust.

I let the pistol slip from my numbing mouth as I clambered upright to face the slaves, who were watching with awe. I grinned, panting heavily. “H-hey, that… that was kinda badass!”

Several members of my impromptu audience gave quiet cheers and lightly stamped the clay court in applause. The yellow stallion seemed particularly thrilled as he pointed at the dead tribal. “He’s gotta key!”

Sure enough, a quick search of the corpse rewarded me with a small ring of keys. I brought them over to the gate and in two tries the padlock was off. The gate had barely been unlatched before a stampede of ponies began to pour through it. “Wait! Please, everypony, I need to speak to you first! Just a minute!” I called over the ruckus.

Several slaves bolted straight for the wilderness as they exited the pen; I tried calling after a few, but realized it was meaningless. If they were too afraid to simply wait around in Saint Mare's, they certainly wouldn't have the will to stand and fight their former captors. Roughly forty had been held in the court, and close to thirty still hung around to listen to me, including the eager yellow buck.

“Thankee, miss, thankee!” he cried, fervently shaking my hoof.

“You’re… welcome…” I struggled to say, my headache flaring up. As politely as I could, I extracted my hoof and peered around at the group before me. “Um… is anypony here named Harvest?”

The slaves looked around at each other. The yellow stallion shook his head. “Ah don’t think there’s a Harvest here,” he mused. “A group’o us got shipped out to Goddesses-know-where back ‘round noon. Hope ‘e weren’t wif’em.”

Based on Marigold’s story, that had probably occurred around the same time their homestead was assaulted. It was doubtful that Harvest would’ve been immediately added to a slave train without taking some time to judge his value.

“Anywho, mah name’s Okra! Yers?”

“Quillwright,” I answered quickly. “Okay, look. I have two, maybe three friends trapped inside the school right now. I know I just freed you, and I wish I didn’t have to ask, but…” I grimaced. “I need your help to save them.”

Okra looked amiable. “Well hay, least we can do tuh repay yer help is save yer friends!” Most of the group murmured agreement, but one voice spoke up over them.

“I ain’t helpin’ no sky-dweller!” I heard a few half-hearted agreements from the crowd.

My ears went rigid and I opened my mouth to dispute his assertion, but Okra was faster. “Howzat got anythin’ tuh do wif anythin’? Quillwrigh’ jus’ freed us!”

“S’bout two hundred years late for ‘em pegasi to start helpin’!”

Okra was growing livid. “Ah don’t give half a damn if she’s got wings or not. She’s a pony who risked ‘er life tuh free us, complete strangers to ‘er!”

His outspoken opponent finally broke away from the crowd, a filthy light-blue stallion with a blonde mane. Two mares were following him anxiously. “Count me out,” he scoffed. “We ain’t takin’ part in no suicide mission.” The mares nodded vigorously.

“Slitter.” Okra frowned in disgust. “Figures you’d be th’ first tuh turn tail. Worst guard Ah had th’ misfortune o’ hirin.”

“An’ you’re the most…” Slitter paused briefly as he sought about for an insult. It quickly became clear that he didn’t have an extensive vernacular. “... Stupidest caravaneer I’ve ever worked for!”

I was unable to mask my annoyance as my tail brusquely flicked at the air. “You don’t care about any of your fellows, do you?”

Slitter didn’t even look my way, instead simply nickering as he led his pair of acolytes into the wilderness. One of them kept glancing back at us, guilt and a look of internal struggle painted across her face.

Okra turned to me. “Mah ‘pologies; lotta grudges still run deep ‘round ‘ere. The rest of us’d be willin’ tuh help, but we need sumpthin’ tuh fight wif!”

I retrieved the pistol I'd dropped and presented it to him. “Here's one to start. Now, does anypony know where the tribals might have an armory?”

There was another chorus of no’s, but Okra gestured towards the school. “Ah think they keep most errythin’ up in the school wif ‘em.”

“Alright then…” I looked back towards the school, hoping against hope that Willow and Camphor were still alright. “Let’s go.”

As the crowd of slaves began to move, I went to retrieve my saddlebags. Stepping around the dead tribal, I caught a subtle glimmer buried in his ruffled robes. Pausing to examine him, I swept aside the dark fabric to reveal the voodoo necklace that still encircled his neck, reflecting the moonlight from above.

Even in spite of the low visibility, the ruby center seemed to captivate me, shimmering with an impossibly deep refraction. Before I knew what I was doing, I checked to see that nopony was watching and snatched it up. Tossing on my bags, I stuffed the necklace deep into my belongings and then galloped to catch up with Okra.





We reached the back of the school without encountering any tribals; it was safe to assume that they were preoccupied with the hostage situation inside. The rear entrance was less glamorous than the front, but the doors were unlocked and our little militia was able to slip inside. The dark hallway we found ourselves in ran the length of the school, both sides covered in lockers.

With Okra and myself leading the way with our pistols, we peeked into every classroom we came across. All were vacant, though most showed signs of being lived-in, with bedrolls, lanterns, and articles of clothing scattered around on the floor and desks. The tribals had kept their living quarters far tidier than I’d expected, and if I hadn’t known better, I could’ve even believed that this school was home to a group of traders or normal wastelanders.

A few slaves equipped themselves with appropriated flashlights and lanterns to help us navigate the gloomy interior, since we had neither magic nor the PipBuck to provide any light. We didn’t find any weapons, but I acquired a cord that allowed me to secure Riptide around my neck and keep it within reach.

As we reached the end of the hallway and rounded the corner, my ears perked to the sounds of aggressive shouting upstairs. Collectively hurrying forward, our group pushed through a double door and into the dark, cavernous gym. The bleachers had been pulled out, and in the center of the wooden court was a table identical to the ones in the biology room upstairs. It was relatively clean, but my dread tripled when I saw dark stains imprinted into the laminated wood beneath it. Blood, and lots of it. At least none of it is fresh.

Okra growled something behind his pistol and sprinted to the far exit. We joined him and shoved through another pair of doors to find ourselves in the school’s entrance. Flanking both sides were staircases that led down to display cases filled with cobweb-laced trophies and framed photographs of students and athletes. Above hung gold and purple pennants, surrounding a large banner that exclaimed “Go Fruit Bats!” with a cutesy titular mascot in the middle of a cheer. Ahead of us were the front doors, through which well over a dozen tribals were currently backing out.

“Dat’s right, assholes!” Willow spat. “Outside!”

Willow was advancing on them deliberately, about to reach the base of the stairs. In her TK field floated her shotgun and the newborn foal, still drenched in his mother’s blood. He wailed and whinnied as he dangled above Willow and several feet off the hard marble floor, kicking his legs in a futile attempt to escape. I realized that Willow was using the foal as insurance; if she was attacked, her magic would falter and the resulting drop would easily kill the newborn.

Mere minutes out of the womb and the foal was already experiencing the horrors of post-apocalyptic Equus. My gut tightened at how disgusting the situation was, but my conscience reminded me that we’d all be dead or worse if not for Willow’s quick thinking.

The last tribal to back out was a tall, imposing-looking unicorn with a hellhound-bladed knife floating in his red magical aura. He glared equally sharp daggers at Willow with intense but intelligent eyes. As his foreleg cleared the threshold, the sight froze me in place.

He was wearing the PipBuck.

Willow lowered her shotgun and pulled the doors shut quickly, latching them. She kept the foal hoisted far above her head as she threatened the tribals through the glass, her voice hoarse and cracking with anxiety.

“You even breat’ wrong and de foal dies!”

I spooked her slightly as I called her name. She turned, beginning with, “Quill, you’re...” and then took in the two dozen slaves flanking me. “Dat’s... a damn good improvement.” She sounded relieved, though not by much.

“Yew gottem all out?” Okra asked.

“All of dem, yeah, ‘cept for dat pregnant bitch the Doc insists on helping. You find Harvest or Mari?” Willow asked me.

“No.” I tilted my head questioningly, removing Riptide from my mouth so I could speak more easily. “Though I have to ask… is Harvest an earth pony or a unicorn?”

“A unicorn…” Willow began to respond, and then noticed the distinct lack of any horns behind me.

Okra looked concerned. “Yer lookin’ fer a uni? Th’ tribals always took ‘em inta th’ school 'ere.” He looked back towards the other slaves. “We ne’er saw any o’ ‘em come back out, either…”

A rapid clattering of hooves descending the stairs echoed through the foyer and Camphor came into view, his surgical mask still on. The doctor took in myself and the slaves, and then locked his eyes on the foal.

“Alright, they're out. Hand him over,” he demanded of Willow.

The guide sighed and shook her head as she floated the screaming newborn lower. Camphor withdrew a towel and wrapped the baby in it, cradling it in a foreleg while he hop-skipped back upstairs.

“Willow, that last tribal had the PipBuck,” I said.

The guide went rigid. “He… he did? Shit, I didn’t even see… it was yours?”

I nodded. There was no mistaking the battered and bulky old frame, flaking olive paint, and amber screen; it was the same 2000 model I'd worn out of Stable 56.

The unicorn turned back towards the entrance. “Marigold…”

We were surrounded now, with a mostly-unarmed group, a recovering tribal upstairs, and still had two missing ponies. I felt a new wave of exhaustion pass over me; in spite of everything we'd done, the situation hadn’t improved much.

Okra began addressing the slaves. “We need tuh cover all th’ entrances if’n we’re gettin’ sieged.”

“Schools like this should have safety locks you can engage at every door,” I chimed in. “And make sure all the windows are shut,” I added, recalling our original infiltration point.

Okra nodded, and I turned my attention back to Willow, who was still transfixed on the milling group of tribals now surrounding the idol out front. “Willow, I think Harvest is still in here somewhere. If he was only taken today, he could still be alive.”

“You… you tink?”

“I do, but we need to hurry.” I followed her gaze, trying to choose my words carefully. “There’s still no evidence that Marigold has come to any harm. Once we’re all assembled, we can focus on her.”

The guide gave a half-hearted nod. “Yeah.”

Half of the slaves set out to locate and lock down every entrance, while the other half spread through the hallways, searching any classrooms still uninvestigated. We tagged along with them, and eventually found ourselves outside the cafeteria. Walking past the entrance, Willow halted and stared inside, catching my attention in the process.

There were several vacant pony-sized cages stacked within. They looked the right size to be dragged along by a strong buck, and marks on the floor leading to and from were evidence enough to lend credence to the idea. Tables bore stacks of chains, ropes, and collars; everything you’d need to move a group of noncomplying prisoners. Willow’s light panned to and fro, and with every new clue my disturbance grew.

“Is it common for tribals to deal in slavery?” I asked quietly.

Willow sighed as she circled a cage, inspecting it. “Mulisiana's oldest form of currency...”

Living outside of the Fillydelphia nightmare had been a daily reminder of how truly well-off I’d been. “One of the slaves told me that some of their own had been shipped off earlier today. If none of them had seen unicorns leave the building, then the tribe must be saving them for something else.”

“Well, where else…?” Willow’s horn passed across the wall behind the food line. Behind the smudged sneeze guard her light glinted off of the shiny silver doors of the freezer.

We pried the thick door open and the guide shone a beam of light inside. Sure enough, she illuminated two unicorns who were embracing in fear. Their expressions shifted to confusion upon seeing my Stable barding, though they were still flattening themselves against the far wall. As I stepped inside the fridge, I assuaged, “Hey, it's alright, I'm here to…”

A pipe swung out from my right side, and I reared back, the weapon striking my shoulder painfully. I retreated to see an auburn-colored unicorn wielding the pipe, but Willow spoke up.

“Harvest! T’ank de Goddesses you're alive…”

The unicorn prisoner halted his attack immediately, his face brightening from grim desperation to fond recognition upon hearing her voice. “Willow! Oh, wow… you... “ He grinned, though he had an air of worry around him. “You’re here…?”

“Here to get you out,” Willow completed.

Harvest winced as he looked at me, tossing aside his makeshift weapon. “I’m really sorry. I wouldn’t have hit you if… if my nerves weren’t so fried.”

“Eh, what's one more bruise?” I groaned. I was just glad he hadn’t landed a blow to my head; I would’ve been out cold.

“But if you knew I’d been taken…” Harvest gave Willow a fearful glance. “Where’s Marigold?”

“She’s…” She exchanged a look with me, a useless gesture thanks to her long hood. “Missing. De tribals might have captured her, yeah?”

“Oh no…” the auburn unicorn began shaking his head, running a hoof through his mane. “No, no, no… she…” His eyes lit up. “These tribals; they’re cannibals of some kind!”

The blood I’d seen in the gymnasium had already hinted at this being possible, but Willow seemed to have expected it herself as she uttered, “I knew it.”

“They hauled us unicorns out week after week, strung us up an’ pricked our blood!” One of the mares behind Harvest spoke up, her voice raw with fear. “They’d mix it in this ritual an’ then choose one of us at random, cut out their heart, an’ feed it to one of their own, a pregnant unicorn!”

Those words hitched the rhythm of my heartbeat. The mare upstairs, the one Camphor had so desperately defended and cared for, had consumed pony flesh. I felt sick.

Willow was frozen for a moment before she drew her shotgun, wordlessly setting into a brisk trot back towards the entrance. I moved to keep up, Harvest following alongside. I tried to fill him in on the situation as best I could as we returned to the second floor, reaching the biology room at the end of the hall.

Willow stormed in and once again aimed her shotgun at the tribal mare, who was nursing her newborn. She and Camphor had been conversing, but the stallion immediately rose and shielded her when he caught sight of the guide. The dead tribals’ bodies had all been neatly arranged in a row on one side of the room in the time since we’d been away.

“She ain’t getting any mercy dis time,” Willow growled maliciously. She halted just before the doctor, who looked down on her disapprovingly.

“I thought we discussed this, Willow.”

The shorter pony didn’t seem intimidated. “We did, yeah. And now t’ings have changed.”

“How so?”

Willow inclined her head over her shoulder. “We found Harvest. Found a few unicorns, actually. Dey were all locked up in de cafeteria of all places, ready to have dere hearts cut out,” she jabbed a hoof at the new mother. “... And eaten by her.”

Camphor balked, “Yeah, right.”

“It was all centered around her child,” Harvest spoke up behind us. We turned to see him glaring at the blissfully unaware foal. “They fed her unicorn hearts hoping that it’d somehow… I dunno. Reincarnate their deity or whatever.”

With a harsh scowl, Willow tried floating her shotgun to the side to aim around Camphor. The doctor managed to reach out and force the barrel downwards. “Regardless of what she’s done in the past, we can’t just shoot her now.”

“Why not?” Willow spat. “Dey’re cannibals and slave traders! Give me one reason, Cam, one fucking reason why dis tribe or anyone in it is wort’ sparing!”

Deja vu of the worst kind struck as I witnessed Camphor and Willow once again at each other’s throats. This wasn’t going to end well either way; one would be spurred into action against the other, or they’d argue so long that they’d forget the impending threat of the siege. “Hey!” I snapped at them. “Enough!”

With a snort, Willow rotated her head to me. “Yeah? And what’s de Steel Ranger got to say about de sanctity of a cannibal’s life?” She addressed my title with bitter mocking.

“She…” To be honest, cannibals didn’t deserve to be spared. She’d partaken in something utterly despicable, a subpony act so vile that most, like Willow, would shoot her without a second thought. My time in the Steel Rangers had constantly taught me that savages like her had no value. They had nothing to contribute to Equestria, nothing to offer that could enrich other ponies or help our race advance in any way. She took up resources and was a vehicle to ending the lives of those who might’ve one day provided something to the wasteland.

The survivor side of me had only a sliver of pity for her. If what Camphor had said earlier was true, she may have been from another tribe, a peaceful group, that was taken over by this one. A stallion took a liking to her, and when she became pregnant, she was forced against her wishes to take part in this sick ritual, if only for the sake of giving her foal a chance at life. If she’d ever had the opportunity, she might have escaped and never looked back.

But those were a lot of ifs. To be honest, I wanted nothing to do with this whole ordeal, but here I was, forced to play intermediary between two ponies to decide the fate of another. I just want to go home.

“... She deserves to be judged,” I stammered, trying to collect my thoughts. “By the slaves. But this is neither the time nor the place.” The tribal was watching us intently, fear and hatred mixed equally in her blue eyes. She couldn’t understand us, but undoubtedly knew we were discussing her fate.

“Time? I’m not gonna fuckin’ draw it out or anyt’in, Quill, it’s just one trigger pull! Quick and painless, more den I could say for what she’d do in our stead.” Willow nickered, her voice rising. “And place? We’re surrounded; if we're dying here, we might as well take her wid us.”

“You aren’t in charge here, Willow,” Camphor settled. “Back off.” He placed a hoof on the unicorn’s chest, trying to push her back.

“Don’t... touch me...!” With a sudden movement, Willow knocked his outstretched leg away and ducked around the doctor, her shotgun whipping forwards. Camphor pounced, his hoof whacking against the barrel as the weapon discharged. The shot burst into the concrete wall only a few feet beside the tribal, who screamed in terror as she sheltered her child from the flying debris. The foal began bawling as Doctor Camphor wrestled the shotgun from Willow’s grasp, breaking it open and pulling out the second shell.

“The hell’s gotten into you, kid?” He shouted at her furiously, his expression a mix of disbelief and disgust. Willow shook wordlessly, but had no response. My eyes followed Camphor as he tossed the shotgun shell across the room, using the gun butt to ward the guide back to Harvest’s side.

“You ain’t the same filly I knew in Buckwater,” he continued. I heard the flare of activating magic as Willow… wait. Willow’s horn was dark as she trembled with what must’ve been quiet sobs, and Harvest’s was similarly inactive as he watched the guide with concern.

“Restez là!”

We turned as one to see the mother shakily aiming a rifle at us; I recognized it as the one dropped by the first tribal I’d shot in the room. She’d retrieved it from beneath a nearby desk, and her magical aura flickered in her weakened state as it pointed the gun at Willow.

The color drained from Camphor’s face as his patient clutched her son tightly. “Baisse ton fusil, Posey,” he began cautiously. “Tu es en sécurité.”

The tribal shook her head, white flakes of concrete drifting out from her brown mane. “Pas près d’elle,” she emphasized while jabbing the rifle’s barrel towards Willow, sliding off the table and onto her wobbly legs.

Willow said something in the tribal language behind me, but paired with her unique accent and her speed I couldn’t distinguish any individual words in the sentence. The mother’s darkening expression and Camphor’s growing unease gave me the feeling that it wasn’t helping to defuse the situation.

“Nous ne voulons pas nuire à votre fils,” Camphor urged as the tribal tried moving forward, intent on reaching the door behind us.
“C'est pourquoi ta amie m'a tiré?” the mother shot back. She told us to move aside with a wave of her rifle; Willow stood fast and spoke another low, dangerous sentence while the rest of us backed away. The guide’s dialect proved to once again be indecipherable to my ears and agitating to the mother, who briefly looked past Willow in worry as if she could see through the school’s walls.
Just then a staccato of weapons fire rumbled beneath us, followed by muffled screams and shouts. We collectively glanced downwards, straining our ears to listen for indications of which side the burst had originated from… all of us besides Willow. She lit her horn and her pistol began to slide out of its holster. The mother’s keen eyes caught this, and her rifle drew in close to aim. Camphor had been paying close attention, and begged something as he rushed forwards to intervene.
“No…!”

There was a loud crack and a red ribbon spurted out of Camphor’s side. He exhaled violently and collapsed to the floor as Willow fell to a knee, clutching a foreleg and crying out in sudden pain. The mother’s face was frozen in horror, clearly distressed that she’d shot the doctor. It quickly transformed into fury and loathing, however, when her eyes flicked back up at Willow, her intended target, who was only injured.

The guide’s horn lit up, reaching for the pistol she’d dropped, but I knew she wouldn’t have enough time to direct it and fire in her injured position. Harvest was unarmed, stock-still as he watched the unfolding attack. I, on the other hoof, still had Riptide hanging from my neck. The tribal and I briefly locked eyes, and I knew that one of us would be dead within the next three seconds.

The mother’s magic pulled the rifle’s bolt back, an empty shell springing from the breech.

I reached down and grabbed Riptide, raising the weapon.

The rifle bolt was clumsily thrust forward and locked back into place.

Aiming swiftly, I bit into the trigger and felt the hammer buck as a bullet rushed out of the pistol’s muzzle, zipping across the room...

... Straight into the base of the mother’s neck. She gagged, her TK weakly imploding and fizzling out, the reloaded but unfired rifle clattering to the floor. Though mortally wounded, she still had the consciousness to pull her foal close and fall backwards to cushion her collapse.

Camphor was gasping, hooves clutching his chest as a deep red blossom began saturating his thin grey shirt at an alarming rate. His eyes were shut and his teeth were gritted together, yet as Willow flew to his side, the first sentence he wheezed was, “Don’t… kill… her…”

The foal was wailing, disturbed by the thundering shots that had reverberated through the classroom. Snapping out of my post-kill stupor, I carefully retrieved him, holding him steady and trying to quiet his distressed cries. Goddesses, I hope the gunshots didn’t deafen him. As I backed up, the foal’s mother was in full view. She convulsed on the floor with short, violent gasps as blood leaked from her neck, her eyes becoming unfocused but watching me with a desperate hatred. I felt hollow inside as I watched one last wheeze rattle out of her punctured throat before she went still, her deadened eyes forever frozen towards myself and her child.

Of every life I’d ever ended, this one hadn’t felt justified. There was no sense of victory, of overcoming a great opponent; she was simply a mare who’d probably never been in a firefight herself, judging by her lack of discipline with the rifle. My gaze was drawn to the foal in my foreleg, wriggling and streaming tears down his reddening face. Had I killed his father, too? Had I just orphaned him? My stomach twisted into knots as I reconsidered every action I’d taken in the past hour.

“What do I do, Cam?” I heard Willow ask behind me, her voice straining. In a daze, I rotated to find the guide on her haunches next to the doctor, ignoring the blood that dripped from her sleeve. Harvest stood close to her, still shaken by the recent exchange.

“B-bag…” the doctor replied, still grasping at his blood-soaked shirt, trying to diagnose his own injury. “Rib snapped, twisted into... “ he coughed. “Need two stimpaks. Then three p-potions, then... bandages. Lots of… bandages...”

Willow searched her saddlebags. “Uh…” Her one good hoof withdrew a poultice, and then two glass bottles half-filled with the ruby-colored regenerative fluid. Placing them around Camphor, she rooted around frantically, her horn joining the search and floating out a stimpak. “I’ve got one.” She shook her bag in frustration. “Where in Tartarus are my bandages…?”

“My… saddlebag…” Camphor groaned. “S...surgical-grade gauze and…” A cough. “Stimpaks…”

“Which one?”

“Yellow… Ministry…”

Oh no. My voice cracked slightly as I spoke up. “Willow… the bags are still in the pharmacy.”

There was a tentative pause. “Can we… do you tink we can reach dem? I don’t tink dis...” The unicorn indicated her scant collection of supplies. “... Is enough.”

“I’ll get them,” I assured her. “Try to stop the bleeding as best you can.” The foal had quieted significantly, and I gently set him aside. “Both Camphor’s and your own,” I added.

“Quillwright,” Harvest got my attention as he retrieved the tribal’s dropped rifle. “I’ll help.”

I nodded, but longingly gazed at the healing potions Willow had conjured. My eyes were fighting to stay open, my body felt distant and numb, and my head was heavy with stuffy sinuses and a headache. Each knee had been skinned after jumping out of the window, my shoulder was bruised from Harvest’s attack, and my gums were sore from firing weapons. I had a second coat of dirt and mud over my fur, mane and tail both sweaty and disheveled. Every muscle was sore from shivering, and my raw throat was dry as an Elder’s sense of humor.

There was no way I could make it across town and back like this.

“I need a potion or Med-X,” I rasped as Willow telekinetically applied the poultice to Camphor’s wound, still holding her foreleg.

The unicorn nodded. “Go ahead.”

While health potions didn’t sit well on empty stomachs, my body was able to regain some of its vigor, and with that the chances of me surviving this excursion rose by a few percent. A Med-X on top would’ve been even better, but healing my bruises and cuts had still elicited a relieved sigh from me.

As Harvest and I headed back downstairs, the recently liberated unicorn asked, “How… how was Marigold doing the last you saw her?”

I was hesitant to detail his wife’s forceful commandeering of the PipBuck. “She really wanted you back,” I decided on answering.

Harvest sighed, grinding his teeth. “She’s got really bad anxiety. Seeing me get taken... I can’t even imagine.” He raised an eyebrow. “The tribals didn’t burn our house down, did they?”

“Nah, we fought them off. Even did some light renovation to the place while we were at it.”

Even in the midst of our plight, Harvest had the capacity to laugh. “I’ll have to see about compensating you once this is all over!”

I was tempted to make another joke, but remained silent just in case Harvest was actually serious.

As we came off the foyer staircase, an exchange of gunshots echoed down the halls. Something high-caliber was mixed in with the smaller shots.

“I bet those tribals are getting their flanks handed to ‘em…” Harvest’s optimism clashed with my internal hopelessness. While I prayed that the slaves had managed to arm themselves, I knew we were still outnumbered. Everything depended on their ability to hold the entrances, and if needed, to force choke points throughout the school.

Quickening our pace, we went east and came around the corner to find an emergency fire exit. Peeping through the small clouded porthole in the center, Harvest gritted his teeth. “I, uh… don’t think there are any tribals this way.” He double-checked his rifle, looking at me with concern. “You ready?”

“Born ready,” I croaked, grabbing Riptide and checking the cylinder. Four shots.

Harvest nodded grimly, placing a hoof on the safety latch and cracking the door open. Humid air rushed inside, and when silence followed Harvest pushed it fully open, leading our escape. We had exited the school to face the center of Saint Mare’s, separated by the large overgrown field. We barely had time to start towards our objective when a group of hunters trotted around the corner of the school, searching for an entrance. They halted upon spotting us, and for a moment everypony held their breath.

“Run!” Harvest shouted as he let off a shot, dropping one of the tribals. I needed no convincing, sprinting as fast as my aching limbs and inflamed lungs could carry me. Shots rang out as bullets zipped past, but I reached the field and was enveloped in the tall grass. Panicked, I clumsily tried to navigate the range, ducking low but raising my head periodically to remain on-course towards the town. The relentless arms fire behind me eventually died down but I was too frightened to check behind me for pursuers.

Exiting the grass onto a street lined with stone benches, I looked both ways in an attempt to remember where the pharmacy was relative to my position; the darkness muddled my sense of direction. As I lifted my head to search for familiar waypoints, my ears picked up rustling in the field. Praying to Celestia that Harvest would emerge, I backed onto the street, not willing to let my guard down.

“Please, please, please…” I chanted under my breath.

My wariness paid off as a hunter burst from the overgrowth, his horn lighting up and shining a beam in my face. Breathlessly, I fled into the town, cutting my way through alleyways and across streets, all the while searching for anything I could recognize in the moonlight. The tribal’s foreign tone was taunting as he pursued, reverberating down the streets behind me.

Leaping a fence and down a side street, I skidded to a halt as I found myself before the massive sentry bot I’d seen earlier. With a landmark to work from, I located the main street, but I still needed to shake my tail before entering the pharmacy. There was a wildly overgrown pocket park half a block to the right. Without anywhere better to hide I dashed into the dark cluster of trees and greenery, ducking behind the widest trunk in the grove. I felt horribly exposed from all sides, unsure of where the hunter had vanished to. In the confined, gloomy jungle my only reliable senses were my ears, which were pulsing with my distracting heartbeat.

I could hear sustained gunfire from the direction of the school, battles waging between slaves and tribals. Every second longer I took was another second that Camphor was losing blood. Torn between continuing through to the other side and waiting to ensure my safety, I backed away from the trunk, readjusting my grip on Riptide. After waiting for several seconds, I turned and launched into a half-gallop just as a beam of silvery light flared on behind me.

“Je t’ai eu!”

The hunter gave a cruel laugh as something snared my rear legs and yanked me to a sudden halt, causing me to spill forwards onto my barrel and drop Riptide. As my mouth grabbed for the revolver, the tribal’s magic tugged me out of range. Unable to think clearly through my feverish panic, my hooves were driven into the soil instead of trying to collect my weapon. The useless attempt to halt myself did nothing but carve a pathetic pair of furrows.

The magic gripping my rear legs hauled me in front of the unicorn. He roughly flipped me onto my back, his glowing silver horn lighting his cruel features. Leaning over me, his knees pinned me down and pressed me into the dirt. I fought to bite him, kick him, anything, but the stallion’s strength and weight was overwhelming against my flagging energy. His breathing was quickened, eyes alight with either bloodlust or regular lust; it was too dark for me to distinguish. Riptide was torn from its cord and tossed into the nearby shrubbery as he leaned down.

“L'autre était tellement plus forte...” he purred, puffing from flaring nostrils only inches from my face.

I whimpered, raising my legs for a kick, but felt magic restrain them. Ultimately I could only manage to wriggle forwards an inch or two as he raised his head, transfixed with my figure. Oh Goddesses, these are the same ponies who caught Marigold… what was she subjected to?

Dimly illuminated motion behind the hunter caught my attention. A wide tree maybe four feet away began to morph, pieces of the bark spreading outwards like a large pair of wings. They looked eerie as they were highlighted against the darkness, covered in thin red rivulets of veins and identified by a familiar blue tag. I screamed as loud as I could, thrashing fiercely. The tribal chuckled as he ran a muddy hoof down my face, tracing my features while keeping my head still.

“Oh, alors tu peux lutter après tout!”

He froze as a distinctive vibrating chirp began behind him; his eyelids snapped wide open as he recognized the sound. He turned his head just in time to behold Molly’s terrifying full wingspan before the insect launched herself from the tree trunk and landed on his withers, her pincers open wide. With a shriek, the hunter reared back, his magic abruptly dissipating in confusion. My legs came up and then shot out, connecting with his chest, and I felt a wet pop as at least one of the unicorn’s ribs fractured behind my hoof.

As the hunter clumsily toppled onto his side, Molly violently ripping a chunk of tender flesh from his neck, I bolted out of the park and across the street. Galloping through a wet, narrow alleyway, I burst out onto the main street, the pharmacy still sitting inconspicuously to my right. I felt a surge of confidence carry me towards my goal. Almost there.

The interior was suffocatingly dark, and I sought about for the spot where the saddlebags had been stashed. Feeling around, my hooves found the chair and then searched behind it, pulling out a satchel. I held it up to the window, allowing the faint shafts of moonlight to reveal I’d picked up the wrong one, a gator leather bag. Returning it, I grabbed the next and inspected it.

“Pink butterflies... Peace,” I murmured, reassuring myself that I really had found the correct supplies. I allowed my body a few precious moments to steel itself while I checked the bag's contents. I could see dozens of bandages packed inside, along with the protruding dials and gauges of stimpaks. Though there wasn’t enough light for me to comfortably take inventory, it was certainly more than enough to fix Camphor’s injury.

I slung the bag over my back and turned back to the front door. Hooking the handle, I pulled the crusty door inwards…

... And found myself face-to-face with a tribal hunter, the one wearing the PipBuck. He shoved the door the rest of the way open, his dark red magic lifting his hellhound blade high, poised to strike. I screamed, caught off-guard, and tried to rotate to kick him. His weapon was too fast; as my body spun lateral to him, the dagger plunged downwards.

The blade bullseyed Camphor’s saddlebag directly through the trio of butterflies, easily running through the bandages and piercing the hide just above my cutie mark. The tip nearly reached my hip bone before the hilt was stopped by the sheer thickness of the bandage rolls. With a cry of agony, my rear hoof instinctively shot out and clipped his knee, just above the PipBuck. He grunted in pain and backed up, his magic releasing the dagger, and I fled deeper into the pharmacy.

Scampering behind a row of empty shelves, I bit into my hoof to keep from whining, tears already spilling from my eyes. The dagger was still embedded in the saddlebag but had mercifully rebounded out of the wound in my flank. My right leg was now tingling, casting fears that I might lose feeling in it. I pulled my fetlock from my mouth as I heard the hunter slam the door shut fiercely.

“Tu vas mourir pour avoir mis mon fils en danger!” he called out, seething hatred replete in his tone.

I heard a click and the golden glow of the PipBuck’s screen was activated, breaking over the top of the shelves. He knows how to operate it? This unicorn couldn’t be a dimwitted tribal like Willow had so dismissively cast his type as; how in Equestria could he know how to use Stable-Tec technology? He began trotting down the aisle next to me with slow and careful hooves.

Feeling around my front, I recalled that Riptide had been abandoned in the park during Molly’s attack. As light pooled around the corner, spilling across the tiles and rushing towards me, I scuttled backwards and dodged into the next aisle, keeping to the shadows and to safety.

What if he has the E.F.S. active?

I needed to get out right now. My mind groped for solutions; perhaps I could lose him in the alleys, or maybe draw him into Molly...

The hunter was close to the rear of the building now. With my breath held, I continued to circle with him, nearly back at the entrance. The front door was in sight; if I moved fast enough, there was a slim but present chance that I could still escape. Knowing I could be about to die but desperate to escape, I braced myself and bolted out from the shelves, galloping for the front door.

I struck the wood, pushing with all my might, but it held fast, having been slammed shut so hard that the crooked shape had wedged itself within the frame again. It didn’t yield an inch against my efforts, and I could feel my final seconds of life slip away with every weakening push I gave. I whimpered quietly as I heard slow hoof clacks behind me. Turning my head, I found the stallion smirking with cold satisfaction. It had been his plan for me to corner myself.

A hunting rifle floating beside him, he raised his foreleg. He was going to finish me off with S.A.T.S., watching gleefully as my head exploded in slow motion. His eyes narrowed in victory as his hoof held down a button to activate the targeting spell.

... But nothing happened.

His expression twitched as it dawned on him that time hadn’t slowed down. The smirk twisted into a startled gape as I charged at him, having taken advantage of his arrogance to pull the dagger free, charging towards his heart. The tribal backpedaled as he fired his rifle, foregoing S.A.T.S. to ward me away.

The bullet struck the left side of my neck, slicing off a chunk of muscles. I screamed in agony, my pace faltering for a moment, but clamped down on the dagger’s handle until my gums ached, still aiming for the tribal’s chest.

The hunter’s telekinetic field fumbled while attempting to chamber the next round. With a whinny of sudden panic, he began to rear back, hoping to fend me off with a kick. The long blade met him first, the tip plunging through his robe and hide like butter. I could feel it grind past his ribs and jab something soft within, and then the hilt thudded against his chest, keeping the blade from burrowing completely into his body.

He cried out hoarsely as my momentum carried us back and into a shelving unit. It bent inwards with a groan and toppled over, taking us along with it. I tumbled onto my side, watching as the tribal landed on his back. The buck feebly pawed at the handle of his dagger as if pulling it free would somehow save him, but in mere seconds he was stone-dead.

I panted with exertion, struggling to stand and balance while fighting the stars that burst across my vision and temporarily blinded me. I couldn’t feel my flank, and the typhoof festering deep within was trying to drag me down. The desire to simply lay down and give in was immense.

You can’t! If you pass out, Camphor dies! came the little pony’s voice. And if he dies, you can kiss a cure goodbye!

Stumbling forwards, I tried pushing the door open again only to be met with the same resistance. Ready to let out all my boiling resentment on the belligerent door, I tried yanking it back to shake but yelped as the hinges instead obeyed and swung inwards, lavishing me with yet another layer of dust and splinters.

Bloody door isn’t labeled as a pull… the little pony within groaned, just as fed up with this whole day as I was.

I loped down the street at the fastest pace I could, beads of sweat stinging my eyes and itching beneath my barding. My wing’s weak attempts to boost me forwards only inflamed my sore back, and my lungs burned with exertion. My pace slowed as a thick phlegm-filled cough seized my chest. My neck fur clung to my hide, heavy and damp, as the bullet wound throbbed excruciatingly.

The saddlebag constantly tested my balance as another wave of lightheadedness washed past. My legs quivered uncontrollably, threatening to bow just a little too far with every step. I had just reached the last street, the school visible across the field, when my hoof snagged on a pothole and I keeled forwards onto the pavement.

I laid there, unable to even summon the strength to lift a foreleg. My rigid back muscles began to relax as my body shut down. Whatever hidden well of energy that had somehow kept me moving since the laundromat was now bone-dry; I had nothing left to tap into, try as I might. My vision rapidly blurred, my eyelids feeling as though they were being pulled down by an unseen force. The last thought that flashed through me was the sight of the tribal mother in the same position, clawing to intake a few final breaths as lifeblood trickled out of her neck.

I’m… I’m so sorry…

As I was overwhelmed by fatigue, I swore I felt breath on my mane.

Footnote: Level Up.
New Perk Added: Adrenaline - When you’re at the end of your line, you can draw upon every ounce of strength you didn’t know you had. When suffering from illness or a crippled limb, you gain +20% extra AP.
> Chapter 6: Proxy - Part I
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------


"I'm me! Or am I? Yeah, I'm pretty sure I am."






“In every other song that I’ve heard lately, some fellow gets shot

And his baby an’ his best friend both die with him, as likely as not

In half of the other songs some cat’s cryin’ or ready to die

We’ve lost most all of our happy ponies and I’m-a wonderin’ why…”

These lyrics were the first stimuli to stir me back into the land of the living. As I struggled to open my eyes, they found it difficult as piercing sunbeams lanced in through a window behind me. I was laying atop a straw-cushioned mattress, wearing nothing but my holotags, and as I shifted I could feel bandages swathing my neck. Several of the wounds around my barrel and flank had been tended to, alongside fresh wraps encircling my wing stump.

“Let’s think about livin’, let’s think about lovin’

Let’s think about the boopin’ an’ the hoppin’ an’ the boppin’ an’ the lovey-lovey-dovin’

Let’s forget about the whinin’ and the cryin’ and the shootin’ and the dyin’ and the fellow with the switchblade knife

Let’s think about livin’, let’s think about life…”

The aches of sickness still permeated my joints and sapped my muscles. I shivered very slightly but it felt as though the worst of the fever had passed in the night. The bullet wound on my neck throbbed subtly, buried in healing magic, and my stomach… well, my stomach was the emptiest it had been in years.

I can’t make a habit of waking up in pain.

The room I had been laid up in appeared to be a principal’s office. Shelves of framed photographs lined the walls and across the room was a solid oak desk bearing a terminal, two tall trophies, and a worn but functional radio that belted out a tinny rendition of some rollicking song. Posters of fruit bats were lined up against the walls, and under one of the windows was Camphor’s Ministry of Peace bag, a thin tear dividing the cluster of butterflies on the front.

Next to my bedding was a bottle of large and circular white pills, a half-filled water bottle, and a scribbled note. Squinting, I shaded the paper from the glare of the sunlight, trying to decipher the messy scratchings.

“Kwilrite: 
Wen you wake up, take 2 of these rite away.”

Ignoring the misspellings as best I could, I did as instructed. After clearing my throat as the large, dry pills worked their way down, I heaved myself up from a sitting position, wincing at my sore right leg. A clock behind the desk indicated that it was sometime past noon, though the second hand wasn’t moving. It seemed abnormally bright outside; I moved to the window, leaning down to squint upwards at the sky above.

The clouds. They were...

Parted. Wide open, the blazingly bright sun shining down through the lightest haze of mist.

My peaceful reverie was shattered as I dove beneath the desk and slid into one of its legs. One of the trophies was knocked off and smashed against the floor while I drew in my hooves and tail, ears frantically darting to and fro. I listened searchingly for the sound of gunshots, Raptor engines, or the roar of Shadowbolt wings tearing past overhead.

They must be hunting for me! I was going to be shot, or captured, or… or shot and then captured! The Enclave would drag my flank into the sky, parading the dirty one-winged wasteland pegasus before the entire population, and then... maybe I’d be staked to a lightning rod atop stormclouds, or thrown from an edge of the curtain, or hung from the front of a Thunderhead to be eaten away by wind and weather until I was nothing more than a skeleton.

For half a minute I listened, not hearing anything out of the ordinary. That's what they want you to think! I cowered for a few more moments before I flinched as the door burst open. There was a brief moment of silence, and then hesitant clacking of hooves against the floor accompanied by speedy clicking.

"Quillwright?"

A furry shape suddenly appeared in front of the desk, startling me as it stuck its head in and started sniffing me. I relaxed upon recognizing Wick’s sad face and his rather unpleasant breath. "... Willow?" I replied, doing my best to fend off the dog’s tongue as he tried to lick my mane.

"Yeah?" The unicorn had halted, still out of sight. Slowly, I pushed Wick out of the way and clambered out from beneath my sanctuary. Sure enough, Willow stood just inside the threshold, once again dressed in her dark, oversized cloak. Her head tilted slightly. "You okay? Were… uh... were you under...?"

"Just, ah..." My mouth opened to explain my reaction, but changed course immediately as I recalled my reason in the first place. "The sky?" My expression was one of bewilderment.

The awkwardness amplified tenfold as the guide simply stared at me, though I could practically hear her blinking in confusion at my words. "It is a nice day out, yeah?" she began. "Best to enjoy de moments when de sun shows itself."

Willow didn't seem to understand my hint. "How is it... how's the cloud cover open without the Enclave being here?"

" ‘Enclave?’ "

She wasn't kidding. "The... the Grand Pegasus Enclave? The ones who sealed themselves behind the clouds on the Last Day and kept them shut ever since?"

Willow finally ended our streak of answering questions with more questions. “De clouds here ain’t ever been ‘sealed.’ Any pegasi dat might'a once regulated de weat’er cut and run a long time ago, leaving us to get battered by rain and radstorms.”

I was more than a little confused at this information, but simultaneously relieved.

“Surely you saw dem part when you were on your way sout’? I mean, you were in an airship, yeah?”

“Well… I was inside for most of the trip,” I admitted. The amount of work I’d brought along to keep me occupied had relegated me to my quarters for a majority of the journey.

Willow gave a quiet sigh.

Looking to change the subject just as desperately as I actually wanted to be filled in, I quickly asked, “What happened last night?”

The unicorn beckoned me. “Best to show you.” I took notice that the PipBuck was now on her arm.

“Everypony’s taking a turn with it, aren’t they?” I mumbled.

Willow didn’t seem to understand until she saw me looking at the bracelet. “Oh…” she sounded a little embarrassed. “Yeah, it’s… been easier to wear it den to carry it.”

We exited the office into one of the school’s empty, quiet hallways. The place felt far less oppressive when daylight shimmered across the floors. As we trotted along the rows of lockers, I couldn’t help but ask Willow, “Is Camphor alright?”

“He’ll live,” she answered. “He’s got a bit of a wheeze when he exhales now, but de supplies saved him in time.”

“But... I didn’t make it back!”

Willow directed me out of the same fire exit Harvest and I had taken that evening. I had to shut my eyes against the glare, only able to squint and part my eyelids very slowly to adjust. The weather was beautiful as far as post-war days went; a soft breeze whispered past as the sun warmed my fur. The temperature was mild and a thin mist floated above us, glowing in the light.

There was a collection of old picnic tables at the back of the school, at which sat about a dozen ponies having conversations and lunch. As we neared, I found myself smiling as Harvest rose to greet us. He looked battered but still upbeat, his left ear heavily bandaged. “Quillwright!” he exclaimed. “Thank Luna, we were worried you weren’t ever gonna wake up!”

I groaned, massaging my neck tenderly. “Hey, Harvest! Can I...?” I indicated the various items of food on the tables.

“Oh, yeah, of course! Tribals had a little bit of farmland on the other side of the school that they’d had the slaves cultivating, plus all the food they’d stolen when they took me.” Harvest floated an ear of corn to me as the three of us took a seat at the end of the table. Wick went underneath and then stuck his begging head up and out between Willow’s legs, who reprimanded him and pushed him back down. Harvest’s genuine smile shone as he looked me over. “I knew you were tough.” He looked back at the others behind him. I expected to see Marigold, but she wasn’t among them. “Thanks to you we made it.”

I shook my head, “But I couldn't get the supplies to you! How… what happened?” I scrunched my brows as I recalled the last moments I could remember. “Did Wick find me?”

Harvest grinned as he called the dog, who popped out beside the stallion and received some bits of jerky. “He did, and he wasn’t alone.” He turned in his seat, inviting a mare sitting apart at a parallel table to join us. Her coat was a dreary blue, contrasted with her fetlocks, mane, and tail, which lightened into white at the ends. In her forelegs was the tribal foal, sleeping peacefully and swaddled in a blanket. She hesitated to move from her seat, but after further encouragement from Harvest crept to his side, avoiding eye contact. “Corona here finished the job.”

For a moment I didn’t understand, but as I reviewed the events of last night I recognized her face. Slitter, the slave who’d called our venture a suicide mission, had tried leaving with two other ponies, one of which was the earth mare Harvest was currently introducing. She fidgeted uncomfortably, and her quick glances at me still held some of the same guilt I'd observed when she fled with Slitter.

Willow helpfully explained, "Corona turned around and came back to town. She met Wick, who brought her to you, den she bandaged your wounds and got us de bags.” She planted her hoof on the table to emphasize her next sentence. “After dat, we all finished handing dose hoof-dragging dipshits dere own flanks, since dey were a whole lot less confident wid’out a leader.” After that, her voice grew softer. “We'd have lost a lot more if it weren't for de t’ree of you."

Corona looked out towards the field, where my eyes caught sight of disturbed earth. Several makeshift grave markers could be seen poking above the edge of the grass, fashioned out of metal plates that I recognized were pried from the sentry bot. My heart sank. “How many…?”

“Thirteen,” Harvest answered, his smile flatlining. “Still have two recovering. Everypony else got patched up fine once Camphor was back in the game, but...” He scratched just below his bandaged ear and sighed. “Still sore as hell.”

Finally, I locked eyes with Harvest and asked, “And… Marigold?”

The husband’s spirit lost whatever happiness it had gained from seeing my awakening. “We…” he began, trying multiple times to pick his phrasing. “We just don’t know. I… we searched the whole town twice over and haven’t found her… her...” His lips began to make a “b”, but couldn’t finish the sentence.

“Hey…” Willow placed a comforting hoof on his shoulder.

Harvest seemed on the verge of breaking down as he looked at his friend. “How am I gonna tell Pleasure?” he whispered desperately.

“Hey.” The guide’s voice was firm. “She’ll understand; you bot' knew de risks of living on your own.”

I heard Corona’s gentle voice for the first time as she soothed, “I still think your first theory’s right, Harvest.”

“Even…” Tears were welling up in Harvest’s eyes. “Even if they took Mari away, or… to Neigh Orleans... how am I supposed to find her?

“Maybe…” Willow swallowed. “Maybe once I get Quillwright to de border, I can help you track her down?” she suggested. “I'm sure we could find somepony in Buckwater willing to help, too.”

Corona stroked Harvest’s back, who seemed to calm down a little. “Thanks, Willow.” He sniffed loudly, wiping his snout with a fetlock. “Sorry, I just…” He swallowed and took several deep, quaking breaths. “She's just all I can think about right now…”

“Don't apologize,” said Willow, firmly. “You’ve got every right to focus on your wife.”

Harvest nodded, sniffed again, and in a few minutes was more or less back to his upbeat self, rejoining conversations elsewhere down the table. After I'd had my fill of the available food, Willow addressed me.

“C’mon. De doc wanted to see you once you were awake.”





“Camphor’s been sorting t'rough everyting we pulled from de pharmacy.” Willow told me as we trotted down the road that cut through the grassy field. Wick had stayed behind with Harvest and Corona, playing fetch with them using leftover corn cobs.

“It was stocked after all?”

“The back room still was, since it was locked behind a cloud interface. T’anks to you we could get it open.”

“But… wasn’t I unconscious?”

Willow gave a quick nod. “Yeah, we, uh…” She cleared her throat in an attempt to make her next sentence sound less strange; it failed. “We carried you in and used your hoof to press de keys.”

I couldn’t resist a short giggle at how bizarre the scene must have looked. “Well, I’m glad I could still help somehow.”

In the middle of the day, Saint Mare's felt much smaller and less maze-like. Now reflecting the light of the sun, the buildings revealed colorfully-painted walls. Despite the amount of refuse and the decayed state of the streets and structures, there was still a kind of vibrancy and life to be found in Saint Mare’s: plant life was everywhere. We followed patches of moss and ivy that carpeted the road to the pocket park, the town’s fount of flora which was spilling with greenery.

I foraged around inside and was able to reclaim a grimy Riptide. When I exited the grove, I found that Willow was offering the disconnected PipBuck back to me.

“Here, you oughta take dis back,” she told me. It wasn’t hard to tell that she would miss getting to use the bracelet, but I thanked her as I accepted it and clipped it back onto my own leg. I rebooted the PipBuck and allowed it to scan me while we continued onwards, finally returning to the pharmacy.

The front door was now propped open, so the two of us were able to enter without having to kick our way inside. Even in the light of day I felt a chill pass through me as the nightmarish encounter with the tribal hunter still haunted me. Specks of dried blood across the floor and a flattened shelving unit were stark reminders of my near-death encounter; thankfully, the tribal’s body had been removed.

Willow guided me down the bare aisles to the rear, where behind a secure glass-and-steel counter we could see Camphor sitting on the floor with his back to us, sorting through all manner of labelled boxes and pill bottles. To the right was an unlocked door with a terminal and cloud interface inset next to it.

Ministry of Awesome technology wasn’t particularly common outside of the Enclave, usually installed as an extra layer of security. I’d only seen one cloud interface before, connected to a bank vault the Rangers had opened hoping to collect bits for scrap metal. Same as that one, this keyboard had an odd consistency, like typing through a particularly fluffy pillow.

Within the back we found Camphor muttering to himself as he stacked medicines in orderly piles, occasionally jotting down a quick note in a well-worn journal. He looked up at us as we entered, smiling. “Quillwright! Good to see you up and about.” There was a slight rasp to his voice.

“Same!” I replied. “I’m relieved we saved you in time.”

The doctor gave a light chuckle, which forced him to clear his throat. “It was definitely a close one, but those stimpaks helped reset my rib and the potions patched up my lung.” He placed a hoof to his chest, taking as deep a breath as he could. “It’s got some sensitive new tissue that hurts somethin' awful, but it’s a small price to pay for airtight lungs.”

I nodded and took in the small room around me. It had been almost completely cleared out by Camphor, whose bags were overflowing with new contents. It was dusty but very clean, well-preserved since the megaspells, and-

“Yip!” Molly was clinging to the wall next to me, completely silent and still. My wing spread out reflexively and smacked Willow in the face. Apologizing profusely to the tutting unicorn, I tried to settle my nerves. This moth had saved my life twice since I met her; surely I could stop screaming like a filly every time I glimpsed her.

“Molly rescued me last night,” I told Camphor, my shaky voice evening out. “I was caught by a tribal on my way here; I wouldn't have made it otherwise!”

The hint of a grin tugged at the corners of Camphor’s mouth. “Good girl, Molly,” he cooed to the goremoth. Her antennae wiggled in an acknowledging manner.

“How're your wounds feeling?” he asked me.

I tilted my head slowly while pulling my rear right leg up and carefully flexing it as far as the bandages allowed. While there was still a lot of soreness, I felt much better and told him as such.

Camphor nodded, then asked Willow, “She took those antibiotics I gave you?”

“Mmhmm.” Willow glanced over at me. “You did take dose pills next to your bed, right?”

I assured her that I had.

Camphor picked up a small green-and-white cardboard box and offered it to Willow. “Would you please take this to Spring Bloom? That should help with her congestion.”

The unicorn nodded, lifting the medicine in her magic and turning to leave. Feeling that there wasn’t anything left to discuss with Camphor, I thanked him and moved to follow the guide out of the pharmacy before I was halted by the doctor’s words. “Quillwright. A word, please?”

Somehow his inflection left me uneasy. I halted and turned back to Camphor, whose face had grown serious “... Yes?”

The earth pony stood, wincing a little as he straightened. He waited until Willow had left before speaking. “I do want to thank you for everythin’ you’ve done. Without you I’d have ended up deader than a doornail an’ we’d have lost a lot of good folk.”

I felt relieved at his words and exhaled. “You’re welcome. I was just... doing my duty.”

“No, you weren’t.”

That small wind of relief was squashed immediately and I felt a sudden rush of uneasiness. Did I do something wrong? I was about to ask what Camphor meant when he continued.

“Willow told me you’d agreed to help her even before you knew where your cure might be.” His eyes narrowed as he took one step forward. “Now, you could be an exception, but Steel Rangers have never displayed any altruism towards my… me or anyone other than their own kind.”

“I’m different...”

“You’ve only got thirty caps in your saddlebags,” Camphor interrupted, fixing me with a look of measured distrust, his voice low and severe.

My ears heated up in shame, folding down. Swallowing, I tried to offer an excuse, to explain that I’d get the rest of the caps from my allies or something similar, but nothing sounded convincing.

The doctor gave a low whinny. “If this was a ploy to win some favors, I’d say you’re off to a good start.”

While I had genuinely started to care about these people, my offer to help find Harvest had also been intended to get me on Willow’s good side as early as possible. If I didn’t have the payment by the end of the journey, I figured it would be easier to break it to her if I’d helped save her friend. I knew deep down that I wouldn’t have pitched in to help if I’d had ample caps… and if I hadn’t learned that a cure for typhoof might be in Saint Mare’s as well.

“D-does she know?” I whispered.

Camphor raised his head slightly, clearly disappointed at my admission. “She has the decency to leave her clients’ belongings undisturbed. And no, I haven’t told her.”

My eyes were locked on his hooves, unable to meet his gaze.

“I won’t because of your actions to save us here.” He drew in a breath. “But for Willow's sake and for those she cares about, you will pay her those caps. I don’t care if you have to earn 'em, steal 'em, or get ‘em from your Ranger friends, but you’ll fulfill your end of the bargain.”

I felt myself nodding. The heavy conscience I’d felt since Buckwater had tripled in the span of half a minute and stolen my voice in the process.

“I’d like to believe your group really does practice what you preach: restorin’ Equus to what it once was. I have yet to see anything of the sort.” He then inclined his head. “I also saw that necklace.”

Is there anything he doesn’t know about me now?

“You’d do best to tread lightly around black magic.” With a long blink, my eyes found the strength to connect with his. The doctor’s grave expression was now concerned.

“I… I will,” I stammered.

Camphor nodded. “Glad to hear it.” He reached into a stack of bottles next to him and handed me one. “Now, could you take this to Corona, please?”





I left the pharmacy with the bottle in my mouth, accompanying instructions for Corona, and freshly rejuvenated anxiety. Dark clouds gathered far to the southwest, but the warm sun still powered through what little cover there currently was. I began back towards the school, and it wasn’t long before Wick intercepted me at the end of the street, tail wagging and looking significantly less downtrodden than normal. Behind him followed Corona, who slowed her walk when she spotted me.

The mare had the tribal foal secured around her chest by a sling. He shifted occasionally in fitful sleep, his dark brown mane swept back and out of his face. Corona looked at me apprehensively, evidently still uncomfortable around me after having fled with Slitter last night.

“Oh!” I cleared my throat, holding the bottle forwards and trying to start a conversation without sounding awkward. “I was just about to look for you; Camphor wanted me to give you this.”

Corona looked at the bottle and then at me, accepting it. “Thank you,” she murmured faintly. Whether her tonal volume was actually that low or if it was a result of my eardrums going through the ringer, I was still unsure. “I’m the only mare here willing to feed him…” She indicated the bottle, its label claiming that the tablets contained supplements beneficial for feeding newborns.

I smiled. “Well, I’m… uh… I’m glad you’re willing to take care of him.”

Corona shook her head, sweeping her bangs out of her eyes and diverting her gaze. “Still won’t make up for anything…” I could just barely hear her whisper.

“Hmm?” Did I mishear her?

“I…” Corona began, lowering her head. “Celestia won’t forgive me, even after this.” She gnashed her teeth in anguish. "Mossflower, Okra, Cherish... they died giving their lives for others while I was saving myself.” Her mouth worked slowly as she breathed laboriously. “... If I hadn't abandoned them, maybe I could've helped and... th-they might still be alive."

My gut twisted; I'd completely forgotten about Okra. Without his uniting kindness, the disorganized slaves might not have rallied behind me. If Corona had known Okra before their capture, then deserting him must have wreaked pure torture on her conscience.

If she’s this torn about the situation, how must Orange Kyanite feel? A newly-promoted Paladin who lost his lover, his best friend, and his mentor in the first abroad expedition that he’d led?

“You…” I reached for something to say that wouldn't worsen her survivor's guilt or sound disingenuous. “You still came back. And that in itself is something admirable.”

So why didn't Orange Kyanite come back for you?

Oh Goddesses, not this again. They were different circumstances, and I knew that.

Were they? Corona was one unarmed mare risking recapture or death. Kyanite was a power-armored Paladin with almost an entire squad of Rangers at his back.

Seeds of doubt were planting their roots as I dwelt on this. Meanwhile, Corona had turned her face up to me, tears wetting her cheeks. “But I still faltered when it mattered the most.”

I looked into her grey eyes. I wasn't qualified to ease a grieving pony's soul; where could I start, what would I say? Any reassurances or promises that leapt into my head died in my throat, and I was left speechless as I swallowed and turned my attention to the foal.

Say something! Anything!

A condoling murmur escaped my lips, followed by a weak, “I know. I’m sorry.”

Did Kyanite fail me?

A tear fell from Corona and landed on the foal’s face. The miniscule pony awoke as he writhed in the sling, stretched out his forelegs, and gave a petite whinny. His eyelids finally parted, and I felt my heart climb into my throat at the sight.

He has his mother's eyes.

“I don't know what to call him.” Corona wiped the colt’s face with her fetlock. “Do you… do you think I have the right to name him?”

I shook my head slowly. “Well...” Whether or not Corona was aware that I had been the one responsible for orphaning the foal ate at me. “... You’re probably the only pony here who should.”

“I don't know about that, but…” A deep breath brought Corona's head back up. “I’ll take him to Buckwater. M-maybe somepony there can adopt him.”

“That’d be wonderful,” I reassured her. “You’re still doing a noble thing, taking care of the colt like this.”

Those words seemed to revive Corona’s spirits. Wick, who had been sitting quietly at her hooves, sensed this and rose to wag his tail and sniff the foal. “Thank you,” the mare replied, giving the first smile I’d seen from her.





The sky had begun darkening to match the overcast mood that hung around most of us. Willow raised her head slightly, allowing the gradually strengthening breeze to filter beneath her hood. “Smells like rain. Hope de weat'er holds up...”

We had resolved to vacate Saint Mare’s as soon as possible. While the tribe had been driven out last night and many of its members were now dead, nopony wanted to risk the possibility of vengeful hunters returning to attack us. While Willow, Wick, and I continued onwards, Camphor and Harvest would lead the survivors back to Buckwater.

“Best of luck to you, Quillwright,” Harvest said as he shook my hoof. “I hope you find your way home safely.”

“Thanks.” I smiled and returned the gesture. “I hope you find Marigold soon.”

Harvest gave a sad but warm nod. “ ‘Preciate that, Quill.” Corona, who followed close behind him, dipped her head respectfully, her piece already spoken to me.

Most of the freed slaves insisted on thanking Willow and I personally. The unicorn guide boasted that our combined efforts had, quote, “Scared so much piss out of the mud-lovers that it could fill the length of the Rift,” while I was content to graciously accept the ponies’ gratitude. I had just given an old stallion my welcome, watching as he continued past to also bow to Willow, when Camphor took his place in front of me. I flinched in surprise at how quietly he’d arrived.

“Quillwright,” he spoke evenly, offering his hoof.

I swallowed and placed mine against his. “Camphor.” Noticing the brown-and-red folded wings covering his back, I added, “Molly.”

The doctor wore a mixture of appreciation and knowing sternness. “Stay safe. I also trust that you’ll keep what I said in mind…?”

There was no guessing as to what he referred to. “Of course.” I could definitely sympathize with Corona’s current guilt; my dishonesty with Willow couldn’t continue if I hoped to keep her company.

“Excellent.” Camphor reached around into one of his saddlebags. “Also,” he said as he pulled something out and offered it to me, “ 'Fraid I couldn’t find a sheath, but you should take this.”

The blade of the tribal leader's hellhound dagger gleamed in the sunlight, as long as half my foreleg. I noticed now that there was a small symbol of a claw or talon carved into the hilt. I felt a bit nervous upon seeing the weapon, still gun-shy after having been stabbed by it. “... Are you sure? You don't need it for… amputating or anything?”

Camphor laughed. “Hah! No, Quillwright, I rarely need to resort to such drastic measures. Besides, you don't have a backup weapon of any kind.”

It was true; I had now been caught high and dry without Riptide multiple times. It couldn’t hurt to have a knife in reserves, though the idea of plunging a blade into another pony made me queasy. “Thanks.”

“Hopefully you won’t need to use it again,” concluded Camphor, seeming to read my thoughts. “And finally…” He held out thirty caps. “Here's your portion of what we recovered from the tribals' share. Tried to provide an even cut for everypony.”

I held out a hoof to accept them, but he paused right before they fell from his frog into mine. “I would've given them to Willow, but…” Camphor tilted his head. “I'll grant you the benefit of the doubt.”

Dipping my head to him deferentially, I received my allotment of caps. The doctor responded with a curt smile and then continued on to give his farewell to Willow.





The weather did not hold up.

In fact, it did just the opposite, falling on us in the form of gallons of chilly rainwater. After about an hour's trek out of Saint Mare's, a brigade of bruise-colored clouds rumbled in from the west, knitted themselves together, and blotted out the sunlight once again.

The rain was nearly blowing sideways now. I'd draped my Scribe robes over my bags and rump to keep them dry while shielding my face with my wing, but even these measures did little to defend against the downpour. My water-resistant Stable barding was still holding up, but the cuffs were starting to feel damp. Any longer in this rain and I'd be soaked to the bone.

Willow didn't appear to be faring any better, forced to hold her hood taut against the wind to keep it in place. Her black cloak was beginning to cling to her form, which was revealing itself to be quite skinny. To her credit, she forged ahead briskly and without hesitation, able to navigate the swamp even in this tempestuous atmosphere.

Wick trailed behind me, looking utterly miserable. He was hunched over with his head bowed against the weather and tail tucked in, fur drenched. Every time a thunderclap resounded, he whined and caught up to me, sticking close to my hind legs.

We struggled against the buffeting gale while branches whipped at our faces, reaching in like green-feathered limbs. The small trail we were following was dotted with rapidly growing puddles, and my hooves were now coated with mud. I'd stored the PipBuck in my bags in an attempt to keep it clean and dry.

I shouted to Willow above the noise just as a blinding flash of unseen lightning burst through the trees. "Are we there yet?"

The unicorn gave an emphasized nod that I couldn't mishear or misinterpret, and then replied, "It should be just-"

KRA-POOOW!

A bombastic peal of thunder drowned out the rest of Willow's sentence. I was able to hear her cursing out the weather afterwards, though.

Sure enough, a few minutes later the path joined a wide dirt road, which Willow turned left onto and took us another minute east. I first noticed a proud white limestone wall on the side of the road, which rose up several feet and continued unbroken until we reached a gate. Reminiscent of the Ministry of Image hub's entrance, two towering gates composed of thick wrought iron hung open. The metalworking was remarkable, boasting elegant swirls and tipped by fleurs-de-lis. ‘Magnolia Grove’ was engraved into the arch above, partially obscured by creepers.

Slipping inside, we were now on a wide, weather-eaten brick lane flanked by enormous oak trees, whose canopies created a leafy tunnel and partially kept out the rain. True to the estate's name, wild magnolias grew all over the ground, alongside countless other types of flora. To either side were wild fields and fens, tall grass rippling in the wind.

The road continued down to a massive antebellum mansion, partially obscured by the wild oak trees that now surrounded it. It stood three stories high, with a sloping brown gabled roof and numerous stout pillars running the length of the building’s front. The stained white siding was broken up by tall shuttered windows and a pair of porches which appeared to run the length of the first two floors.

We bounded up the sweeping staircase at the front of the house, finally sheltered from the rain. We shook off whatever water we could, taking cover as Wick did the same and was left covered in frizzy fur. The wraparound porch was filled with overturned patio furniture, swings rusted off their chains, and railings nearly identical to the entrance gates. Turning, I gasped in fright as I found several shrunken heads dangling around the perimeter, swinging and spinning in the wind.

Upon closer inspection, however, they were revealed not to be voodoo trophies but the filthy, dismembered heads of brushable porcelain pony dolls. Their manes were stained black, while large and soulless eyes stared down at us eerily. I took little comfort in the fact that they were just toy heads.

Willow sniffed and then cleared her throat. “Most locals tink dis plantation’s haunted, so dere shouldn't be any tribal types inside.” She eyed the front door, which hung half-ajar. “But stay alert. Ot’er ponies like us who ain’t superstitious might've had de same idea to hole up here,” she said, drawing her shotgun. I didn't feel the need to inform her that I believed in ghosts.

I dried my hooves on a nearby doormat, fetching Riptide and the PipBuck. Once the E.F.S. had booted into view, three lifesigns sprung up on the compass, somewhere inside the mansion.

“Got ‘free neutral marks,” I informed Willow through my pistol as she told Wick to stay, who went and sulked beneath a chair in response.

The unicorn nodded, prodding the solid front door open with her weapon. It swung in, creaking gently, and we both waited, listening as best we could for any reaction from within. Nothing followed, so we crept inside.

The foyer was gigantic, boasting a pair of wide, sweeping oak stairways on either side. An extravagant chandelier still hung in the center above a thick rug; paintings lined the walls, and a silent grandfather clock sat squarely ahead of us. Willow had already moved into the first room to our right, but I was rooted in place, staring in equal parts fascination and dread at what hung from the room's chandelier high above.

Suspended by its neck was a skeletal mass of rusted metal and frayed wires in the vague shape of a pony. The skull, bent at a ninety-degree angle, grinned at me with fully-exposed steel teeth and dark, hollow eye sockets. The body swung like a heavy pendulum from Tartarus as the breeze blew in.

“Psst!” Willow broke me from my transfixion. She didn't seem interested in the machine, indicating that the house was still occupied by strangers. I begrudgingly fell in behind her, intent on returning to study the body at the first opportunity.

We first entered into some sort of lounge. The tall ceilings were insulated with thick cobwebs while the pastel-colored walls were stained by leaks. Piles of fallen plaster chunks, rotted wood, and peeled wallpaper littered the rough carpet, which was eaten away by time. After that was a mold-encrusted kitchen, with appliances torn open for their components and cabinets standing open filled with little more than dust.

Next was a dining room that ran half the length of the mansion’s rear and contained a large, ornate dining table still draped in a tattered lace tablecloth. It was in this room that the marks on my compass flew past, near the middle of the table. I stopped and alerted Willow by whispering, “Above ush,” and pointing a hoof at the ceiling. “Or below.” No basements in the South, right?

The unicorn nodded and we continued around the mansion until we'd made it back to the foyer, passing through a ballroom and a guest bedroom on the way. Willow, taking the lead, ascended the first few steps of the staircase before her hoof landed on a board that squeaked like an unoiled power armor joint. She drew back quickly, casting a look back at me, then forwards. The mansion remained as eerily still as ever.

Willow pointed at me and then at the other staircase. I moved across the room and started up it myself, trying to apply as little pressure as I could while treading on the edges of my hooves. These steps turned out to be far more solid; I reached the landing without so much as a creak. Once Willow had followed the safer route, we moved as one to the door behind which stood the registered lifesigns.

Willow nudged the door open with her gun’s barrel. “Shit!” I heard Willow hiss as she peeked inside. The ticks hadn’t changed color, though I noticed them wiggle slightly. Willow raised her shotgun, but I jumped in front of her first.

“Willow, wait! Who’sh…” The words froze on my lips as I saw three feral ghouls crouched in the billiard room’s corner, staring at Willow with deadened, glinting eyes. As soon as I was in sight, however, the marks immediately rubified and the ghouls growled ferociously, lunging to their hooves and charging at us.

“Get back!” shouted Willow, shoving me backwards and unloading a shell into the first ghoul. The flesh of its barrel was shredded as it fell aside into an overturned chair. The next shot popped the second ghoul’s head like a water balloon; black ichor exploded backwards and drenched the third ghoul, who was shamble-galloping erratically.

Willow desperately began to reload her shotgun. She fumbled in her saddlebag for another shell as the screaming ghoul closed in. I shouted in panic, trying to right myself and aim in time…

... But it was too late.

The ghoul ran right past Willow, ignoring her completely and instead locking its deadened eyes on me, long trails of dark saliva falling from its mouth. Riptide sent a pair of bullets slicing through the feral’s foreleg and chest, and It tumbled to the floor where it thrashed and howled, spitting like a rabid animal.

I was panting with fear as I got my hooves under me, letting Riptide fall from my mouth in surprise. “Wha- what was…”

KA-BAM!

Willow’s shotgun disintegrated the ghoul’s head, painting the floorboards a sickening tar color. The guide was heaving as well, her gun shakily floating in front of her as she reloaded it, muttering to herself.

After composing myself, I put away Riptide. “Willow?”

The unicorn ignored me, snapping the shotgun back together. She started walking past me, and as she neared, I could make out some of her words: “... Clear last time…”

“Willow.”

She stopped. “What?”

“What was that?”

Willow just re-strapped the shotgun over her back. “Feral ghouls. You ain’t got dem in Equestria?”

I stomped a hoof. “You know what I mean. That thing just ran past you like you weren’t even there.”

“ ‘Cause it saw you lying on de floor, all vulnerable.”

“No, they don’t do that.”

Willow halted, facing me. “Well, de zombies you know are different from ours.”

I took a breath. “You’re a ghoul, aren’t you?”

Willow froze. I thought she was going to yell at me, but after a pause she just turned, moving back towards the stairs. “You’ve got quite de imagination...”

“I had my E.F.S. up. They weren’t hostile when you were all they could see.”

Stopping again, Willow stared out over the railing at the ornate chandelier. Taking a deep breath, she shook her head and pulled back her hood.

The first I saw of Willow was a fierce red mane, tousled and unkempt. As she turned to face me, she yanked down her thin scarf to reveal sooty grey fur. There was a cluster of dark freckles atop her snout, while upon her cheek and neck were radiation scars; her eyes, once ringed with golden irises, were now coated in a translucent film of cataracts. Her expression was one of frustration and self-contempt.

“Big reveal,” she muttered bitterly, avoiding eye contact. “I’m a fuckin’ mutant.”

I’d have described Willow as a half-ghoul. The reddened welts left by radiation and glassed-over eyes were the telltale signs that the unicorn was in the earliest stages of ghoulification; she still had her normal voice and her hair, at least.

“Well,” I began, not looking to upset Willow, though it appeared inevitable. “I’m sorry to learn that you’re… this way, but… I’m glad we can have an eye-to-eye conversation now.”

“Eye-to-eye, huh?” Willow’s vision rose to connect with mine. Her eyelids drooped slightly, giving her a default expression of unamusement. “You wanna look me in the face when you tell me to fuck off?”

I blinked. “Come again?”

The guide shook her head. “You’re still only a day’s trek from Buckwater. You want a different guide, now’s your best chance to find one.”  She floated the emerald caps out of her saddlebag and with visible distress let my payment fall to the floor. “Take dem,” she snapped, glaring at me. She turned to the stairs, trotting down them briskly and leaving me a little confused.

She expects me to dump her now that I know what she is? Granted, it wasn't unreasonable to imagine that she’d had clients abandon her after the same revelation. I scooped the caps up in my hoof and shouted after the unicorn as she threw open the front door. “Willow, wait!”

Galloping down the staircase, I made it out onto the porch just as Willow had called Wick to her and looked prepared to depart. Her hood and scarf fluttered weakly as the storm’s wind wove through the porch.

“I paid you to guide me to the border, regardless of any mutation.”

Willow stopped, watching as I held my hoof forwards and offered the caps back. She gave a rumbling whicker of uncertainty, lacking any kind of bass in her small chest.

I knew that my next words would be a make-or-break for our partnership. “Look, we've risked our lives for each other already.” My voice grew sincere, which was easier because for once I wasn’t trying to lie to her. “I trust you.”

Pursing her lips, Willow's eyes darted back and forth between my own and the currency. I could tell that she didn't just want the money; she needed it, desperately. When I nodded reassuringly, she quickly wrapped them in her golden magic.

“You're a really terrible Steel Ranger, you know dat?” she snarked as the caps returned to her bags.

My relieved sigh came out as a genuine laugh. “Hah, well… without my official robes I guess I don't know what to do.”

Willow didn't outwardly react to my response but no longer looked ready to leave. The unicorn gave me one more hesitant look, as if to ensure I wasn’t reconsidering, and then headed back indoors with Wick. Once she was out of earshot, I blew out a sigh and ran a hoof through my mane, heart still racing at how close I’d come to being left on my own again.




> Chapter 7: Proxy - Part II
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------





As the weather continued to rage unabated and my clothes still dripped with moisture, I returned indoors to change. Willow and Wick had both disappeared into the house. I thought it best to give the unicorn some time to herself before we spoke again; in the meantime, I had something new to investigate once I was out of this damp barding.

The room immediately to the left of the entrance looked to be a dusty old boudoir judging by the threadbare fainting couch and a mirror spilled onto its front. Oil lamps lined the walls and a limestone fireplace sat cold and barren against the far wall. I sat my bags and clothing aside and righted the mirror, which was relatively intact despite a few cracks running through it. It was the first decent reflective surface I’d seen since leaving the Phoebe.

The haggard mare that gazed back at me had a coat matted into a dirty hazelnut shade, the kind of ingrained filth that would take days to fully cleanse. As I slowly turned my head side-to-side, I winced at the strain on my neck muscles and at the state of my mane. A cascade of loose hairs, dandruff, water droplets, and odd swamp sheddings sprinkled out of my hair as I raked a hoof through it. Despite the impromptu grooming I still looked like a wild pony.

Leaning in close, I studied my face. My bloodshot and exhausted eyes, drained from sickness and insufficient rest, looked unfamiliar. The burns from the Stable explosion had left faint scars beneath my fur, alongside numerous nicks and cuts I’d picked up from thorny flora or the falls I’d taken. I felt some consolation since the bruise on the rear of my skull felt like it had healed and my hearing seemed to have evened out. I had to admit that when things were silent, however, I was assaulted with more ringing than seemed healthy. Ugh, please don't be an ear infection...

Now moving to my body, I shivered as I found multiple ticks had attached themselves to my legs. I pried them off with the edge of my hoof, crushing any which weren’t fast enough to scuttle beneath the floorboards. I fished out some gossamer tangled in the fur of my withers and mud was flicked from the tips of my tail hairs. Checking beneath my flank’s bandages, I found that the dagger wound had fully sealed, so I removed the wraps and tested my leg by flexing it back and forth. It was still sore, but I had full feeling again and could apply most of my weight to it. By Celestia’s blessing, my cutie mark had avoided damage.

Done with my little refresh, I returned to the foyer. I focused on the mechanical body hanging from the chandelier, eagerly circling it. There had to be a way to safely take it down, though getting to that was difficult as I just wanted to keep gaping in captivated horror at the corpse.

The robot’s skeletal frame was covered by protective plates where the flanks and scapulas would be. The plates were dirtied and uncomfortably reminiscent of the color of bleached bones, many scored by ballistic damage and blackened with gunpowder. One of the rear legs had fallen off, loose wires dangling from its hip socket like colorful tendons.

Where a flesh-and-blood pony’s cutie mark would normally be located was a circular design depicting the vitruvian pony, an anatomical illustration I’d seen a couple of times in various textbooks. It depicted a perfectly-sculpted pony superimposed upon a ring, legs shown in two different positions symmetrical to its disembodied wings. Above the head floated a horn, potentially elevating the figure into an alicorn.

“What are you?” I murmured, staring at the body. It creaked in response, swaying as the wind outside picked up and I felt a weak draft sweep through the room. Some avant-garde decor, that's for sure.

I strained to haul the weight, but by wiggling it back and forth I was able to shift the wide grandfather clock across the floor and beneath the machine. The couch from the other room was slid in against that and allowed me to clamber atop the clock. Now at shoulder height with the hanging body, I stood on my hoof-tips to figure out how badly the cable noose was tangled around its neck. It looked to have been tied and knotted with magic; there was no feasible way I could undo it with my hooves or teeth, but the hellhound blade could most likely sever the cable above.

As I leaned out farther to see where the cable had been secured to the chandelier, I felt the clock beneath me tip and overbalance. Squealing, I began to plummet. My single wing spread outwards and flapped in a subconscious reflex. For a moment, it seemed the action had saved me, until I realized the air around me was glowing with magic. I stared like an idiot at Willow, who had entered the room just in time to witness my plummet begin. She slowly raised a brow as I wriggled in her telekinetic field.

“Need some help?” she asked with a tone more amused than sympathetic.

“Y-yeah, thanks,” I stammered out awkwardly.

After lowering me to the floor, Willow gave a short shake of her head. “Are you sure you want to take dat ting down? Gives me bad-bad vibes...”

Willow Wisp’s undressed body was scrawny, covered in patches of radiation scarring like her face and neck. As I briefly scanned her, my eyes fell upon her cutie mark: a softly glowing lantern, contrasting clearly against the soot-colored fur surrounding it. She caught me staring at her scars; I looked away quickly, but not before I noticed her ears lower and one of her forelegs rise anxiously to obscure a blemish on her chest.

I cleared my throat. “It doesn’t look like it should pose any kind of threat. Probably hasn’t worked in…” There actually wasn’t as much rust on the machine as I’d expected, only plaguing some of the internal components that weren't built out of stainless steel. “... Several years.”

“It’s been here long as I can recall,” Willow remarked. “At least five.”

I nodded. “Well, could you help me get it down? I’d do it myself, but…” The outstretched remains of my wing finished the statement for me.

Though she seemed reluctant, Willow acquiesced. Levitating the hellhound dagger up to the noose, she was able to easily saw through the cable and caught the body as it fell. Willow milled around in the foyer, studying paintings that hung on the surrounding walls while I arranged the body on its side, the internals easily accessible for my autopsy. I was no Apothecary like Aurora Tide nor a ‘medical practitioner’ as Camphor put it, but I was a Scribe who had trained beneath genuine engineers.

It was a truly fascinating assembly, built upon a skeletal steel chassis which was slightly larger than the average pony. Veins of yellow, red, and blue wires wound through the ribcage and limbs, and in place of a heart was a bulky, corroded spark battery. Just below that was an empty slot, possibly for a gem or ward of some kind. The light plating on the sides was identified as fiberglass when my hoof tested the density. Brackets were built into the ribcage where weapons could be mounted, though they were now empty.

The skull was something out of a nightmare. I determined that the jaw wasn’t designed to open, instead simply meant to give the overall shape a closer resemblance to a real pony. The throat held a small black box and a speaker, both wired up into the skull. There looked to be camera lenses in the eye sockets, both fogged up and partially cracked. The cranium had a severe dent in the side, as if it had been kicked or struck with a weapon. Rotating the neck, I found a port in the back of the skull which was identical to those found in Stable-Tec terminals.

Wick had joined us by now, and, after greeting me with his wet nose, became very interested in smelling the various metal components on display. Willow saw me comparing the PipBuck connector to the skull’s port and spoke up.

“You tink it’s safe to mess around wid a synt?” she asked, her voice carrying a hint of fear. “What if it wakes up or somet’ing?”

I’d already been inclined to believe that this was a synth as previously described by Willow. It was now confirmed. Hesitating, I glanced up from my patient. “So this came from the Institute?”

Willow nodded. “Ouais. I’ve only ever seen a couple, and dis is de only one I’ve gotten to see up close.”

That meant the vitruvian pony had to be the insignia of the Equestrian Institute of Technology; they had survived the end of the world.

“... Ever wondered how they work?” I inquired, indicating the exposed internals.

The half-ghoul looked suspicious. “Dey walk and dey shoot. What more is dere to know?”

“Well…” I grunted as I pried apart the ribcage. “First, here’s the spark battery. It’s wired to here and here… and then here’s the ‘hip’ where the thigh actuators connect. Maybe… yeah, if you aimed a shotgun back here, you could rupture the hydraulic line and cripple a leg. And the way the plating is arranged, the spark battery could be visible from its five- or seven-o-clock. Ooh, and look! The spine isn’t a rigid rail; it has two pivot joints there and there. Aw, this is so cool!”

My enthused interest in the synth’s assembly seemed lost on Willow, who just hovered close and gave an, “Uh-huh,” after each of my statements.

“Anyway, I think I could learn something more if I link into its head.”

“Well… yeah, but… what if you turn it on?”

I didn't see how it could activate with a battery in as poor a condition as this one. “Look, it’s not going to just sit up or anything. Trust me, alright?”

Willow shifted her weight as she peered warily at the mechanical corpse.. “Uh-huh… you know dis, how?”

I took a breath and leaned back. “Because I’ll make double-sure, just for you.” I took the hellhound blade and held the point above the spark battery, then leaned into the hilt hard and fast. The dagger easily sank into the ancient power source, generating a short pop as the metal gave way. Once I had run it all the way through and had reached the floor, I pulled the blade back out, which was now coated in glittering battery acid.

“Dat’s… one way to do it,” Willow Wisp commented as she chewed her tongue. “Good. Tink I'd have a heart attack if I saw a wire-vein stomping around in here.”

Giving a satisfied huff, I set my weapon aside and reached for the PipBuck again, readily fitting its cable into the head’s port. The bracelet hummed quietly as it accessed any information it could. All seemed to be running smoothly until the process was halted by a corrupted file warning, then another, then another, then yet more. I scowled at the dent in the synth’s skull; whoever had dealt this blow had also partially damaged the hard drive within.

I shouldn’t have been surprised, as damaged relics were a common enough occurrence in my field. I had lost track of how many times I’d had to give up transcribing a paper because it was too faded or water-damaged, or a unicorn Scribe had to set aside a cracked memory orb. Eventually you had to learn to be thankful for anything you could recover, even if it wasn’t an ideal amount.

There were still fragments available, however, which I copied onto the PipBuck. It gave me a warm, fuzzy, and secure feeling to collect and preserve data. I reflected over how the old device now held the story of a Stable and the fractured memories of a machine…

“You okay?” came Willow’s voice.

My little spell evaporated as I realized I was cradling the PipBuck like an infant. I immediately sat up straight and tried to look professional. “Mhm!” Flustered, I set the PipBuck aside. "Just… thinking." I awkwardly stared at the synth, trying to think of something to say to excuse my odd behavior.

Then, startling us both, Wick barked.

We both regarded him with confusion, trying to understand what had managed to aggravate the normally quiet and relaxed dog. He was staring unflinchingly at the vacant balcony above us, hackles raised.

“What's wrong, boy?” Willow asked softly. We both listened for sounds of another presence, but the otherworldly stillness within the mansion was unbroken. After several heartbeats, Wick trotted to the stairs and awkwardly hopped up them as quickly as his old body could manage. He loped onto the second floor and disappeared from view.

Willow retrieved her shotgun and stood at the base of the staircase. Her ears rotated to discern any sounds of trouble above the rain that kneaded the roof. Willow looked at me with an unsettled expression. “Your PipBuck saying anyting about dis?”

“Uh…” I reattached the bracelet and switched the EFS on. Only the two green indicators for Willow and Wick were registered on my compass. “No, there shouldn't be anything up there…” Willow frowned but followed her pet up to the second floor anyway.

I decided to take a break from the dissection and followed, Riptide in mouth. I stepped around the ghoul corpse at the top of the stairs and peeked into each room along the hallway. In what looked to be the master bedroom, I spied the remnants of a porcelain doll collection strewn around several shelves, the source of the macabre porch decorations. It felt several degrees cooler in the dark space and was far too eerie for my liking. Two rooms later I reunited with the dog and unicorn duo.

They were in the home’s study, lined with floor-to-ceiling shelves and thick with the overpowering, intoxicating aroma of ancient paper. Wick snuffled around the carpet, which held a layer of books strewn far and wide. At my hooves was a hardback copy of “Historic Pearis: A Complete Guide.” Dim light filtered inside through the wooden shutters, while Willow's horn glowed bright enough to illuminate the rest of the room.

“He probably spotted a mouse,” Willow suggested as I entered. She stood with her shotgun lowered, watching her pet investigate the room, still acting a bit spooked. Her theory was plausible; my E.F.S. was tuned to only register lifeforms above a certain size, lest the compass flood with indicators for every insect, bird, and rodent above, around, or beneath the wearer.

Willow didn't act surprised when I joined Wick’s eager roaming, carefully snatching up spilled tomes and establishing a neat stack next to a fancy terminal upon the room's desk. Bent pages were lovingly straightened out and covers wiped clean as I cleared the floor. As I lifted a hefty thesaurus, I was entranced by the gloriously illustrated cover which had lain hidden beneath.

A rush of excitement pushed my eyelids wide open as I took in the scene: a pegasus crouched in a battle stance and radiating badass confidence from her magnetic rose irises. She was atop a speeding train, facing down a group of slimy-looking griffons in grey-and-red uniforms as wind and snow ripped at her pith hat and brown bomber jacket. Behind the mare loomed a towering crystallic spire, glowing with blue light and flanked by the silhouette of a flying saucer.

Daring Do!

Unfortunately, my excitement drained out of my nose along with a disappointed snort as I finished studying the cover. The subtitle read, “... and the Kingdom of the Crystal Heart.”

The Steel Rangers hadn’t ever held fiction to quite the same regard as nonfiction material, and tasks such as completing the Daring Do saga were low on most Scribes’ list of priorities. I’d had the privilege of owning Griffon’s Goblet, Treasure of the Saddle Madre, Riddle of the Sphinx, and Staff of Sacanas when I was growing up, all four of which I adored and had read religiously. After enlistment, I’d tracked down over a dozen more entries in the series, including Crystal Heart. It was unanimously agreed upon by myself and two other Scribes that this entry was the weakest. That said, it was still a precious reminder of home and was undoubtedly more intellectually stimulating than the anti-zebra pamphlet could ever be.

As I transferred it into my saddlebags, I noticed Willow studying a framed photograph on the desk. The picture showed a small family of ponies standing in front of the mansion, including a unicorn father and a mother and son, both earth ponies. The son beamed brightly, his curly pastel-blue bangs obscuring his eyes as he leaned against his smiling mother’s chest. The father wore a cap embossed with two stacked, stylized V’s, and his hide was reddened in places as if he’d been very lightly singed all over.

When Willow looked away from the photo, she noticed me stashing the novel. “What's dat?” she asked, now staring at my bag.

“Daring Do!” I answered, taking the book back out and showing it to her. “You a fan?”

The unicorn shifted a little, shrugging. “Uh, well,” She grew hesitant, avoiding my eyes and instead studying her hoof. “I'm not exactly de best wid words, no.”

I felt a little awkward, unsure of how to respond to that. Sure, wastelanders were often illiterate, but I had expected Willow's education to be above the median. “Ah.”

“Besides, I have more important t'ings to do den read some old story.”

“Oh?” I couldn’t help but scoff, incensed by her dismissal of fiction.

“Yeah, I've grown outta dem,” Willow stated defensively. She huffed and rubbed her face, shooting me an exasperated grimace. “Look, do we have to talk about dis?”

While I still felt defensive of my lifelong passion, I thought it best not to get her riled up, especially since we might still be on shaky terms. “Fine.” That response came out sounding slightly more bitter than I had intended, but Willow didn't outwardly react to it.

I moved on to searching the study’s desk, which Wick had been smudging with his wet nose. The top drawers held some pencils for me, while the lower ones stored a variety of postcards and letters from days long past. Within the last drawer I unearthed a composition notebook with the name “Cotton Knit” scrawled across its cover in blocky and deliberate hoofwriting. I cracked the stiff cover apart to find the same font scribbled haphazardly within, barely adhering to the ruled sheets and often running off the edges entirely. It was a challenge to decipher the individual words due to their poor quality, but I could make out bits and pieces.

It appeared that Cotton Knit was a colt who lived on this plantation with his parents. He loved playing hoofball, visiting his grandparents, playing hoofball, drawing, playing hoofball, “helping” his dad farm their crops, playing… wow, he really loved hoofball. Every other page featured Cotton’s artwork, often depicting stick ponies playing sports or partaking in duties around the plantation. His mansion home was also drawn frequently, and as the journal continued his skills also improved, with traits like simple shading and steadier lines making his scratchings less interpretive.

Noticing my interest in the book, Willow appeared at my near side, tilting her head to try and read as well. “And what’s dis?”

“A journal from a former resident,” I answered, continuing to flip through the pages. “A colt named Cotton Knit.”

“Pre-war?”

“Yep, the son of a farmer who owned Magnolia Grove.” As the pages turned, I caught brief peeks into the daily life of the young pony. His family frequently hosted his grandmother on weekends, where she would play board games with Cotton, bake cookies for him, and walk with him in the gardens. One moment Cotton was visiting a museum in Brayton Rouge, the next he was raving about a ride he’d taken on the new tractor his father had brought home.

At least, my eyes had read ‘tractor.’ In my mind, those words had translated to ‘salvage.’ Turning to Willow, I asked, “Is there a garage on the property somewhere?”

She stared into space for a few moments while she considered. “I… tink so?”

“Well, I want to check it out; there might be a tractor inside.” I used the anti-zebra pamphlet to bookmark my place in Cotton’s journal. “You wanna come with?”

“Better den just sitting around in here, sure. Let’s go.”







Before heading outside we hunted around the entrance for an umbrella, but unfortunately they had long since been looted. I retrieved my bags and Stable suit while Willow slipped back into her mostly-dried cloak. The rear porch was much the same as the front, though its stairs led down to a brown brick path which disappeared into the wild gardens. A few more disfigured dolls dangled around us. I could smell the distinct scent of pecan carried by the wind out of the growth ahead of us.

“Alrighty, guide pony, lead me to that garage!”

Willow's cloak once again covered her, though she no longer bothered with a scarf. She just shrugged. “Might as well take de lead yourself.”

“... Isn't navigation your special talent?”

“No. Well, it's… ugh! I've never been back here, yeah? I only ever spent time in de house. Parents never said dere was anyt’ing useful out back.”

I flicked my tail in mock dismissal. “Hmph! We'll see about that.” I hoisted the Stable suit above me with my wing and a hoof, then started on the path closest to us.

Walls of vivid green closed in on all sides; the hedges, untamed, had continued growing until they became little more than a wild tangle of branches and leaves, so high that they almost stitched together a canopy. While disorienting, the path was still visible beneath webs of vines and infringing grass. We passed by intermittent stone benches and sculptures. At some point we passed a small pond that must have contained more algae than water, in addition to a mold-conquered fountain sculpted into a merpony.

I turned to point this out to Willow but found her lagging behind, her shotgun readied. She was tilting her head around both corners of an intersection we’d just came from. When I returned to her to ask what the problem was, she sounded on-edge.

“Okay. I was looking around and I… I swear I saw someone behind us.”

I squinted at her. “What kind of ‘someone?’ “

“A… a zebra, I tink. I don’t know.” Doubt was overtaking her quickly. “Probably just my fucked-up eyes getting worse.”

Looking to ease her anxiety, I checked the E.F.S. and found no new ticks on the compass. “We’re alone.”

The two of us continued on, albeit a little more apprehensively. Soon, my worries were forgotten and I felt like Daring Do stumbling across the remnants of some long-lost civilization when a weather-beaten mausoleum came into view. It was modestly wide, with imposing architecture constructed of stained white limestone identical to the gates at the front of the estate. Just above the entrance was carved the name “Poitou.”

We were up the two steps and out of the downpour in a flash. The interior of the mausoleum was dark and cramped, but after I switched my light on I was ecstatic at the sight of more history. The tomb's centerpiece was the bust of a dour-faced, strong-jawed donkey jack, with fuzzy chops and a smooth dome. There was a bronze plaque attached to the base which was written in a language I couldn't quite decipher, though I did distinguish the name Jean-Luc Poitou.

On the surrounding walls were smaller plaques each carrying the surname Poitou. These were attached over small sealed doors arranged in rows and columns, like an elegant stone morgue, arranged by date until ending with René Poitou. An expired water ward was installed in the ceiling.

“And here’s where de asses were all buried…” Willow observed, her lips twisted.

“Do you know what this says?” I asked her, gesturing at the bust's plate. Some words resembled Equestrian, some didn't.

“Uh… I speak Prench fine, reading it's a different story.”

“... So you can't?

“I can. Just don't expect it to be pretty, yeah?” She plopped down in front of the bust, squinting at the words while tilting her head. I kept my PipBuck lamp aimed at it as she read, “Here… lay, er, lies, Jean-Luc Poitou, uh… sergeant, I tink… of her… majesty’s fifth... regiment…” She slowed down on the next word. “I don’t… I’m not sure about dis one.”

“Libérateur. Liberator?” I suggested.

“Probably. Of de… c-colony... of Brayton Rouge, loving husband and dad.” She un-slouched and shrugged. “Dere’s de long and short of it, I tink.”

There was a list carved into the wall above the bust of Jean-Luc which looked to be locations and dates; I did recognize a couple of the names like Brayton Rouge or Neigh Orleans, but there were others I’d never heard of such as LaFarrier or Baudetville. Above the list hung the tattered remains of what I presumed to be the flag of Mulisiana. It was purple, with an emblem in the center comprised of a white mockingbird and a golden fleur-de-lis.

“The donkeys went to war with the zebras, right?” I knew pitifully little about Mulisianan history; granted, I had always been far more interested and invested in Equestrian. Not only that, but there were few books I’d found that ever went into much detail about the region south of us, often a mere footnote during the highlights of Equestrian expansion and development.

“Eeyup, back when dey were first colonizing here. Some four centuries ago or de like.”

Once I felt I had picked over everything of interest in the mausoleum, we continued traversing the gardens. I used my knife to clear us a path through a particularly dense section, after which we were delivered in front of a medium-sized wooden shack of sorts. It sagged with age but had proven its sturdiness by refusing to collapse under a thick layer of plant life. There was a garage door installed in one end of the structure that looked far more modern than the rest, relatively speaking.

Willow kept her shotgun prepared just in case we found any more ferals seeking shelter inside. At some point following the war, a colossal oak tree behind the shed had toppled over and sheared off the far corner of the roof, allowing nature to encroach into the room. Through this hole cascaded a torrent of rainwater, accompanied by many drips that found their way inside through the deteriorating ceiling. Opportunistic vines had slithered their way inside, overtaking several tool shelves and consuming the back half of the family's tractor.

At first glance the farming machine in question looked to be steam-powered, which was disappointing. I had hoped for it to use a spark engine, as I had dismantled a few of them in the past and knew which components were most useful. The vehicle was stout and sturdily built. A large exhaust protruded from the engine compartment and a plow hung from the rear, still caked in fossilized mud. As I fiddled with the grill to open the engine compartment, I noticed a small steel ornament attached to the front, which matched the double V design on the cap of Cotton Knit’s father.

I flipped the cover upwards and was halted by the bewildering motor which had once turned the tractor’s wheels. Neither steam nor sparks had powered it. Instead this looked to be some kind of combustion engine with multiple pistons running the length of the block.

“Does this…” I kept looking over the engine compartment, trying to glean any more information I could. “... Run on coal?”

“Nah, it’s some fuel made outta wilt apples, I tink. Filling stations are scattered here and dere. You can still find some advertisements about it, too.”

“Interesting...”

Leaving the engine for the moment, I concentrated on locating the tools I’d need for disassembly. Several wooden shelves and workbenches sat against the walls, containing a wide variety of small implements and construction materials such as nails and two-by-fours. One counter held a half-disassembled scooter.

I pulled a grimy socket wrench out from a milk crate with my teeth, dropping it on a nearby counter, then spat on the floor and cringed at the awful taste I'd had to suffer through. I sifted around the rest of the crate, but the sockets were nowhere to be found; clearly organization had not been the father's strong suit.

“Well, shit,” I heard Willow mutter as I dug through a bin that was weighed down by a mound of nails. “Dis must've been de slave quarters…”

Done searching through that, I briefly shifted my attention to the room. Indeed, there were faded imprints on the floor where it seemed walls had once segmented the building into small rooms, like pens for livestock. The windows were very thin and nearly at ceiling height, with single wrought-iron bars dividing the middle of each.

“Huh,” I commented, then hoofed open a toolbox containing nothing but screwdrivers and a lone combination wrench. My conscience clashed with my disregard for stripes; I detested slavery with every fiber of my being and wouldn't wish it upon any creature. Yet an obstinate voice deep in the back of my head, one that sounded like my grandfather, whispered that it was a lesser sin when committed against zebrakind. I grit my teeth and tried to shut it out. I'm just not as open as Willow is...

“Fucking donks…” the guide pony growled. “Dey're real pieces of shit, de lot of ‘em.”

… Or maybe not.

The center drawer of a cabinet I was exploring at last yielded a plastic tray holding an array of sockets. I took them to the tractor and went to work disassembling what I could of it. Any relatively clean bolts were plucked out, radiator components were detached, and I salvaged anything that looked to be composed of aluminum or platinum. Housed directly above the engine compartment was a water ward, out of juice. I still took it, in case it had some value. Even a single cap or two was worth earning.

When I had finished, the tractor was probably thirty pounds lighter. The scrap metal I’d taken was loaded into a spare milk crate while smaller pieces were dumped into a toolbox, both of which I hefted onto my back.

“Alright, let’s head back.”







Willow volunteered to dispose of the dead ghouls. I didn’t object, and took the opportunity to return to the study. There was still a wealth of untouched material hoarded there, and I wanted to look further into the uncorrupted data I had extracted from the synth.

The family’s home terminal was long-dead, but that wasn’t of concern; instead, I swept the case and display aside and linked the PipBuck to the keyboard. While I had to lean in close to read the small screen, it was worth it to navigate using a comfortable, complete Equestrian alphabet. The encryption was reminiscent of Stable-Tec's but updated, something learned the hard way when the backdoor used to enter terminals failed to function.

I blinked and sat back, gnawing my hoof. I should’ve expected this; after all, Stable-Tec hadn’t been able to patch the security flaw due to the untimely apocalypse, but an active organization such as the Institute surely would’ve continued developing the code. For half an hour I tried every trick I knew, but the encryption was airtight and I wasn't at all familiar with its flaws, if any. I let out a resigned scowl and lightly kicked the desk, wishing I’d spent a little more time developing my hacking skills with Vox.

“Maybe somepony else in this swamp can pry you open?” I murmured to the screen, then snorted derisively and rolled my eyes. Yeah, right. Might as well have them install SATS on the PipBuck while they’re at it…

Now with the metaphorical wind stolen from beneath my wing, I lounged in the desk’s chair, propping my chin up with a hoof and taking another account of the surrounding shelves. My gaze swept up and down across several dozen different spines that I had considered reading, but I already had content that needed finishing in my saddlebags first. Besides, Terminals for Dodos probably wasn’t going to help me bypass the Institute’s security any more easily.

To be honest, I didn't really have much interest in the anti-zebra pamphlet, but felt some degree of obligation to at least skim the contents since I’d picked it up. The first image was an illustration depicting a massive and looming hooded figure reaching a striped hoof over a crowd of fleeing ponies. The monstrous zebra’s eyes glowed a malicious yellow, mirroring the flames that consumed the decimated cottages in the background. A bit cartoonish, but whatever.

The text within reiterated that zebras were unpredictable, underhoofed, and had violent tendencies; nothing surprising. A few tips cited that zebras loved to dig at the ground and rhymed excessively, particularly outside of song. Wait, I thought the rhyming was just a stereotype joke...?

The back listed contact addresses for numerous Ministry of Morale hubs in Mulisiana, as well as recommending how to tip local law enforcement and to “rally your neighbors to defend the nation.” Unimpressed with the short read, I traded it for the Daring Do book. I only got one page in before I shut the cover and set it aside, far too frustrated to try and scrape up any semblance of enjoyment from the worst novel in the series.

As I tried to arrange a secure place for it in my saddlebag, a glint from within stole my attention. I knew what it was even before I gave it any closer inspection. Heart beating faster with nervous energy, I withdrew the voodoo necklace and let it hang in front of my eyes, the ruby gleaming even in the soft light of the study.

This item’s presence had been nagging at me since Saint Mare’s. Even though I’d been trying to avoid thinking about it, my bags felt heavier with its inclusion, and I wasn’t even sure why. What had my anxiety spiking around the necklace? It was just some jewelry; whether or not it had magical properties, it didn’t pose any threat. My mind weighed the clear positives of trying on the necklace against the ambiguous negatives I’d been warned about by Camphor. If there were any side effects, I could just take it off, couldn’t I?

Casting a furtive look at the entrance to ensure Willow wouldn’t walk in on me dressing up like a tribal, I slipped the necklace over my head, letting the ruby rest against my fluffy chest alongside my three holotags.

I felt no different than I had seconds prior. Was this what it felt like to be a unicorn? Somehow I had expected to sense some kind of energy flowing through my veins, to transform into a superpony or something. That seemed a bit foolish in retrospect, but I was desperate to feel some kind of empowerment.

Can I lift things with my mind now? Setting the Daring Do novel back on the desk, I focused intensely upon it and tried to will the cover to open. The book didn’t budge even a centimeter. Screwing up my features and leaning forward, I held my breath and tensed my muscles as I gave it another shot. Still, nothing happened.

Okay… this is normal, isn’t it? You can’t just pick up magic instantly. Giving it a second go, I tried to push my mind forward. Telekinesis is just an extension of your body, right?

How do unicorns even do this kind of thing? The idea of lifting an object without touching it was so foreign to me that I didn’t know how to begin understanding the technique. My fellow Scribes never made a show of their magic abilities; to them it was simply innate, and lifting a quill or retrieving a book from a tall shelf required neither warm-up nor particular effort.

My father had been a unicorn, so I knew I must have some magic in my blood, but I didn’t even know where to start when it came to converting my mind into a tool. The concept was utterly alien to my personal understanding of physics. Eventually I felt a headache setting in from trying to think so hard. Leaning back, I supported my head in one hoof while the other lifted the necklace up.

The ruby in the center was a gorgeously reflective gemstone that looked to be filled with a haze similar to that of a memory orb. Based on the way the necklace had been used by its former owner, it seemed to act as a conduit for the innate magic all ponies possessed. Only unicorns were able to channel it into spells, since their horn was one such conduit. The other races could still apply their magic, just in different forms. For instance, being a pegasus, I had some ability to affect the weather. With this, however...

It felt as if I stared at the hypnotizing ruby for minutes.

“You,” came a whisper from somewhere in the room. It was extremely soft and quick, as if murmured while inhaling.

I spun in my seat, suddenly fearing that Willow had been spying on me, but I was alone. Still uncertain, I called her name hesitantly but heard no response. Fed up with this nonsense, I took off the necklace and dropped it back into my saddlebag. Now’s not the time to start hearing things...

Moving on, I alternated between examining and idly sorting the bookcases alphabetically for an hour or two before uncovering a steamer trunk in the corner of the room. It had been weighed down by a pile of cardboard boxes and looked ancient even by pre-war standards, which stood out distinctly. Two ornate latches were unlocked and the lid cracked open, promptly bathing me in the intoxicating scent of aged paper. It was overwhelmingly musty, standing out even amidst the study’s already thick atmosphere. I took a few moments to simply let the comforting biblichor envelop me before I began searching for anything of interest.

The trunk was filled to the brim with documents, letters, and books, yellowed with age and all covered in Prench text. I carefully began peeling back the layers of paper, taking brief glances at the words while I stacked them neatly on the floor, trying to sort by each variety of material. Relying on my years of experience cataloguing the Steel Ranger archives, it was an effortless task.

Additionally, I took this opportunity to further study Prench writing and to develop my understanding of it as much as possible. Many proper nouns were analogous to Equestrian words in their spelling and I was able to assume the definition of many smaller words based on sentence structures. I used a spare notepad to create a list of hypothesized definitions, scribbling several pages worth.

One word that continued to spring up amidst everything else was “zèbre”, which wasn't hard to guess. It wasn't until I reached a heavy ledger at the very bottom before I began to see it on every single page, along with what appeared to be descriptions and colors, height and weight measurements, and attached currency values. Is this a ledger for slaves? It was thick, with several dozen pages worth of information.

Once I was close to the end of the book, a folded letter slid out from between two of the pages. It looked to have been crumpled and then smoothed back out at some point, well-compressed by the ledger. Utilizing my crude lexicon, I was able to determine many words, most notably “zebra”, “mare,” and “curse.” I didn’t have enough definitions to work out the entire message, but I had a feeling that it could be interesting, seeing as it was the only supplemental document in the ledger.

I took both with me as I came back downstairs. I found Willow lounging in the boudoir, reclined on the couch with her back to me. One of her hindlegs bounced restlessly while she read something, Wick curled up and asleep beneath her. My hoof rapped on the door frame to get the unicorn's attention. “Hey,” I called.

Willow Wisp flinched and snapped upright, trying to hide whatever she'd been reading. In her haste, she accidentally spun and knocked her saddlebag off of a small end table next to the couch, spilling its contents all over the floor in front of me.

“Merde!” Willow hissed and flew to scoop everything back up, but not before I was able to identify several items. There was a chrome-plated cigarette lighter, a compact shortwave radio, some poorly bound-together rolls of bandages, and a coin purse which rattled with caps. I also spied a couple RadAway sachets and a sizeable pill organizer which contained plenty of Rad-X.

Of greater note to my eyes were a collection of smut magazines and several series of different comic books, including Sword Mares, Power Ponies, Hellbuck, Silver Stallion, and Captain Andro-

Whack!

Willow slapped a Playbuck magazine down atop the comic suddenly. I recoiled as the loud whap assaulted my ears and Captain Andromeda's cheery face was hidden by a zebra mare's nether region. Willow dragged both works towards her telekinetically, her cheeks deeply flushed.

I was at a loss for words as what to make of this action, so I just awkwardly asked, “Oh, y-you read comics?”

Trembling subtly, Willow stuffed the comic book into her saddlebags, taking care not to bend the corners. "It-it's not mine. It's my brot'er's," she stuttered, her voice betraying her embarrassment.

“The comic or that magazine?”

“De… de comic, of course! I don't read dat shit anymore!” Willow tried to explain, looking panicked as her eyes darted around the floor, guiding her magic aura as it scooped up her smaller belongings.

I had to bite my lip to stifle a laugh. “Oh, so you have a brother now?”

“I… yeah, I do! You…” the unicorn got tripped up on her words and huffed as she finished re-packing her bags. “Mais la, what'd you want, Quill?”

Clearing my throat, I retrieved the old tome and showed it to her. “Well, I think I found a ledger of some kind from the donkeys who lived here long ago, but I’m having trouble figuring some of it out. Could you help translate it?” I watched as Willow attached the clasps for her bags and double-checked them. “Or are you busy…?”

“I'll try, t'ough I'll probably butcher it.” She took it in her magic and cracked it open, while over her shoulder I pointed out what sentences, passages, or pages needed translating. Same as her prior attempt at interpreting Prench writing, she spoke slowly and with hesitant enunciation.

Together we learned that this book had mostly been written by one René Poitou, a descendant of Jean-Luc and former owner of the plantation who had used a ledger to keep track of the slaves he both purchased and sold off. I made good use of my new notepad in assisting the translation and was delighted to learn from Willow that many of my guesses had been correct.

The going was a bit painful for the unicorn, who was clearly embarrassed by her middling reading comprehension, but I continuously assured her that I wasn’t judging. Eventually I was as much helping her as she was me, and once we moved on to the letter, we had to really put our heads together to figure out many of the less-than-common phrases littered throughout.

It had been addressed to a friend of René's. After acquiring a pair of zebra slaves, a mother and son, the donkey had separated the two after a business partner offered a substantial amount for the son. The mother, named Zola, then cursed René in turn:

"May de one who... holds my… uh, let's see... chains, I tink… be chain- chained to dis land… um…” Willow paused, screwing up her features as she worked out the translation in her head. “Fff… forever?”

“So she laid a curse on him?”

“Dat's what it says. Black magic was more common back den.”

I pondered that. “Ooh, so maybe René's ghost haunts the plantation! That explains all the rumors, right?”

Willow was unconvinced. “Just ‘cause she said some ominous words doesn't mean she actually did anyting, no.”

“So you don't think curses are real?” I fixed her with a questioning eye.

“I didn't say dat. Just… it's gotta be more involved den just a verbal t'reat, yeah?” She shrugged. “Most of de time curses are just excuses for tings we don't know yet. I mean, legend says wilt apples came from some zebra curse ages ago.”

“But surely there's a reason why this place is avoided, right?”

“Because it's creepy as hell,” Willow stated. “I've been here a couple times and never saw any ghost or not'ing.” She proffered the ledger back to me. “It's just urban legends, all of it.”

With a shake of my head, I disagreed, “Something's up; Wick wouldn't get riled up over nothing.”

“He's just old,” Willow spoke conclusively, evidently tired of conversing. I saw her gaze lingering close to her saddlebags and knew when to take a hint. Collecting the ledger, I thanked the unicorn for her help and let her be. As I cantered down the hallway, I heard the door quietly shut and lock behind me.







I had opted to spend the rest of the evening in the study between recording the events of Saint Mare's and reading a copy of Ghosts, Goblins and Ghoulish Figures. I had already absorbed it all as a filly, but now it seemed more pertinent than ever, cheesy illustrations on the cover be damned.

Many years ago a young Quillwright had accompanied her parents into a small wasteland town, dressed in a rough cloak to conceal her wings. While my parents bargained for supplies in the open-air market, my attention was stolen by a preacher who called to all passersby. He professed with an honest passion that was enrapturing, attracting a large crowd who listened intently.

He spoke of the Goddesses, of Celestia and Luna, who had ascended into the heavens, higher above us than even the Enclave. The sisters watched over everypony; they loved their children and had a better future planned for us. One day very soon, Celestia Herself would evaporate the cloud curtain with her holy sunlight and renew Equestria. We would be reunited with everypony we'd ever lost, and the world would be revitalized, a new paradise on Equus freed from the poison of war forever.

I had been whisked away by my parents before he had finished; admonished not only for straying away but for giving the ‘hydra-oil salesman’ the time of day. Despite their cynical words and continuous insistence that it was all rubbish, a seed had been planted. All throughout my life, I had kept that preacher’s hope alive. There had to be something better for us. This world couldn’t simply end with a sick, starving, cold whimper.

With my belief in an afterlife came the certainty that spirits could not only inhabit our world, but potentially become trapped here as well. The idea that a zebra slave had cursed her owner to be bound to his property was not at all absurd to me, and I felt confident that it was a mystery I could solve.

By the time it was growing dark outside, my suspicions were all but confirmed. According to the book, the sixth sense that dogs possessed meant they were able to frequently sense the paranormal. Wick's barking at an empty balcony had been uncharacteristic and I didn't buy the excuse that he was going senile.

My growling stomach eventually and reluctantly pulled my muzzle away from the pages. Downstairs I fetched my unfinished eggs and an ear of corn from Saint Mare's and brought them into the mansion's dining room, where I encountered Willow once again.

She had taken a seat in one of the few intact chairs at one end of the dining room table. Her cloak was draped over the chair’s high back along with her bags. In front of Willow was a placemat of crinkled foil beneath some juicy radigator chunks, a repurposed measuring cup filled with oats, and a bottle of unidentified alcohol. Above her end of the table floated a ball of light, likely a spell of Willow's, which warmed the room with lambent radiance.

The unicorn looked up at me as I entered. I indicated the chair at my end. “Mind if I join you?” Willow’s head shook, so I pulled out my seat and eased into it, wincing uncertainly at the creaky legs.

Floating out a cigarette lighter, Willow Wisp struck a flame. “I've already got a light,” I told her as I indicated the PipBuck I was halfway done removing, but was shushed in response. Her horn glowed brighter as the flame flickered, as if it was nearly being blown out by a gust of wind. Then it vanished… in a way.

All incandescence from the lighter had been absorbed, just as Willow had stolen the luminescence from the tribal's flashlight in Saint Mare's. Instead, a glowing mass of light beaded up at the tip of her horn. Once it had collected into the size of a hoof it separated, hovering in the air and then lazily floating over to my end.

“I call dem bulbs; been someting I could do ever since I got my cutie mark,” Willow snapped the lighter’s lid shut, extinguishing its lightless flame. Her tone grew resentful. “What a ‘special talent’ to have...” The phosphorescent will-o'-the-wisp pulsed intermittently and bobbed gently as if it were buoyant.

“... Surely they come in handy?” I offered, then yawned.

“In dis line of work, yeah, sometimes. I can make a bulb follow somepony, keeps dem from getting lost, but…” She yawned too, rubbing her cheek idly. “At de end of de day it’s no more den light magic, someting every unicorn knows.”

At that we both fell into silence. The storm continued to rage away outside, furiously shaking the trees and beating against the mansion. I appreciated the chance to enjoy a peaceful, sheltered meal. Wick sat next to Willow, watching her intently. Every now and then she would levitate a chunk of radigator off of her plate and toss it to the dog, who snatched it out of the air much faster than his usual lethargic slouch implied he was capable of.

The ale helped take off some of the tension and pain that had been in control of me recently. My anxiety was worn away with each drink I took, and once I’d finished my radigator eggs I felt the need to converse more.

“So…” I cleared my throat. Willow looked up at me briefly with a hint of suspicion, then returned to her skewer of chicken and fried greens. “Um… how long have you been guiding ponies for?”

Willow made eye contact with me again as she swallowed and set her half-eaten food down. Her answer lingered for a couple breaths, but once she’d had another bite-- a soft nip of her lower lip this time-- she spoke, diffident. “I haven't really kept track of time. A couple of years, I reckon.”

Sensing there was much more to the terse reply, I asked, “You seem really knowledgeable; did your parents teach you everything?”

“Mhm.” Willow took a sip of ale, one of her hooves moving to idly rub her cheek.

“I heard they…” She had used the past-tense earlier. “... Were the best around.”

“My ma was,” Willow said. “She… her parents, dat whole side of my family… knew absolutely everyt’ing about Mulisiana. Natives who survived de megaspells, see.”

“So your dad wasn’t a guide?”

Willow’s cloudy auric irises flitted from her plate to my eyes, then away to study the white marble mantle. “Not exactly. He, uh...” She swallowed. “He came from Buckwater. One of de Stable’s descendants, yeah?” She inhaled deeply, lost in a memory of some kind. “Dad guarded ma and dere customers. He was better wid guns den directions.”

I desperately wanted to know the next question I already had queued up. “Did... do either of them know about your…” Not wanting to offend Willow, I carefully finished with, “Irradiation?”

The unicorn across the table didn’t immediately answer. Eventually her head nodded, scarcely at first but then picking up into a full confirmation, her eyes unfocused. “Yeah.” Her hoof, still touching her face, subconsciously drifted across to rub her most severe scar. “And I ain’t seen dem since.”

Sensing I was trotting on thin ice, I simply inclined my head and returned my attention to my food, this time picking tarberries from a severed stem. I was caught a little off-guard when Willow’s voice echoed through the dining room, just above the muffled roar of the storm. “So how about you? How long’ve you been a Sc…” She paused, trying to remember what my title was. “A Scrub?”

I couldn't hold back an amused snort as I corrected, “Scribe. And it’s been…” I quickly tapped out the number on the table edge. “Let’s see…next spring I should be going on nine years.”

Willow’s brows performed a “what-you-said” maneuver. “A Scribe, yeah. So what do you even do? Just... read books?”

“I do a lot of reading, yes. Though I'm usually writing at the same time,” I explained. “I transcribe materials for the Steel Rangers; copying books, newspapers, blueprints, scrolls, manuals, schematics, letters, terminal entries, et cetera. My job ensures that we always have a safe backup of any documents that could come in useful for us or for future Equestria. When I’m not doing either of those, I teach the colts and fillies born into our ranks, known as Squires.” My head rocked back and forth as I clarified, “That’s not my official position, at least not yet, but… it’s my favorite role.”

“A teacher too, huh? What kinda t’ings do you teach?”

“Reading, writing, Equestrian history,” I listed off. “Etiquette, if I have the time. I enjoy history the most, but I’m probably the most skilled at writing in our entire order, so that's what I usually focus on.”

“ ‘De most skilled?’ ” Willow smirked a little. “You seem humble.”

I was honestly surprised at how interested Willow was. She was sitting forwards, occasionally floating a small bunch of oats into her mouth, and while her hooves still anxiously covered her face often, her attention was more often than not focused in my direction. The ale must have really loosened her up, and if her clients never engaged in meaningful conversations with her, I had to wonder if Willow ever got to hear about the lives of other ponies.

“Heh, I'm not trying to brag, it's just…” I paused. Few were aware of my personal history, and even fewer still regarded me the same after learning of it. “Most ponies who live on the surface aren't ever able to receive a proper education.”

“So I take it you're from de sky? Dis ‘Enclave’ group or whatever you were so freaked out over earlier?”

“No, I'm not. But,” Here we go. “My grandparents were. Both were professors in one of the pegasi's most prestigious universities. My grandfather, however, challenged leadership too often and was generally disliked by his superiors. Eventually he and his wife were cast down to the surface as Dashites, forbidden to return.

“They adapted quite suitably. Their daughter-- my mother-- was taught a complete Enclave-level education, which in turn was passed to me.” I paused for a drink. “The Rangers hadn't ever seen a wasteland-born pony as educated as I was; they actually requested for me to sign on. Been with the order ever since.”

I checked Willow for her expression. She appeared to study me but had no hint of the ire that others usually felt when they heard I had ties to the Enclave. “Did your family join wid you?”

“No. Sorry, I'd just... rather not talk about it.” Despite how much we’d shared about each other so far, I really didn’t feel like dredging up that time of my life right now.

“Fair enough.” Willow appeared intent on asking something else. “So…” She leaned over,  acting as if she were looking at my flank. “Your cutie mark.”

“What about it?”

“Well…” she shrugged. “What is it, for one?”

I gave a nod. “It’s a phoenix feather quill.”

“I t’ought dose birds were green?”

“Post-war phoenixes are, yes, due to the balefire. Before they were irradiated, they were crimson and gold like this.” I shifted in my seat, allowing the bulb above me to highlight the feather which stood out against my sandy fur. “In the right lighting conditions, it almost matches my robes!”

“Huh,” answered Willow. “So what does it have to do wid your job?”

I'd spent years coming up with a concise, detailed response to this sort of question, tired of being asked one too many times.

“The phoenix quill represents how the written past is reborn in my work, giving history a second wind to be witnessed and appreciated by future generations,” I recited.

Willow looked amused. “How long have you been waiting for me to ask?”

Okay, maybe that explanation sounds a bit scripted.

“Would’ve expected a dictionary instead,” she concluded with a smirk, rising from her seat. She tossed her trash into the corner of the room and stretched. “I’m gonna turn in for de night.”

“Shouldn’t we take shifts and watch the front door?”

The unicorn shook her head. “Nah... like I said, dis place is avoided by most. I’ll lock de entrances. Keep your own bedroom door secured and a gun handy just in case, but it should be a quiet night.”







Willow claimed the master bedroom since she had finished eating before me. I ended up in Cotton Knit's room. The carpet beneath my hooves was impressively preserved, though littered with flakes from the peeling sports-themed wallpaper.

Before laying down for the night, I examined the room for anything of interest. The small walk-in closet held nothing but a single boot, so encased in ancient mud that it more closely resembled a stone, and a collection of mothballs. Forget Riptide, I just need these and a slingshot! I giggled to myself as I shut the closet doors and flopped onto the once-nice bed, bedframe croaking.

Nowadays, though, the sheets had been gnawed ragged by bugs, the pillows were missing and the mattress was lumpy and uneven. I rolled about for ages, trying and continuously failing to find a comfortable position. I was used to such inconveniences; there was something else keeping me awake, and I simply couldn’t place my hoof on it.

Rolling to the edge of the bed, I blindly groped along the floor until I found the PipBuck. Turning it on, I toyed around with the radio a bit as I tried to snuggle underneath the coarse sheets. I kept the volume dialled low and searched the frequencies that were available in this spot. The one station I’d been tuned to since Buckwater was only static right now, so I hoped there was something else that could ease me to sleep with some quiet jazz.

The only clear signal I found was anything but. As the tuning dial reached this station, a stiff, unnatural female voice came into focus, reciting a list of random numbers.

“Seven. One. One. Five. Seven. Three. Three. Nine. Eight. Two. One. Four. Eight. Six. Three. Nine. Four. One. Two. Nine. Three. Six. Seven. Five. Five. Five. One. Seven…”

This continued for almost a minute before it was replaced with an unsettling tune, a high-pitched, simple melody that repeated four times. The voice returned and continued reading off her list.

The hay is this? I listened for a little while longer but was getting the heebie-jeebies from the enigmatic routine. Resuming my search for something relaxing, at last I settled on a slightly staticky but audible jazz tune. Inserting my earblooms, I pulled the sheets back up around me and shut my eyes, letting the soft notes of a saxophone carry me into repose.







Breathing.

In and out.

Slow and shaky.

I groaned and raised my head an inch, confused as to why I’d been pulled out of a particularly pleasant dream involving myself and Kyanite. It was still dark outside, and the dull roar that I could still hear through my earblooms indicated that the weather hadn’t changed any. What seemed odd was what I couldn’t hear: music. Now there was only breathing.

… Except that the breaths were out of sync with my own respiration.

Ice water shot through my veins and I was instantly awake. I tore out my earblooms and quickly activated the PipBuck lamp, expecting some horrific creature leering over my bed, its breath rasping and putrid.

The room, however, was empty. Not only that, but I could no longer hear the foreign breathing. Still tense with fear, I pulled the sheets off of me and sat up, directing the light around the bedroom just to be sure. Steeling myself, I even peeked under the bed, thinking maybe Wick had slipped inside after I fell asleep, but only a few daddy long legs were taking refuge beneath me.

I tentatively reinserted an earbloom to hear the breathing again. Was this the DJ of the radio station? It had to be, didn't it? What else could it be? I disconnected the earbloom and set the volume to the mid-level. Then, just to be sure, I spoke up, barely above a whisper.

“Hello?”

The breathing was interrupted by a gasp and a whimper. Static then crackled through the PipBuck speakers, which transitioned into a quiet, crooning trumpet. I heard a noise in the hallway outside, and once I'd reconnected the PipBuck to my leg, Wick barked in Willow's bedroom. Hurriedly leaving, I found Willow groggily peeking her head out and around her door, a bulb floating above her head. “Did you knock?” she asked before I could prompt my own question.

“No, I just woke up.”

This was like a shot of caffeine for the guide. She swore under her breath and opened her door fully, revealing to me that Wick was at the foot of her bed, hunkered down on all fours with his ears flat. Willow's magic pulled her shotgun out from under her bedsheets.

“I don't think we'll need that,” I told her, stepping under the threshold.

Willow shook her head, strands of her disheveled red mane falling into her questioning eyes. “What?”

“I think,” I began, as I held up the PIpBuck, whose speakers were once again filled by static instead of music, “That we’re dealing with a spirit.”

The half-ghoul was unamused. “Quill, you did take dose pills from Camphor, yeah?"

"I did! Look, I don't have a fever or anything..."

"Uh-huh. In dat case, you can hunt around for de Headless Horse if you want, but I’d appreciate some assistance wid dis first.”

Willow walked across the room, but I still blocked her exit. Instead of moving, I held up the bracelet and its crackling speakers.

“Storm’s messing wid de signal or somet’ing. Not a ghost.”

There was a hiss and then the disembodied voice from before began whispering: “... -om? Somepony’s in my room! Mom! Where are you…?”

Willow narrowed her eyes. “Dis isn't funny, Quill-”

Loud trumpets returned to the speakers, cutting her off. I regarded her expectantly, lowering my hoof.

“I think it's Cotton Knit.”

“What, de kid who lived here?” She rolled her eyes. “You're probably just picking up some colt wid a ham radio, yeah?”

“But what if I'm not?” I retorted. “What if we are actually dealing with something paranormal? Why is that so hard to believe?”

“ ‘Cuz we aren’t foals!” Willow finally pushed past me with her telekinesis, which felt like being forced aside by a pillow or a gust of wind. She stormed past me while calling for Wick. He refused to budge, which elicited another groan from the unicorn. “Arrgh, fine…!”

The noises outside had ceased as far as I could tell. Once I was released from Willow's magical restraint, I trailed after her as she stalked down the hall, kicking the first door she reached open. She thrust her shotgun inside, sweeping the billiard room with light from her horn, then slammed it shut. When Willow moved to the next room, I could hear her muttering something foreign under her breath, but couldn't distinguish anything specific.

“Look, I'm not trying to fool or insult you or anything,” I began. “But I swear, this has to be-”

Slam!

Willow kicked the next door open so hard the doorknob embedded itself in the soft adjacent wall. She scanned the bathroom quickly before she yanked the door closed and locked it with her telekinesis. Turning toward me rigidly, Willow's eyes intensely glared at me.

I hesitated, expecting Willow Wisp to say something, but she simply shook her head as if fed up with my antics. She then brushed past as she went to investigate the rooms at the other end of the hall.

“I’m getting a colt’s voice on my radio, we’re hearing mysterious noises, it started in Cotton’s bedroom, a zebra slave put a curse on the plantation… it all adds up!” I sighed. “Come on, Willow.”

We both snapped our attention upwards as we heard a flomph against the ceiling. Following that was another period of silence, punctuated by Willow poking the wood and plaster above us with the end of her shotgun barrels. The following thunk-thunk suggested that there was open space above us.

“How’d dey get into de attic…?”

We sought around in the second floor rooms for an entrance and found one in the corner of the billiard room's ceiling. We pushed a wide pool table over beneath it, upon which Willow began trying to finagle the trapdoor open with her magic. Chips of plaster rained down on her and she coughed, but with a few pulls the door swung down and a folding ladder spilled out, which Willow narrowly dodged. We stood for a few seconds staring at the dark entrance, foreboding thunder rippling outside.

“The skeptic goes in first, right?” I squeaked with a cheeky grin.

The guide pony turned to me with a glare that could melt power armor. “Va te faire foutre,” she muttered, then clambered up the ladder while she telekinetically held her shotgun close, a bulb ahead of her.

The attic was surprisingly spacious, softly lit by the will-o-the-wisp which hovered above in the center of the room. There was a single window at the far end of the room through which lightning sporadically flickered through. All around us were sagging cardboard boxes, cedar chests and a litany of random odds and ends, from bound stacks of newspapers to ornate pottery to colorful foal's toys to disassembled furniture. It was quite cool in here, and I felt what seemed to be a draft as I trotted through.

Near the end of the room was a rocking chair which held the skeleton of an earth pony, slumped in its seat with a colorful patchwork quilt covering its lap. It sat facing a window that overlooked one of the fields, a rather serene final resting place. I leaned in to appreciate the quilt's fine stitching.

“Don't bother Mamaw!” An embroidered throw pillow came hurtling out of the shadows towards me. I ducked and narrowly dodged it, while Willow swung her shotgun around to aim at the corner the projectile had come from. It was empty.

“Kid, come out!” The guide pony pleaded. Her composure was straining. “He’s gotta be a ghoul, stuck in here since de megaspells…” she tried to rationalize, directed more at herself than at me.

“Cotton? Cotton Knit?” I called.

The voice responded, clearly emanating from my PipBuck, “H-how do you know my name?” It carried a hint of southern drawl.

“I…” My voice was shaking a little in a mixture of fear and excitement. The fact that I was conversing with an actual spirit was almost too exciting for me to handle. “I found your journal.”

“That's n-not yours to read!”

Meanwhile, Willow's ears had flattened, her breaths quick and shaky. She continually turned to and fro, desperately searching for the source of the voice. “I've gotta be hallucinating... o-or I'm dreaming dis… shit!”

Cotton gasped at the vulgarity. “She said a bad word!”

“Oh, fuck dis!” Willow shook her head and galloped back to the trapdoor.

“Wait!” I dashed after the unicorn, but she wasn't having any of this and had scuttled down the ladder back into the billiard room in record time. I was impressed that she hadn't injured herself in the rush.

“Wh-who are you?” hissed my PipBuck. I let Willow go and turned back to the invisible colt. Trying to imagine where he might be standing, I faced that direction.

“My name is Quillwright, that was Willow, we're…”

“I don't know you! W-why are you in my house?!”

“We… uh, well, we needed a place to sleep, and thought you could help us.”

“... I'm not supposed to help strangers…”

“That's good advice! But uh…” I swallowed, unsure of how to proceed. “I know your parents and I really need to speak with them. Do you know where they are?”

His voice took on a thoughtful tone. “Well, Dad's in Neigh Orleans. Grandma's asleep, and Mom always tells me to let her rest, s-so I am.” A small cough. “Mom told me to go play hide and seek when some loud ponies came to our front door. I hid so well that she never found me… oh, maybe that's 'cuz I'm supposed to be the seeker!”

“... When did you start playing?”

“I…” Cotton's voice carried for several seconds as he thought. “It was a while ago. I got hurt when I was hiding and got stuck. It took me forever to get out!”

My heart sank as I realized what this likely meant. “Cotton, listen carefully, please. Where did you hide?”

The colt's ghost cheerily and obliviously replied, “I'm not gonna tell you, what if we played? You'd know the best hiding place!”

“I- you… you make a fair point,” I admitted, trying to switch to a different tack. “Okay. In that case, do you see that floating ball of light?”

“Yeah! It's cool! Like a star!”

“Well, could you hold onto it? I… I don't have my glasses and it's really dark in here, so I can't see you very well.”

“Sure!” Cotton made some rocket noises and mock-screamed, “Captain! We're gonna hit the sun!” I heard him grunt and then the bulb shook and dropped in altitude, as if somepony had leapt up and snatched it. He pitched his voice higher and continued on, “Hah, the force field is working! We got the sun!” I attempted to steer Cotton back on-course, but he had become engrossed in his little fantasy.

“Bring the ship around!” The bulb flew around the room, soaring up and down as he weaved a path through the clutter. He soon returned to me, halting and declaring, “Oh no! Unitron is in our way!”

I bit back a sigh. Apparently I was now the ultimate antagonist of Captain Andromeda's universe.

Cotton waited for a few seconds as if expecting me to respond, and then continued on, “Prepare the Sun Gun!” This was followed by a charging noise as the bulb shook.

I cleared my throat and used my best deep, growly voice to threaten, “I am hungry… your planet will do nicely!”

With a hushed battle cry, Cotton carried the bulb around me before holding it up and shouting, “Now's our chance! Fire!” The bulb was hurled at me, striking my chest and passing through harmlessly.

“Argh!” I groaned, clutching the wound. “How could a puny pony defeat me?”

“Good will always prevail!” Cotton announced, and I heard his tiny ethereal hooves clatter on the floor excitedly. “Bam! Boom! Straight to the moon!” He then laughed, retrieving the bulb. “So you see me now, right?” It now hovered around shoulder-height, a couple feet in front of me.

“Um, yeah, I do!” This was not how I expected communicating with the dead would be like.

Cotton's bulb sank a couple inches and I heard him sigh, his voice growing somber. “Y'know, most grown-ups don't like Captain Andromeda…”

I gave an exaggerated huff. “Well, I am certainly not ‘most grown-ups!’ ” My brain was swirling with ideas about how to help Cotton's spirit pass on, and in that moment I had another idea. “You know who else would love to play with you? My friend Willow!”

“That cussing unicorn...?” He sounded a mite apprehensive.

“The same! She's good at hide and seek. Not only that, but,” I leaned in close to the bulb as if sharing a secret. It gravitated nearer to me as I whispered, “She has Captain Andromeda comic books, including…” I paused for dramatic effect. “The ‘Return of Unitron’ issue!”

Cotton gasped. “Unitron comes back?!”

I beckoned him. “Only one way to find out!”







We found Willow cowering in her bedroom, her door locked. This impedance did not stop the little ghost with me, however; I watched as the bulb phased straight through the door and after that heard shrieks and howls of terror. The radio faintly crackled, “Oh hi, doggy!”

I heard the lock quickly disengage, followed by Willow Wisp bursting out. She collided into me, sending us falling to the floor in a heap. Before the unicorn could recover and continue running, I rolled atop her to pin her in place.

“Lemme go, I gotta get away from dis place…!” Willow pleaded, kicking her hooves fruitlessly as I weighed her down. Thankfully she was so out of sorts that she'd forgotten her TK could just push me off.

“Just… stop! Stop! He doesn't want to hurt you!” I insisted.

Meanwhile, Cotton had cornered Wick. The poor old dog was compacted into a shivering, whimpering ball of fur while the bulb floated close. The radio crackled with Cotton's cooing as he undoubtedly attempted to pet Wick.

With the colt's attention occupied, I turned back to Willow and whispered, “I’ll need you to play hide and seek with Cotton Knit, okay?”

Willow's eyes both widened and scrunched, leading her to make an odd expression of mixed shock, confusion, and incredulity. “You what?!”

“He died while hiding somewhere in the mansion. I need you to help me find his remains so we can put him to rest properly.”

“Dat's… you're… what de fuck, Quill? You want me to play games wid a dead-”

I clamped my wing over her mouth and harshly whispered, “Don't…! Don't tell Cotton he's a spirit; I don't know what he'd do, but we don't need a confused and distraught colt on our hooves. He seems to have a limited memory; in his mind it's only been a couple weeks after the megaspells…”

While I was explaining this to Willow, she made some muffled grunts, her milky gold eyes narrowed at me. When I finished and pulled my wing away, she replied, “D-dere's no way I'm getting close to dat ting. I don’t want to catch a curse!”

“Look at me! He didn't harm me, I'm perfectly fine!”

Willow laughed dismissively and then thrashed below me. “You're psycho!”

I glanced back into the room to see Cotton's bulb drifting away from Wick. With only a few seconds left to convince Willow, I desperately pleaded, “I… I need you to trust me. Can you do that?”

If she took this as a challenge I wasn’t sure, but Willow stopped struggling and appeared to brace herself as the bulb drew near. Once next to us, the PipBuck speakers squeaked, “Hey, are you two wrestling? Can I play too?”

To her credit, while Willow's eyes betrayed her petrifying fear, she managed to retain enough composure to eke out an intelligible, if taut, response. “W-we were just…” She shuddered and took a deep breath to continue, “H-having a friendly tussle, yeah? We’re all tuckered out n-now, t’ough.”

Cotton picked up on Willow’s accent and replied, “Hehe, you sound like Papaw!

I backed up and helped Willow Wisp to her hooves. “Oh yeah? Uh... w-where’s your papaw from?” she asked hesitantly as she dusted herself down.

“Hayven!”

“Well, hey! I-I have an aunt from dere, nice town.”

“My dad says I'm smart enough to go to the Institute there when I grow up!”

“Y-you probably could…” Willow was beginning to flounder. Her tail was still making nervous back-and-forth swishes, but her voice was quavering less and less.

I took the opportunity to step in and comment to Willow, a look of knowing concern on my face, “So Cotton hasn’t read Return of Unitron.”

“Huh?” The guide pony took a couple seconds to catch on. “Oh… o-oh! He hasn’t?” She put on a shocked expression, covering her mouth with her hoof. “Quill, d-dat’s bad-bad! We gotta fix dat...”

Cotton’s bulb bounced up and down in excitement as he squealed, “I wanna read it, I wanna read it!” It was easy to visualize him bouncing from side-to-side on his hooves.

“Heh… alright, calm down, kid,” Willow responded, almost grinning a little. “You’re starting to sound like my brot’er.” Her mirth was barely noticeable, but it was present. She grabbed her bag and sat down close to Cotton.

“Does he like this story too?”

“He, uh…” Willow bit her lip fiercely, eyes darting between myself and Cotton's embodiment. “He hasn't read dis one yet. I'm… collecting Captain Andromeda comics for him to read when we meet again, yeah.”

“Where is he?” Cotton's voice had grown quieter, as if he understood the unicorn's complicated expression.

Willow gazed downwards in thought and then smiled wistfully. “Busy being a loving big bro.” She inhaled and lightly slapped her thighs, looking to reorient the topic as her magic carefully fetched out her comic. “Anyway, I need to know if dis is a good enough gift for him!”

She placed the Return of Unitron issue on the floor, letting Cotton study the exciting artwork that portrayed the space mare facing off against her greatest arch-nemesis. Meanwhile, I pulled out my copy of Ghosts, Goblins and Ghoulish Figures and returned to the section on spirits. The book said nothing about curses transferring between creatures; in fact, the more I read, the more I realized how little detail the author had gone into. Didn’t they do any research?

As the fictional drama grew, so too did my worries mount. What if there was no way for us to help Cotton? What if he was trapped here until the end of time? Above all, why was he still here in the first place? Pinpricks of cold sweat broke out on my scalp as I considered these questions. As one of the few ponies to find Cotton Knit and certainly the only to actually speak to him since his death, I felt that I had a responsibility to resolve the situation. Somepony had to.

“Cotton, listen, please…” I interjected during a lull in the action. “Have you seen anypo- anyone else around recently? Maybe a donkey?”

The colt either considered the question for a moment or was intent on finishing the current page before he answered. “No, just that zebra lady outside.”

My mind drew a blank at how casually he had dropped that statement. “Z-zebra lady…?” I repeated, sharing a confused look with Willow. “Where?”

“Yeah. She’s always outside. She looks really sad, but…” Cotton’s voice tightened in fear or embarrassment. “But I always hide from her.”

Suddenly a puzzle piece clicked into place; the slave who had cursed René, surely! Did the curse force her to remain bound to the plantation too? The donkey’s letter was reviewed for what must’ve been the hundredth time. Her name was Zola; if Cotton could see her, then with any luck they could also communicate with each other. If we could get the two to meet…

“Aw, really?” Cotton whined while the bulb shook in an aggravated fashion. “ ‘To be continued?!’ Cliffhangers stink!” Willow agreed, and to this he eagerly appealed, “You have the next one, right?”

“Still looking for it. It’s, uh, sold out everywhere. Sorry, kid,” Willow sighed regretfully.

The little spirit next to her sank. “Oh… well, thanks for letting me read it. I liked it a lot!”

“I know you’ll love the next one, Cotton,” I reassured him, smiling. “Until then, how about we get to that hide-and-seek game? Like I said, Willow’s a really, really good seeker!”

I envisioned his eyes brightening at the idea. “Oh yeah! You’ll never find me!”

“Prove it, then! Thirty, twenty-nine, twenty-eight…” I began counting down, covering my eyes with my wing.

Cotton squealed and his little hooves galloped away, leaving me to sigh in relief at Willow Wisp. “Thank you.”

“Yeah, don’t mention it. Never in my wildest dreams did I imagine I’d be reading comics wid a ghost.”

“It’s always a pleasure to broaden horizons,” I said as I turned the PipBuck speakers up. “Now, we’re going to have to cheat a little…”







We brought the advanced bracelet into each room, waiting for the staticky music to fade and indicate that we were close to Cotton. The attic and second floor caused no such effect, so we headed to the ground floor. As we descended the stairs, a lively jazz solo was suppressed by faint breathing.

“He must've been stuck somewhere normally inaccessible or difficult to reach,” I told Willow.

We checked every inch of the foyer, below furniture and under the stairs, but there was no tangible sign of the invisible colt. As we subconsciously gave the synth a wide berth, I found myself relieved that he hadn’t decided to take control of the machine to interact with us, or else I’d have been hiding with Willow and Wick behind as many locked doors as possible. Eventually I turned my attention to the floor, wary of hidden compartments beneath my hooves ever since finding the dress in the Ministry hub.

I whispered to Willow, “Kill the light,” as I switched off the PipBuck lamp. We were plunged into darkness, save for traces of warm light which strained up through the floorboards at the back of the room. With my lamp back on, I carefully scrutinized the wood until I identified a thin gap which ran in a square with a circular hole at one end. I gestured to Willow, and the unicorn lit her horn, grabbing the cutout in her magic and lifting it away.

Beneath us was a crawlspace about four hoofspans deep. A network of rusted pipes ran to and fro above a pillowy layer of dust and wood chippings in addition to the carcasses of mice and insects. Right in the center where we'd opened the floor lay the small, withered skeleton of an earth pony foal, coated by much of the surrounding detritus. Cotton’s will-o-the-wisp embodiment floated above and illuminated what was once his physical body, which had a rear hoof twisted at a terrible angle between two pipes, bone broken.

“Aw, how’d you find me?”

My heart climbed into my throat. I found no sight in the wasteland more heartbreaking than a dead foal. My imagination was flooded with unwanted visions of his final moments trapped down there in the dark, in pain, starving, scared, and alone; no creature deserved a fate like this, an innocent foal the least of all. I had to clamp my wing over my mouth to keep a gasp suppressed, then moved it up my face to soak the tears that soon spilled from my eyes.

Willow was similarly distressed but was resolute enough to answer, “J-just had a good clue.”

Cotton huffed, “Yeah, well, I bet I could find you faster!” He seemed completely oblivious to his own remains, which made me wonder whether spirits could even recognize them.

I tried to compose myself before turning back to face him, though it was difficult to keep it together when my eyes strayed to Cotton’s body. Using only my periphery to view the bulb, I said, “I-it’s getting a bit late for games, now.” The colt deflated, but I continued on, “Listen, we… we need to meet this zebra lady you mentioned. Can you introduce us?”

“I don’t know her name…”

“Introduce as in ‘bring us to her.’ "

“Oh.” Cotton’s bulb climbed out of his hiding place, gravitating towards Willow. “I guess…”

“It’s important. After that we can get you to your mom; how would you like that?”

“Yeah!” Cotton figuratively brightened. “I, um, see her around the gardens a lot.”

I tilted my head, looking that way. “Can you show us, please?”

“S-sure! I haven’t been outside in forever!”

It was still storming outside, though the weather appeared more violent in the darkness. At the back of the porch, Cotton’s bulb rotated upwards slightly as he commented, “Mom said she put her dolls out here to scare everypony away, but it’s not Nightmare Night yet…”

“Well, she did a good-good job!” Willow nodded approvingly. “Good ting I was so brave. Quill came along too.” I snorted softly.

We went quiet and the moment of levity subsided. Beyond the lattice railing was nothing but darkness and churning plant life, stirred by the strong wind like green ocean waves. Zola was in there somewhere. Had Willow caught a fleeting glimpse of her earlier in the day?

“Hey Willow, could you…?” I gestured furtively at Cotton. “... Make another light, for the zebra?”

She gave half a nod. “I'll need anot'er light source, my lighter's gonna be dark for awhile now.”

I raised the PipBuck, letting its lamp highlight both of us. Willow understood, using her magic to pull the backlight from the device's screen and convert it into a new bulb. It glowed with a pale amber light compared to the orange hue taken from the lighter. Cotton ooh'd and went to grab it.

“That's for the zebra lady,” I informed him. “Do you see her out there?”

The colt, now personified by two orbs of light, responded sheepishly, “Sh-she's over…” He presumably pointed, the amber bulb shifting in the direction of the mausoleum.

I bit my lip before I responded, looking to muster the same reassuring tone that I’d used to keep Willow calm when introducing her to Cotton. “Can you be brave for us, Cotton? Give that little star to her and then bring her to us?”

He didn’t respond, which I hoped was because he had chosen to nod instead. Both wisps of light then slowly drifted out into the storm and were lost amidst the greenery. When they returned, the amber one was trailing much more slowly and bobbing more gently than Cotton’s bouncy gait. My radio crackled once they came in range, which treated my ears to the deep, exotic tones of a Prench-speaking mare. She spoke with a gentle tone, but Cotton had gone quiet.

“Could you introduce us?” I asked Willow, who was concentrating intently on the words that came from the PipBuck.

She nodded and did so, and then translated in kind when the new voice replied. Unlike converting Prench text to Equestrian speech, Willow had no difficulty working between spoken words as she played intermediary for us. “It is good to meet a soul who can hear me. Zola is my name.”

A strange feeling passed over me as I realized that the first zebra I’d ever spoken to was one who had been dead for a dozen generations. “Um… hello. You… you know you’ve passed away?”

“Yes.” She paused for several seconds. I had begun to ask my next question when she continued, “I... cannot remember when I departed de physical realm, but it was by my own accord."

I frowned. “Wait, so… you... committed suicide?”

“No. I made a pact wid a spirit of the land, and it cost me my life. A small price to pay for de greatest of recompense."

“So you bound your souls together?”

Another pause. The amber bulb lowered and the air around us seemed to drop in temperature with it. “No. De master of de plantation sold away my son. De grief and rage in my heart was so great dat… my only recourse was black magic. My soul is bound to dis place, along wid dat of any heir to dis land. Now I may control him for as long as I deem appropriate.”

At last I understood. “I see. Trouble is, René never had foals.”

She hesitated. “He… did not? Den who…?”

“This is Cotton Knit, the son of the pony who bought Magnolia Grove here, many years after René died.” I refrained from an accusatory tone since I felt that this situation was the result of unfortunate circumstances and misunderstandings. “He’s innocent of this all. I understand that you wanted to repay the pain you went through, but the curse has punished the wrong person.”

“I’m innocent?” Cotton finally piped up. “What do you mean?”

Zola spoke haltingly. “Dis… was not what I intended. My stripes, if I’d known…” Through the speakers I heard her horrified realization. She then gasped something foreign, which Willow couldn’t hear clearly enough.

“Can you lift the curse?”

“I… yes, I am de one holding him here, so I am de only one who can let him go.”

“Curse?” Cotton’s voice was straining. “Quillwright, what are you talking about? Willow...?”

I knelt down to the bulb. “Cotton, this lady, Zola, can take you to your mother. I need you to go with her.”

“But…” his voice cracked. “I j-just met you and Willow. Are you coming too?”

My insides twisted, but I tried to smile for him. “Eventually.”

Willow, who'd been observing with sad eyes and pursed lips, finally joined me in comforting the colt. “Hey… you'll be fine, yeah? You're a strong pony, Cotton. You need to go see your mom.”

“O-okay.” He inhaled. “Could... I get a hug before I go?”

We took a moment to react, then both laughed in relief. “Of course!” Willow answered for both of us. Cotton’s bulb moved forwards, and I could feel the cool tingle of an ethereal foreleg encircle my neck. It felt strange yet oddly relaxing at the same time, sending a slight shiver through me.

After that, he moved to Zola's side. She spoke to Cotton softly before the radio's signal seemed to begin distorting. Music began overwhelming the zebra's words, and before they faded, I heard Cotton call goodbye to us. The radio then returned to normal and the pair of bulbs slowly drifted back to Willow. Their radiance dimmed until they were little more than dancing sparks, leaving us mortals alone in the dark.

It was silent for a long while, until I heard, “Dat was some crazy radioplay, huh?”

I turned to give the unicorn guide the most incredulous look I could. Her horn was brightening, revealing a mischievous smirk spreading across her face.

“Just kidding.”







Both Willow and I “slept in” late, though neither of us appeared to have gotten much rest after the events of last night. Wick seemed to have recovered, albeit now more skittish. The storm had finally moved on and we took advantage of the early noon warmth to build a small pyre on the brick lane in front of the mansion. Few words were exchanged as we went about the task, but it was clear in Willow's eyes that we were both feeling the same mix of melancholy emotions.

Taking great care and reverence, Willow’s magic carried out the remains of Cotton and his grandmother. We set them together in a final embrace, with Cotton tucked in his “mamaw’s” legs. We shored their remains up with kindling gathered from inside the mansion. Willow lit the pyre, which began to burn earnestly after some encouragement.

As the flames danced, I reflected on my words to Cotton. I would find him in the afterlife, whenever I got there, and I would bring that final comic book with me.  I couldn’t help but smile as I watched the rising ashes carry their souls away from this wasteland and up to the Goddesses.

We made to depart Magnolia Grove not long after the funeral pyre had been reduced to smoldering ashes. I joined Willow after packing my belongings and donning my Stable barding.

“I would recommend concealing your wing,” she told me as I slung my bags across my back. “Where we’re going, dere may be some folks who don’t exactly… like your kind, see.”

“And… where exactly are we headed?”

“Divide,” Willow answered. “We’re gonna cross de Rift.”

Footnote: Progress recorded. Level Up.


New Perk: Robotics Expert, Rank 1 - Thanks to your study of synthetic pony anatomy, you know where to aim for maximum damage. You have 15% more likelihood to score critical hits on synths.

New Perk: Dead Wave Rave - There is something wrong with your PipBuck… or with you. You have an increased chance of hearing ghosts and in special circumstances may even be able to communicate with them! Setting them to rest, however, is a whole other matter...
> Chapter 8: Confluence - Part I
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------


"Whatever caused our fates to intertwine would never let them unravel."






“Dat’s yakshit, Quill! Absolute fucking yakshit! Don’t lie to me!”

“I’m not! I’m serious, swear to Luna!”

“Yeah? I swear to Celestia dat you’re wrong, den!”

“It’s one hundred percent the truth. She could totally do it.”

“You’re making it up. Dere’s no way to counter de sun gun; Daring Do gets vaporized, end of story.”

“Again, if the Staff of Sacanas can control the sun, it stands to reason that it could absorb or redirect the beam.”

"Okay, so how does she counter heat-seeking missiles from de gunship?"

I considered the challenge for a moment. “The Phoenix Crown granted her pyrokinesis, so she could create fireballs that’d confuse the missiles.”

"Ah. And lemme guess,” Willow looked nonplussed. “She can control time, too?"

"Well," I inhaled. "She could when she had the Second Sands-”

“Dat’s overpowered as hell! How could anyone counter dat?” Willow cried indignantly.

“... But the hourglass was destroyed at the end of that novel, so I won’t count it. Besides, you agreed that both are at their highest power level, all available weapons and relics they’ve collected.”

The unicorn guide paused. “Sure. Hoof-to-hoof, Andromeda could whoop Daring any day.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure!” I contested. “You do realize she’s taken on and beaten Ahuizotl multiple times, right?”

"Ahu-what? And anyway, Andromeda has cyberpony implants so she'd still be way stronger!"

“I would take speed over strength any day.”

Stepping around a muddy puddle in her path, Willow groaned and tossed her head in frustration. “Ugh, fine! So maybe Daring stands a chance. I still don’t tink she’d win.”

“I guess we’ll just have to agree to disagree.”

We had spent all day trekking north from Magnolia Grove. Willow had followed a winding maze of overgrown back roads and old, unpaved highways. We crossed over Route Forty at one point, but my guide insisted that she preferred the less-travelled paths. To me it sounded as if she’d had a negative experience on one before, but I didn’t inquire about it.

The weather had never worsened beyond a light spray of mist, though fog had been rolling in, gradually thickening the further the sun set. Now in the last moments of twilight, we followed one of Willow's bulbs while talking over the combined chorus of singing frogs and shrilling cicadas that had emerged. The din ruined any tune from the PipBuck’s radio, so we’d resorted to chatting at an above-average volume.

Our conversations had remained sporadic and mostly consisted of short inquiries from me about Mulisiana and Divide. Somehow the topic had shifted to fiction, and with that came a debate regarding our favorite characters. Willow had displayed ample knowledge of the Captain Andromeda series. With more questioning, I had sussed out that she had compiled no less than three full volumes of comics. As a Scribe, I was both impressed by and appreciative of her efforts.

While Willow still hadn’t expressed much interest in reading novels, I had hoped to sell her on the Daring Do series. When describing the sorts of adventures the pegasus explorer got up to, her numerous abilities and artifacts had captured Willow’s attention and eventually led to our debate.

Wick, in rather high spirits, trotted ahead of us with a bouncy and lazy gait. I was about to ask Willow who her favorite Power Pony was when a sharp command was issued somewhere above us.

"Stop right there!"

We both froze. Willow’s bulb winked out, and Wick continued for a few paces before he turned to look back at us quizzically. I managed to side-eye Willow, seeing that she too was trying to subtly glance to both sides; her hood had been down while we walked. Her warnings of dangerous creatures in the woods had resurfaced in my mind, and I considered whether it would be better to be shot in the back while running from the voice than to be taken captive. “What do we do?” I asked covertly.

The voice above us called again. "If you’ve got guns, drop ‘em. I don't want to see any auras either."

"Do it and stay calm," Willow told me as she grabbed her shotgun with her teeth and laid it on the ground. Trusting her judgment, I placed Riptide a few feet away.

After a moment or two, I heard the soft rush of feathers against wind and a shape landed gracefully before us. A pair of quick eyes appraised us, befitting of a carnivorous predator. Feline legs assumed a bipedal stance to allow scaly, clawed hands to grasp a powerful carbine at the ready. The griffon, already difficult to fully take in thanks to the lack of sunlight, drew a flashlight and pointed the beam in our faces. "I want your names and your business."

"My name is Willow Wisp. I provide guidance and armed escort services, I've got a home in Divide, yeah? And dis is Quill, she's-"

"I want to hear it from her, not you," the griffon interrupted, turning his gaze to me. I could feel my fur bristling; I always felt on-edge around the avian kind. Whether it was due to the many brushes with hostile mercenary griffons back in Equestria over the years that had soured my opinion of them, or a deep-rooted fear in my pegasus brain that recognized this as a predator, one that had once hunted us for food in an age long past, I couldn’t quite pin down the reason. Regardless, I didn't seek to aggravate him.

"Quillwright," I answered. "I'm her customer."

My answer didn't seem to fully satisfy him, but he reached down to his belt and pulled a walkie-talkie close to his beak. "Got two in C7. One claims to be a Divide resident."

The speaker crackled out a confirmation, and as the griffon put away the communicator, Willow commented, “Colder greeting den I’m used to from Divide…”

“You must not’ve been here recently, then.”

“It’s been a couple weeks, yeah.”

“Nearby Cog activity to the north of us’s been reported multiple times over the past week. Have to confirm you aren’t with them.”

Willow groaned. “So are you gonna grope my horn? Or can you see it fine from where you’re standing?” Her voice was dripping with sarcasm.

The griffon’s tail flicked in annoyance. “Penitents are Cogs too.”

“Yeah? Fuck Gaia,” Willow shot back. The conversation ground to a halt, and I felt out of the loop. Before I could ask Willow what they were on about, another griffon landed next to our accoster. This one was covered in oily black feathers and was difficult to see in the darkness. She held a thick ledger in her claws and spoke with a raspy, boisterous tone.

"Wow, Gerhard! You caught a whole raiding party!"

The first griffon rolled his eyes and indicated towards Willow. "Just get this over with…"

"Miss Unicorn, your name and place of residence?"

Willow recited the information dryly. "Willow Wisp. I live in de Beehive."

While she scanned through her book to verify the claim, the crow-like griffon wondered aloud, "Hmm, whyever were you traveling along a back path and not Route Forty…?"

"Personal preference. It's a free country, yeah?"

That answer was met with a harsh squawk of laughter. "You're not wrong, no, but you're liable to draw suspicion, see?" She finally tapped his claw on a page and nodded to Gerhard. "Mhm, she's here. Listed as a local guide too, yes."

“No, wait, I was actually promoted to a Cog Protector yesterday,” Willow sarcastically commented.

While this got another short guffaw from the crow, Gerhard glared disapprovingly. “If you were, you’d have been shot five minutes ago,” he replied coldly.

“Lighten up, lighten up!” the crow chided. She retrieved a binder from her pack, which she opened and jotted in for a few moments. When she finished, she tore loose a page and handed it over to us. “Take this to the gate, hmm, and they’ll allow you in with it, yes.” The paper looked to have been drafted up via typewriter, with blank spaces that had been filled in by the griffon.

Since Willow remained quiet, I decided to thank the crow to ease the tension a little. She gave a short bow and then took to the air, while Gerhard gave us one last look-over and then followed her into the trees.

I heard Willow mutter “Assholes…” under her breath and we continued on, eventually finding a one-lane road that we turned onto. It was sparsely paved with bricks, many of them dislodged by the intrusive roots of trees which seemed to grow progressively taller the further we travelled.

The first detail of Divide I noticed was a glow against the clouds in the distance. When we finally did escape the trees, I couldn’t help but feel impressed by the size of the city that Willow had described as the largest trading hub in Mulisiana, stretching at least a mile in either direction. Her limited vocabulary of adjectives hadn’t quite done the city’s appearance justice.

Its defensive wall was an encircling stack of rusty, multicolored shipping containers, stacked two stories high and topped by barbed wire and guard posts, with electric-blue lamps at regular intervals that were bright enough to sear an afterimage into my eyes if I stared at them for too long. The wall reminded me of New Appleloosa’s train car wall back in Equestria, a town I hadn’t set hoof in since I was a filly. The collection of glowing windows, lamps, and carried lanterns or flashlights produced a radiance that easily dwarfed Buckwater’s nightly glow. This also illuminated a massive, four-legged ship-to-shore gantry crane in the center of Divide.

The Rift, as Willow had detailed to me after leaving Magnolia Grove, was a canal built in the years before the war that spanned the width of Mulisiana. It had been a great asset for bolstering trade and facilitating travel both then and now, though it was obviously in rougher shape these days. The waters were dangerously toxic, its channels mixed with the irradiated oceans at either end, not to mention being polluted by garbage, sewage, and who knew what else that was regularly dumped into it. Divide had needed to invest heavily in constructing purification machines and water talismans to supply the city’s constant need for drinking water, since collecting rainwater alone couldn’t meet the demand.

Crossing of the Rift involved the use of a ferry, which we would be catching a ride on. Divide had been built on both sides of the canal, incorporating the crane, a massive warehouse, and a collection of other abandoned buildings that had sat along the canal prior to the megaspells. At the top of the crane I could see numerous blinking red lights topping what I surmised to be an array of antennas.

Approaching the front gate, we joined a short line of travelers and merchants waiting to enter, moving one at a time as a guard at the entrance took their passes. By the time we had taken our place, Willow’s hood was back up and I had double-checked that my wing was adequately concealed. While the griffons might have had suspicions, I had found that I could pass for a very weak earth pony among less perceptive folks.

More heavily-armed Talons were tending the walls. As I watched them moving about, my attention was drawn to the blue lamps, which I pointed out to Willow. She explained, “Dey’re heavy-duty zappers, built to fry any swarms of goremot’s or ot’er bugs dat get close.”

“Can I get one of those on a stick?”

That coaxed a laugh out of the unicorn. We were stuck waiting in the line for a couple minutes before we were finally processed. In the intervening time, I had found multiple misspellings and punctuation errors in the sheet we were given, which I pointed out to the guard.

“Those are intentional,” he stated boredly, comparing my pass against one he was carrying.

“Ah! Of course.” Somehow I hadn’t considered that.

The front gate was actually just a shipping container laying flat that we passed through, beefier doors at either end opened for us via telekinesis. As we stepped out into Divide, I could see that the city was still bustling with activity even at such a late hour, as creatures from all walks of life hung around glowing buildings or carried on conversations around us. I noticed that the insides of the perimeter walls had been shored up with freshly-poured concrete and wooden supports, with some construction workers still toiling away into the evening, their work areas lit by magic or lanterns. It looked as though the city was preparing for an assault, an idea reinforced by a large artillery cannon that we passed by, its long barrel pointed skyward.

The homes and businesses we trotted past had been built out of just about any material available, though the theme of shipping containers persisted as the most common. I suspected that a laden ship had been docked here when Divide’s construction began, and was cannibalized for materials much like in the case of Buckwater. Closer to the wall, most structures were built out of wood or were simply large canvas tents or lean-tos. The further in we moved, the more solidly-constructed and aged the buildings became, transitioning to cinder block or brick, often supplemented with corrugated sheet metal taken from shipping containers. On several streets I spied smaller tents set up wherever space could be found, like they were refugees with no other place to rest.

However, the large warehouse we passed was certainly a pre-war structure, albeit one whose siding and roof was heavily patched-up post-war. Warm light poured from the large entrance, highlighting the many creatures who were still passing in and out, typically laden with packs and occasionally also pulling carts filled with various items. Above, the title “Waterfront Mall” had been spray-painted in huge block letters.

Willow Wisp’s domicile turned out to be one of several dozen shipping containers stacked in a huge, circular honeycomb, which clued me into what the “Beehive” was. Towering and reinforced scaffolding strewn with small and colorful gem lights ran the length of each side of the complex. A few ponies and other creatures loitered outside, leaning against the railings to smoke or chat. We hiked up a mix of thick wooden ramps and cramped, rusty stairs to the third level, where Willow led me to her apartment. A notice had been taped to her front door, which she snatched down and scoffed at.

“Anot’er rent hike? T'ieving bastards…” she muttered to herself, barely audible. She stuffed the paper into her bag and then fished out some keys, casting me a quick look. “I…” she started, then paused and stared at the door. “Normally I’d ask my customers to rent dere own room in town, but… I reckon you’re strapped for caps, yeah?”

I shrugged and grimaced. “Kinda.”

“Well, look, I… I tink you’re alright, Quill. So...” The guide telekinetically popped the lock and started shifting the noisy mechanism on the front which kept the doors latched shut. “You can crash here for de night. I can’t afford to feed you or anyting, but dere’s room in here for bot’ of us.”

Genuine gratitude filled my heart. "That's… that’s very gracious of you, Willow!” My head dipped in appreciation. “Thank you."

“Sure ting. I, uh, I just need to move some stuff around first. Wait here.” Willow slipped inside along with Wick just as she finished that statement, and I was left to look out over the city of Divide again, now from a higher elevation. The crane was Divide’s most outstanding landmark, and it was what drew most of my attention. Lights that ran the length of its arm and up the base gleamed against the nearly-stagnant water below. I shivered as I imagined it teeming with gators that lurked just beneath the surface.

Unable to make out much detail in the dark, I kept looking out at the surrounding city. Glittering clouds of insects swarmed around the innumerable lamps surrounding Divide; there was an equal number of normal, pale yellow lamps as there were the bright blue zappers. It was then that I became aware of a few bugs that flitted around my face, which I swatted a hoof at. Before long, Willow opened her door again and invited me inside. 

"Watch your hooves…" she warned me quietly as I stepped in.

Despite being situated in what amounted to a single metal corridor, Willow's apartment still managed to be one of the coziest abodes I'd seen in the Wastes. Ratty old blankets and comforters hung all around, dampening echoes and breaking up the container's harsh orange walls. Rugs of countless shapes and sizes provided a cushy carpet. A hammock, several mattresses, a dog bed holding Wick, and a legless office chair comprised the seating. There were multiple chests and cabinets pushed up against the walls, messily packed with clothing or other items.

It would’ve been pitch-dark inside had it not been for a barred window at the far end, through which the lights of the city streamed. Just above it, a powerful fan whirred, doing its best to keep the air inside circulated. As I slipped my bags off, Willow shut the door behind me. 

“I… I haven’t ever had somepony else over, so I don’t know how we’ll do dis, but…” she trailed off and moved to wearily drop onto a noisy mattress. “Dere’s a few places to sleep, see.” Wick climbed up behind her and curled up with his back against Willow while the unicorn provided more light with one of her bulbs.

I nodded, now able to see more of the room. A set of dusty shelves contained some books, but the lighting was too dim to decipher any of the spines. Further in was a large pin-up poster of a suggestively-dressed pegasus sprawled on her back. Willow followed my eyes and blushed.

“Uh, s-sorry, I tried to… clean up a little, but…”

“It’s fine!” I assured her, averting my attention. “None of my business anyway, heh.”

Willow had anticipated the awkward silence and had begun to tune her shortwave radio. I decided now was the time to get an answer to what had quickly become my most pressing question.

“Willow, uh, what’s a Cog? Is that another synonym for synth that I’ve just not heard yet?”

The unicorn gave a short snort. “No.” She paused to switch off the radio and set it aside, giving Wick some scratches on the back of his neck. “Dey’re… well… I’m probably not de best pony to explain them; I’ve only seen dem from a distance, and know what my parents told me and what’s common knowledge.”

“Oh, well, that’s alright.”

Willow nodded. “Apparently dey used to be Steel Rangers, yeah?”

A confused blink was all I could manage in reply.

“Before de megaspells, dey were in Mareami, probably guarding all de factories and shipyards dere. After de war ended…” She waved a hoof in the air as she explained. “De whole group started worshipping some goddess called Gaia, turned into an earth pony cult calling demselves de Chosen of Gaia, started capturing unicorns to inhibit dere magic, and went to war wid de Institute.” Willow shrugged. “Dat’s de broad strokes. Now dey want control of Divide and de Rift, among ot’er tings.”

I was still hung up on her earlier statement.

“I kinda figured you would know, being who you are and all dat.”

“No, I…” Finally beginning to process the information, I adjusted my sitting position and shook my head. “We don’t have any records about them, none that I’m aware of anyway. Our Elder never mentioned anything about more Rangers down here; maybe it was assumed that they’d perished, since there was never any communication? We would’ve come here sooner if we’d known, I’m sure.”

“All I know for sure is dat I’m staying as far away from dem as possible,” Willow said, her brows lowering. “Cogs tink dat unicorns are evil or whatever since dey have magic, and I guess in dere eyes magic is why de world was destroyed. So, to help us ‘repent’, we get inhibitors screwed into our horns dat prevent us from using any magic.”

I winced as I imagined the pain of a procedure like that. Furthermore, I was troubled by the idea of my fellow Steel Rangers encountering these Chosen of Gaia ponies. How would a unicorn like Aurora Tide be treated? If her magic was suppressed, the world would be deprived of a remarkable healer; Kyanite wouldn’t allow something like that. “So Divide is fighting these ponies?”

“Not directly, no. A force came to de gates a year or two ago, and it did not end well for de Cogs. Ever since, ponies here can’t quit looking over dere withers, and now, wid dose rumors we heard about sightings, it’s all probably gonna get even worse. Dere are plenty of Talons and armed citizens here, but de Cogs are supposed to have an entire army, plus dat power armor like you Rangers.”

“Power armor?”

“Yep.” She gave a short snort. “Remember the first time I saw a poster of a Ranger. T’ought it was a robot for de longest time…”

“Not the first time I’ve heard that comparison,” I chuckled, then reflected on the Chosen of Gaia. “Sounds like we probably shouldn’t stick around here any longer than necessary, huh?”

Willow bit her lip and lowered herself onto her side. “About dat... dere’s no telling how long we may have to wait for Nort’ Divide to reopen. It’s already been four days since it was locked down; it could reopen tomorrow or a week from now, assuming Cogs don’t actually show up.” She sighed. “De Rift crossing to de west is about t’ree days travel and more expensive, and de one in Brayton Rouge is technically free, but… well, de ruins are flooded and infested with trawlers, plus we’d have to risk de Sunken Valley to get dere.”

I nodded.

Willow continued, “So I feel dat…” She frowned briefly as she prepared her next sentence. “Well, I can’t fulfill my end of our deal, not in a timely manner. If you’re okay wid it, we can call it even and part ways here.”

“Oh!” This proposal caught me off-guard. I had expected us to take a detour or lay over in town for awhile, but now I had been offered an out. My debt of seven hundred caps could be cleared, though it meant still being stranded in Mulisiana. Stranded in Mulisiana and potentially encountering Camphor again, too, my brain couldn’t help but add.

“Yeah. I understand if you wanna tink on it, but… yeah.”

“Well… it makes sense. Maybe that would be for the best?”

The half-ghoul looked up at me, features solemn. “In dat case, I’ll be looking for a new client tomorrow. I can’t really afford to sit around here, so you’ll have to find someone new to help you.”

“Understood.” A feeling of regret quickly manifested in my conscience. Willow had been the only pony I’d met here that I could consider a friend, and I had to admit I would miss her companionship. It was highly unlikely that my next partner would have any knowledge of comics; not only that, but she struck me as a trustworthy pony, deep down.

It wasn’t much longer before Willow released her bulb and we turned in for the night. We rested in the dark for maybe half an hour, while thoughts raced back and forth through my brain and prevented me from rest. Willow got up and left the apartment for five or so minutes, presumably to relieve herself. After she returned, I summoned the courage to break the silence and quietly began, “So… um… can I ask you one last question?” I was uncertain of how to broach the topic without being too forward.

“Sure, why not.”

“Your brother. Why aren’t you two… y’know, together?”

Willow was slow to answer, but she didn’t sound as nervous as she might have been before our time spent in Magnolia Grove. “... He’s taking care of someone else’s debt.”

I pushed a little. “What do you mean?”

“When we… when we lost Mom, Dad didn’t take it well, no. We all grieved, but he… he never let it go, just blamed himself. Rigel and I healed, we moved on, but Dad just kept sinking.” Willow’s voice hardened. “In Mirage he tried coping wid booze and gambling. That worked so well dat debt collectors came calling.”

She gave a slow, heavy sigh. “My brot’er, Rigel, he’s a saint. When de collectors found out dat dey couldn’t be repaid, dey t’reatened violence against us, or to enslave me, or both. And Rigel, well, he just couldn’t ever lose all of his fait’ in Dad. He offered to become an indentured servant in Mirage for a decade. Ten fucking years to pay back what Dad t’rew away at de tables and bars.” Willow’s voice was low and edged.

“He told Dad to keep me safe, to help me get the guide business back up and running. Such an optimist... maybe he t’ought de responsibility would straighten Dad out or something.” Willow let out a strong exhale. “Dad could only stay sober for five days. I just couldn’t take it anymore, couldn’t stand him. We fought, and it was really, really bad. He left me alone with Wick, and dat’s how I’ve lived ever since.”

“You don’t know where he is?”

“Nope, and I couldn’t give less of a shit. I’m running de business fine all by myself, and I’ll earn enough to buy Rigel’s freedom wit’out his help.”

“Well, I wish you the best of luck with that. It must be awful having to be away from him.”

“It is,” Willow agreed.

We fell silent after that, and I heard Willow roll over. Eventually I drifted off into a peaceful sleep.







When I awoke the next morning, I sat up on the mattress and grabbed the PipBuck, bringing it up close to my bleary eyes to check the time. It wasn’t yet noon, but I didn’t want to overstay my welcome. Rising, I tried to gather my belongings and pull on the Stable barding without waking Willow.

The activity didn’t stir the unicorn, but Wick did raise his head in dopey alertness when my saddlebags rattled. I made eye contact with the old dog and acknowledged him with a wiggle of my eyebrows. Wick blinked and gave a sigh that whistled quietly through his nostrils.

Conflicted on whether I should wake my former guide just to say goodbye, I eventually decided to write her a goodbye note. A paragraph into the letter, I heard Willow give a muffled groan. She stretched her slender legs under her light blanket, and when she finished, her faded eyes worked their way open. They quickly focused as she noticed that I was dressed and packed.

“Oh, you leaving, Quill?”

Hastily, I folded the note and slipped it into my bags. “Yeah, I think it’s best that I get going.”

Willow sat up. “Well, I gotta tell you goodbye, yeah?” She rubbed her eyes and ran a hoof through her messy red locks, turning her gaze to the window. “Watch your ass in Divide. Not saying you’ll get mugged, but it’s not got Buckwater’s hospitality, nah.”

I chuckled and thanked her. “I’ll keep my eyes peeled. Is there somewhere here I could earn some caps?”

“Divide’s whole t’ing is business, yeah. Dere’s a ton of shops and restaurants in de mall, I’d check dere first if I were you.”

At the door, I turned back to Willow Wisp. “Got it, thanks. I hope you reunite with your brother soon.”

The unicorn brushed her mane back and smiled at me. “T’ank you, Quill. Be safe.” With that, Willow Wisp pulled her door shut and latched it behind me, and I was once again on my own in Mulisiana.

The morning air was misty and humid as I left the Beehive. Since I still only possessed a pittance, I figured it prudent to secure some kind of job while waiting for the crossing to reopen. Preferably this dream job would be some relatively comfy position which didn’t require me to delve into goremoth-infested ruins or radioactive bogs; I had neither the stamina nor ammunition.

Descending the scaffolding, I passed by several apartments with their doors left ajar. I wound up as the recipient of many squints and sidelong glances as tenants eyed me suspiciously, some moving about tasks in their home, others lounging on their “porch” area. Willow hadn’t been kidding when she’d said the city was paranoid.

I wanted to take a look at the canal in the daylight, so I took the road headed deeper into town. Divide was already bustling, and I noticed more than a few Talon patrols flying overhead, many landing at the building on top of the crane. The lights above the crane that I’d seen last night were confirmed to be pulsing gemstones attached to a bristling antennae network atop the structure. On the ground, I noticed some creatures were in the process of reinforcing buildings as if they were anticipating some sort of bombardment. Did the Cogs have that sort of weaponry at their disposal?

When I finally reached the Rift, I was surprised at its scale. The sides of the canal were steep concrete slopes maybe twenty feet in height. The water was a filthy pale brown, strewn with all manner of swamp muck and trash. I looked across to the other shore, which had to be over two hundred feet away, and could see Northern Divide, which my amused inner voice wanted to refer to as “Multiply”. To the left and right, the canal held what appeared to be large metal gates. Perhaps they could be closed to prevent passage, or they could have been designed to affect the water level in some way.

Two rather small boats were moored a ways down the canal on the southern shore, while one was at the northern side. I thought of hiring one of them to take me out the eastern end of the Rift and up the coast all the way to Fillydelphia, but assuming they were even offering passage, such a long voyage was undoubtedly beyond my budget. Darkly, I reflected on how I could easily cross the canal if I’d just had both wings. Not just that, you’d be able to fly all the way home. I grit my teeth in frustration and flicked a nearby pebble into the water below, watching it bounce off of a floating trash bag first.

Once I’d had my fill of studying the Rift, I decided to find the mall, since it sounded like the best chance to find employment. Regardless of where I planned to go after Divide, I would need more caps. The route there took me through a public square where a sizable crowd had gathered, buzzing with energy. Drawing nearer, I could begin to make out some of the conversations.

“Is it almost time?”

“Any minute now. Can’t wait.”

“Think he’ll scream? Cry? Piss himself?”

“Nah, too proud.”

“I had a great idea the other day… instead of hanging, we should execute them Cogs with a nail to the forehead!”

“What?”

“You know, like giving them a horn, but it’s backwards! Get it?”

“That’s fucked up. I mean, I don’t give a shit, but that’s pretty fucked.”

“Hey, just one good smack with a hammer, it’s over faster than the noose, huh?”

Talk of the Chosen of Gaia had me pausing. The spectacle of a public execution wasn’t counted among my favorite pastimes, but if this was an opportunity to finally see and hear a Cog for myself, then I wasn’t going to miss it.

Ten minutes of nervous energy carried the crowd until finally someone shouted an alert. Everyone around me came into a furor, with shouts of “Spy!” being prevalent above the general clamor. I strained my head above the crowd, but couldn’t see the target of their ire until he was led up onto a platform.

Escorted none too gently by a pair of burly Talons, a middle-aged, wiry earth pony stood before the crowd with a surprisingly placid demeanor. He was clad in filthy but ornate white robes, with green and gold accents. Their overall design reminded me of the Scribe garbs that were still securely folded in my saddlebag.

A unicorn mare had also stepped onto the platform, appearing to be presiding over the proceedings. She lit her horn with a wince, and while I was too far away to see with any certainty, I assumed that she had been a victim of one of the inhibitor rings that Willow had described.

“Bark Blossom, you stand here today accused of treason,” she declared, her voice amplified by magical means. “How do you plead?”

The Cog, Bark, bowed his head briefly and responded, “Not guilty. Gaia will-”

Whatever he said past that was drowned out by a wave of outrage, as creatures around me jeered and hurled insults his way. I was forced to cover my ears to keep my tinnitus in check.

"Let him speak!"

The mob settled down eventually, enough for Bark to continue. “With Gaia as my witness, I have only come to serve you, to save you, to show you a brighter future for all of Gaia’s creatures!”

“ ‘Save us’? From what?”

“From your own destruction! You know I speak the truth; magic heralded our world’s end once, and if we don’t separate it from Equus permanently, the next time it will eradicate all of us!”

The unicorn-- who I took to be a magistrate of sorts-- reined in the crowd, then continued. “Very well. Can you provide an adequate explanation for why your organization has now forcibly occupied LaFerrier?”

Bark Blossom straightened up. “I’m not privy to the Synod’s reasoning for their actions in LaFerrier, but it was undoubtedly with the town’s betterment in mind.”

Many members of the crowd objected to this, and over their heated insults, the unicorn continued, “Was the airship affiliated with the Cogs in any way?”

“No, I… I don’t know anything about an airship! Maybe if you hadn’t shot at them in your prejudice, you could’ve learned who they really were.”

“Why have you been asking our citizens questions such as ‘If you met Gaia tomorrow, would you be ready’?”

I didn’t hear Bark’s reply to this, because I was still staring blankly in shock at the previous exchange. Had the Phoebe been near Divide? The Cog’s words sent a shock of fear through me. If the city had opened fire on the airship, what if somepony onboard was struck and killed, or if the Phoebe had gone down entirely and everyone was dead…?

I turned my head to see if anyone beside me would be willing to elaborate. No one was willing to or was listening to me, and I was saddened to notice an excited filly nearby, propped up on the back of her enraptured mother. I didn’t stick around to witness Bark’s fate. Frustrated, confused, and filled with growing anxiety over the Phoebe, I extricated myself from the crowd and set a course for the Waterfront Mall.

The warehouse in question wasn’t a long trot, and as I traveled I kept passing more creatures who had either stopped in place to peer over at the ongoing trial, or were changing course from wherever they’d been originally bound to join the crowd I’d just left. Even the entrance to the mall was stuffed with ponies who were idly standing about, casting their eyes down the street and listening to the magistrate’s amplified voice, faint but still audible. After some insistence, I was able to get them to shuffle apart for me, though their attention never wavered.

The interior of the Waterfront Mall was a cavernous, dimly-lit and humid hive of stalls, shipping containers, and lean-tos that housed merchants peddling a wide variety of goods and services. Most passersby were ponies, though I noticed several groups of donkeys and caught a few flashes of black-and-white stripes. Sitting in the rafters high above the herd of customers were griffon guards, surveying with their keen eyes. Over the din of hundreds of voices and different musical tunes I sensed the heavy drone of industrial fans, struggling to keep the place ventilated.

The mall was so densely packed with shops and so populated that it felt like a city of its own. When I ventured into one aisle, I found myself whisked along as if pulled down a river's current, the shoppers around me constantly surging this way and that. Reaching out a proverbial hoof to a proverbial stone in the flow, I slipped out into a shop where I could rest for a moment.

What was meant to be a chance to catch my breath instead turned into a thrilling detour as I noticed my surroundings. Within an enclosure of thin plywood walls were shelves piled tall with newspapers and magazines. I gravitated to the nearest stack of newspapers and began to leaf through them, taking in every headline that covered the page. There were so many that the shop was able to put off the faint scent of old paper, and I knew I couldn’t stay here long or I would risk spending all my caps on reading material. It didn’t help that they were all being sold for practically nothing!

“Hey, you gonna read it or buy it?” came the amused voice of the proprietor. She was a short donkey who leaned over the counter at me with a smirk on her face.

“Yeah, just a moment!” I rushed to collect a few more newspapers. A few interesting magazine covers earned spots in the haul that I was gradually shifting closer and closer to the counter. The owner whistled. Finally, I dropped a thick stack of papers in front of her, my face beaming with excitement. I would only have to pay eight caps for all of these.

As the jenny counted my caps, she commented, “You must eat well!”

I gave her a blank look. “Excuse me?”

“No offense or anything, miss,” she corrected. “Just don’t see folks stock up this much at once.”

Only then did I finally notice the stacks of toilet paper on the shelves behind her, which were listed as “premium quality”. At that moment, I found myself filled with equal parts embarrassment and indignation.

“Wait, you… you’re implying these are just for… you’re letting historical artifacts be defiled like this?!”

It was the donkey’s turn to don a confused expression. “Artifacts…?”

I scoffed, looking around at all the valuable material that would soon end up dirtied and destroyed in an outhouse, a ditch, or some bushes. The idea that neither she nor her customers would have any regard for what could be learned from them… well, I had to admit that very few creatures shared my obsessions, but that was beside the point. As my gaze returned to the front, I saw a rolled up garden hose behind the counter that was labeled as an “extra-strength bidet”.

“Just sell me these,” I groaned. At least I could save a few from a horrendous fate.

Reentering the aisle, I counted at least a dozen shops centered around firearms and other weapons before I reached the end. The next aisle held  caged animals like birds and hogs, and then a scrap metal dealer where I was able to sell off most of the tractor components I’d scavenged. Keeping my expectations low, I was not surprised when I only netted about fifty caps for the lot. The dealer wasn’t interested in the expired water ward, so it returned to my significantly lightened saddlebags and I continued exploring the mall.

Turning a corner, I sidled around a pair of rotund donkeys to find a seamstress shop operating out of a wheel-less passenger wagon husk. The vehicle had been painted a soft brown, with thick burgundy curtains hanging behind the dusty windows that ran its length. I eagerly rushed through the accordion-style side door and up the narrow steps.

The interior was stuffy and was strong with the scent of closet, as floor-to-ceiling shelves on both sides were filled with rolls of fabric that spanned every possible color imaginable. Underhoof was a long, narrow carpet that led me to the seamstress herself, a very old griffin who was already occupied with armored barding that looked like it had either been peppered with bullets or been the meal of a moth horde. In true Divide fashion, a rattly fan had been installed in the rear of the wagon behind her, doing its best to create some air flow.

"Good morning," I began. "I need a set of robes mended."

The griffon clacked her beak and responded without looking up from her work. "Zat would be possible, indeed. You have robes with you?" Her accent was an uncommon one; not Prench like I had heard so often in Mulisiana, but rather an articulation that I had only heard from griffons.

I produced the Scribe robes from my saddlebags and held them in my hoof, giving them another look before the griffon was ready to accept them. The crimson fabric had not been fully restored to its proper color by my inadequate laundering job back in Buckwater, but at least it didn't smell like river water and blood anymore. Eventually the seamstress plunged her sewing needle into a pincushion and set aside the armor, taking my robes from me and closely studying them. Her brows arched when she discovered that she could easily stick her hand through the hole in the back.

"Zis is work of goremoth, is it not?"

I nodded. “Had a run-in a couple days ago.”

The seamstress didn’t reply, but instead rose on shaky legs and began to search her large supply for fabric that would match the robes. Eventually she found a shade of red which was nearly identical, and she gave me a rough estimate of the cost. Fifteen caps was reasonable, especially for an item so sentimental. I agreed and was told to return at the end of the day.

Back outside, I continued to wander until I found a corner of the building that had been converted into a food court. A collection of stalls and restaurants encircled numerous tables, which in turn surrounded a pallet and plywood stage in the center of it all. Performing a slow, relaxing beat was a jazz band composed mostly of unicorns, though they did possess a griffon who skillfully plucked at a guitar. While I observed, my stomach growled at the whiff of unhealthy but delectable fried foods on sale here. One sign I spied claimed “The best platter this side of the Rift!” while another announced, “Our funnel cakes rule!” I even spotted a lone vegetarian joint, which didn’t seem quite as busy as its competitors.

One restaurant stood above all the rest in its size and mostly-consistent construction, titled “Castaway Gumbo and Mead.” It was enclosed, with a propped-open door and windows that each looked borrowed from different houses. There was a chalkboard menu hanging near the entrance which advertised specials and offered a little bit of everything, including many varieties of its namesake. Next to the menu was a sign announcing that they were hiring, and I decided this could be a promising first application.

As I made my way towards the restaurant, I had to weave through a dense pack of creatures who were clamoring to get inside another establishment, which had a banner hung above it reading, “Free bullets with every purchase!” Once I had threaded the press, I narrowly avoided colliding with a pair of greasy-looking ponies who took immediate interest in me.

“ ‘Scuse me, lady,” one began, eyeing me up and sidling close as I kept moving. “Are you from around here?”

“No,” I answered shortly. Just ignore them and they’ll go away.

The first to speak glanced over my back at his friend, then returned his attention to me. “That’s fortunate! Y’see, the Cogs are about to steamroll into this place and take it over, see? We’re fixin’ to make scarce, and we’ve been looking for a fine mare such as yourself to accompany us for the trip-”

“Not interested,” I cut him off and kept moving.

His voice rose in indignation. “Look, I’m tryin’ to help you! You really wanna take your chances with this city?”

Nearly inside, I ignored his persistence and quickened my trot. My hecklers hesitated as I entered, though I could still hear them discussing something amongst themselves.

The interior wasn’t quite what I had expected. A diner aesthetic was made apparent through the numerous brightly-colored linoleum booths lining the walls, while the center of the room held spinning stools paired with shiny, buffed tabletops that reminded me of Marigold’s home. Unlike any diner I’d seen, however, there were also collections of heavy steel axes and swords hung around the walls. At times these weapons were paired with wooden shields that bore colorful designs of griffons and dragons, and in other instances they were displayed near mounted animal hides. Long, thick rugs lined the room’s aisles. Behind the counter, on the opposite side of the room from the entrance, was a wooden ship’s figurehead mounted to the wall, a fearsome and intricately carved sea serpent. About a half a dozen customers were seated and conversing over their food while I spotted only one waitress, a tiny mare in a short, bright pink skirt and apron.

Lounging in the booth nearest me was an eye-catching creature. He was undoubtedly the smallest griffon I’d ever seen, short and brilliantly colored, with a long and slender beak, gleaming orange headfeathers and iridescent green wings tucked against his back. As if these weren’t bright enough, the griffon wore countless colorful beaded necklaces and little trinkets. He paid me no attention as he fidgeted, transfixed by a nearly-empty Sparkle~Cola bottle that he rolled around in his claws.

As I made my way to the bar at the back of the restaurant, I passed the waitress and heard her repeating, “Y-yes, the sugar costs extra,” to an elderly jack who seemed both hard-of-sight and hard-of-hearing. I took a seat and tapped idly on the counter until who I assumed to be the proprietor mosied back up front. He was a very tall, powerfully built horse with thick fetlocks and a curly coat. Long blond locks of mane fell about his head, while an impressive, plaited beard hung from his chiseled jaw. While he appeared to notice my presence, he didn’t hasten his leisurely pace or make pleasantries. His movements were… well, slow was a description that could’ve applied, but I settled on deliberate as the superior adverb.

"You’ll be served in a minute," he told me, busying himself with something behind the counter.

"Actually, I was inquiring about the ‘help wanted’ sign out front."

He paused in his task, then nodded. “Ah, very good. Are you looking for something temporary or a more permanent position?”

“Temporary.”

With a short sigh, he reached into a drawer and retrieved a clipboard. “Too bad for us, I suppose. Been tough keeping help around... all this talk of Cogs returning to Divide scared most of our workforce away, and now we only have Toffee over there.” He gestured at the anxious mare, who was still attempting to complete the elderly donkey’s order. “That said, she’s been an accidental hit with the customers. A real shy type, cute and endearing in our regulars’ eyes. Gets plenty of tips.”

“I see,” I commented. Hopefully I could get in on some of those extra caps as well.

“My name’s Crag.” His magic touched a pencil to the clipboard while he turned his eyes up at me. “Yours?”

“Quillwright.”

He wrote that down, then asked, “Race?”

“Um…” I glanced down, feeling warm behind the ears. What if pegasi weren’t allowed in this place? Would he throw me out? Maybe he would-

My worries were interrupted by Crag’s low scoff. “Right. Just thought I’d ask.” He scrawled some more, and after a couple moments turned the clipboard to face me. “This look correct?”

Crag had misspelled my name and assumed me to be an earth pony. “Uh... yep!”

“Great.” He finished up jotting a few more details and then inhaled. “You can start right away. Depending on how well you fill in, we could even boost your wage a bit. Toff’s still too flighty to work in the kitchen for long, so I’d appreciate you picking up that slack.”

“... What do you mean by that?” Suddenly I had a creeping suspicion that this might have been a mistake.

Before Crag could respond, there was some loud laughter and some nervous whinnies, then a loud, high-pitched shout. We both looked to see Toffee being harrassed by the pair of shifty ponies who had followed me earlier. One was biting at her tail, the other laughing as he blocked her path back to the counter. The shout had emitted from the beak of the diminutive griffon I’d passed at the entrance, who was coming to the aid of the equally-small waitress.

“Back off!” he commanded, trying to shove one of the ponies so he could get between the harasser and the waitress, who was squeaking in fright as she cowered.

“Oh yeah, pipsqueak?” The larger of the two ponies smirked as the griffon approached. “Or what? You’ll make me?” He gave a swift frontal kick with one leg. The avian dodged around, but before he could retaliate, a hind kick caught him in the gut. He tumbled backwards into a table, crashing to the floor near me. None of the nearby patrons looked eager to get involved, though I didn’t blame them; the instigators looked heavy and hardened. Still, I helped the griffon to his paws, earning a nod of thanks from him.

"Oh, hey again, bitch!" one of the ponies snarled at me. "So we're beneath help, but a griffon ain't?" He menaced us while his friend kept harassing Toffee. “I’m sick’a seein’ mares falling for you winged rats.”

I looked back at Crag, expecting that a horse of his stature could easily intervene, but instead he lit his horn and telekinetically rang a bell that hung on the wall behind him thrice. The noise caught the thugs’ attention, who paused momentarily to glance in annoyed confusion at Crag. When the unicorn just kept passively leaning on the counter, albeit glaring at them in severe disapproval, the ponies resumed their heckling. I heard the clatter of dishes and metal in a room behind the counter, presumably the kitchen, and then felt the floor repeatedly reverberate like someone was striking the concrete with a sledgehammer. The tremors shook the walls, and the thugs froze in place, whirling around to gape at the source.

Ducking to clear the threshold, a hefty female minotaur entered the room. Sporting muscular arms and legs, she stood nearly twice my height, not including her downward-curling horns. A stained, well-used apron was draped across her short white-and-brown piebald coat, which was covered in a tapestry of tattoos and brands. Jewelry hung from her nose, ears, and horns. The minotaur’s dark eyes were laser-focused on the two offending ponies, who shrunk back in fear. Toffee was dropped to the floor, where she landed and curled up with a startled “Ee-eep!”

“We got a moo-tiny goin’ on here?” the minotaur growled, her voice bassy and strident. She held a fearsome, gleaming cleaver in one hand, coated in a thin layer of blood.

The lead thug swallowed. He drew himself up with a deep breath, though I could spy his jaw muscles quiver. “It’s none of your business, monster.”

With a long blink, the minotaur advanced on him. “Not my business, aye? Not my business?” She reached out one of her long, sinewy arms and grabbed a handful of the pony's mane, wrenching his neck back into an awkward, uncomfortable position. “Are ya payin’ any taxes to Divide to keep this business open? Nah?”

Her target gasped, writhing as he tried vainly to free himself. He seemed completely unable to fight back against an opponent so tall and overwhelmingly strong. “H-hey, you- c-can’t… do this! I-I’m your c-customer!” he wheezed.

With no apparent effort required, the minotaur lifted the pony with one hand. Out of the front entrance he flew, followed by her call, “Go be the doctor’s customer!” She turned her head to glare threateningly at the thug’s crony, who was already stumbling madly to vacate the premises. Several patrons cheered and jeered, and a few stomped the floor approvingly at the show. The small griffon at my side made an aggressive gesture at the fleeing pony, holding up only his middle talon. Probably a griffon-specific insult of some kind.

I heard Crag clear his throat behind me. Slowly, I dragged my wide eyes away from the bipedal colossus to meet the quadrupedal colossus’ impassive face. “Bertha, my wife. Don't worry, we usually don't have to throw anyone out of the establishment.” The minotaur began tromping back to the kitchen, helping up Toffee on the way, lifting her as if she was weightless. The diminutive mare still looked shaken in spite of this helpful gesture, but she was soon comforted by the small griffon, who wrapped her in a gentle wing-hug.

“New customer?” asked the minotaur as she passed us.

“New hire, actually,” Crag answered.

Bertha laughed, a booming chortle that was loud enough to make me wince. “A new, pretty face! Sun knows we’ve needed one. You’ll look even better in uniform, I’m sure.” With that, she returned to the kitchen as I raised a brow at Crag.

“Um… don’t take this the wrong way, but why didn’t you stop those ponies yourself?”

“Why’d I call Bertha?”

“Well, yeah. You were here already.”

His eyes slowly drifted to one of the axes on the wall nearby. “I was raised to kill, never to subdue. Bertha has just as much strength as I do, but also self-control, which I lack.” He grimaced. “We had an incident very early on and I don’t wish to repeat it; troublemakers like them don’t deserve death. That... and explaining a dead patron to the authorities is difficult.”

I hadn’t quite expected that answer, but nodded in response. “Oh.” Before it could get awkward, I moved on. “Well, I’m ready to start working!”

The unicorn motioned for me to stay put as he ducked into the hall, returning shortly with two skirt and top pairs held up in his magic, closely resembling Toffee’s attire. One was blue, one was red, and neither looked particularly modest.

“You get to pick the color. These are the only two we have left.”

My eyes traced the skirt hems, recognizing just how skimpy they were. While I felt some trepidation knowing modesty wasn’t in the job description, I also knew that if I played it right, I could certainly earn some tips, which I seriously needed. Sucking up my remaining reservations, I pointed.

“Red.”




> Chapter 9: Confluence - Part II
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------





The only private location to change into my uniform was a small closet tucked around the corner from the kitchen. I struggled to wriggle out of my Stable barding and into the skirt, knocking over a couple brooms and tripping on a stepstool. The cherry-red outfit was barely large enough to slip over my wing, which created a suspicious lump on my side. I hoped that no one would pay enough attention to notice it, but the way I was dressed was obviously meant to draw customers’ eyes. At least they would be distracted by other areas.

When I shuffled back into the kitchen, using my teeth to pull on my top and relieve pressure on my stump, Bertha seemed to notice something was off immediately. “You wearin’ your saddlebag beneath that or somethin’?”

I gritted my teeth and shrugged. “No, it’s just a, uh, a kink in the dress. Just got to…” No amount of adjusting the fabric or avoiding the minotaur’s gaze could convince her, though.

“You’re a pegasus, ain’tcha?”

My ears stood up in alert mode as I stared at her fearfully, then averted my gaze as I babbled out an objection. “N-no, I-I-”

“I can tell, I’ve met others before. Had one as a mate in the crow’s nest, too.” She pointed at my side. “That lump’s your wing, though you look like you’re missin’ the other one.” After a stream of stuttered, half-formed denials from me, Bertha signaled for me to stop. I clammed up instantly, and she finished, “I don’t rightly care what ya are, just whether ya can haul your own weight, y’know?”

“Oh. I thought that…”

“That I care what your species is? Nah, why should I?” She leaned over the counter towards me. “Listen, anyone gives ya trouble for that wing, ya let me know and I’ll deal with it, alright?” I nodded at this, and Bertha smiled in response. “Good. Now let’s get to work; we’re already runnin’ behind.”

The minotaur’s sheer culinary skill left my jaw on the floor. Every dish was prepared with the utmost care and consideration, portions were accurately measured, and meats cooked, fried, and boiled with practiced ease. It was all I could do just to keep up, and in the end settled for retrieving tools she needed, cleaning dishes, and assisting with simpler tasks like seasoning. Bertha’s signature gumbo was almost always cooking, filling the kitchen with the smell of simmering peppers, onions, shrimp, and gator meat. There were endless varieties of the soup that she received orders for, and as I took each prepared dish to Toffee, I grew hungrier and hungrier.

Bertha’s abilities extended past cooking; she was also an accomplished conversationalist and storyteller, keeping me inundated with a constant flow of rumors from Divide and the surrounding area. One of the first questions I asked her was about the Rift crossing closure, which she was eager to comment on.

“I heard they’ve been wantin’ to try some Cog preacher for espionage.” She shook her head. “Don’t know that he’s a real spy per se, but we shouldn’tah let any of ‘em in to begin with. When they wanna subjugate a whole buncha people just for havin’ horns, I can’t abide by that. Earth pony way, my ass.”

I frowned as I brought her a fresh selection of vegetables for the next order. “He was having a public trial this morning. It wasn’t really going in his favor.” While Bertha took the onions, I took a pile of celery to dice.

“Figures. The council's gonna look for any reason to string one up, not that it’ll solve anything.” As I had expected, Bertha cut the onions without a single tear.

"The council? Do they govern Divide?"

"Aye, it's a collection of folks from both halves of the city. Getting them to agree on anything is a miracle, but stick em in a crisis and suddenly they work together so much better." She rolled her eyes. "People keep tellin' me to run for a council seat… don't want nothin' to do with politics, I always say."

“Ah. So, I heard the Cogs used to be Steel Rangers… is there any truth to that?” I ventured.

Bertha chewed her lip as she worked. “No one else I’ve ever met ever wore power armor, so it seems like a safe bet, aye.” She wiped her brow. “No one’s heavier’n a pony in one o’ them tin cans, neither. Sun above, that was the toughest suplex I’ve ever pulled off…”

That comment left me at a loss for words as I glanced at her powerful arms, but I recovered as quickly as I could. “Um… do you know when they became like this? Anti-unicorn, I mean?”

“Been this way as long as I’ve known of ‘em. I came to Mulisiana…” she trailed off briefly and tilted her head back and forth in thought. Every movement of her head created light jingling due to the many pieces of jewelry that hung from her horns. “Eight years ago? So at least that long.”

“Oh, so you aren’t from around here?”

“Nah, New Pegas born and bred.”

I felt a rush of excitement at that name. “Oh, a fellow Equestrian! I was born outside of Manehattan, lived close to Filly for a good decade too.”

“An east-coaster!” Bertha grinned. “Yeah, I grew up in the Pegas slums. Fell in with a gang when I was still a calf, and later that gang moved out to sea. We raided ships and villages up an’ down the coastline, explored the islands out west, fought with other crews like Craggy’s. Made it to Neigh Orleans eventually, awakened my culinary passion durin’ my stay at Mirage, and to keep cuttin’ that long story shorter, sailed up the canal to settle here with Craggy.”

“Wait, wait, wait. You were a pirate?” I neighed.

“Aye. I was young, poor, and stupid, just the muscle followin’ my friends wherever they went. Eventually I grew up and grew a spine. See, those friends didn’t turn out to be as friendly as I thought.” She took a nearby carving knife and began working on a slab of gator meat. The action drew me to study her arms again, noting just how decorated even a single bicep was. I saw the tattoos of bovine, pony, and griffon skulls, of ship wheels and the spiraling tentacles of a stylized octopus. “Hmm, we were talkin’ about Cogs, weren’t we?”

“Um…” I mentally backtracked through a minute of our conversation. “Yeah.”

My questions continued to be answered to the best of Bertha’s abilities. To the Chosen of Gaia, the abbreviation “Cog” was seen as an insult. Unicorns who dared to remove an inhibitor ring from their horns and were caught again by the Cogs were subject to severe punishment, up to and including death. The cult’s whole operation was based out of Mareami, a pre-war city close to the eastern mouth of the Rift. This location had long concerned Divide, as the Cogs could attempt to blockade the canal, tax those who passed through, or even launch a naval assault from that position, though none of those scenarios had yet occurred.

Eventually I decided to let Bertha in on the secret that I was a Steel Ranger Scribe. I expected a significant reaction one way or the other, but what I was met with instead surprised me: a simple nod. When I hesitantly asked if she was okay knowing that about me, she replied, “Aye. Why, you think I'd throw ya out?"

"... Maybe? I don't know how you feel about the Steel Rangers. Based on the general opinion I’ve observed of the Cogs, well, I assumed there’d be more than just a nod."

"Well, y'see, you ain't really been actin’ like a Ranger. Need to stick your snout higher in the air." Bertha snarked.

First Willow had criticized me as a poor Steel Ranger, now Bertha. Was I really that unlike my peers? Nonetheless, I allowed the insinuation to slide, and detailed to her what had led myself and the expedition to Mulisiana in the first place. She had winced when she heard how my wing had been lost, and vaguely knew of Stable 56 through its connection to Buckwater, where tarberries were imported to Divide from.

“So you were sent to raid a Stable.”

“No, we… we were just ensuring it was being put to good use. If not, well, we’d be able to.”

Bertha sighed. “Quilly, I may have once been a pirate, but I don’t try’n justify what I did nowadays, ‘cause it was wrong. The thing is, I wasn’t born a pirate.” She then tilted her head, jewelry tinkling as her eyes narrowed at me. “You weren’t born a Ranger, were you?” She didn’t speak accusingly, but instead knowingly.

I shook my head, admitting that she was on the right track.

“See, I turned pirate because I was bored of bein’ nothin’ more than a petty thief and a bruiser in those New Pegas back alleys. I followed my mates and thought life on the high seas would give me the purpose I wanted. Instead, I found myself in the same role, still just a pawn and still chasin’ the same higher callin’. I didn’t find it ‘til I met Crag and started a life here, servin’ people and providin’ work to those who need it, even to Steel Rangers.” She gestured at me. “So why did you join ‘em?”

“Well, I…” I knew the answer, the real answer. “I… thought they could help me save my family.” My jaw clenched tight as I explained. “But they couldn’t… wouldn’t. After that, I stayed because… well, I’ve always sought knowledge. They’re the only group in Equestria that really cares about the world before.”

“The way I see it, any group who was founded on helpin’ people has failed when they ain’t done that for more than a century.” Bertha told me, her tone serious. “Listen, I’m not accusin’ you of bein’ like the rest. But the Rangers ain’t got the best image in the eyes of us ‘tribals’. Ya know that, even if ya won’t admit it.”

She was right; fear was a common response from civilians who saw us. It was something I hadn’t seen much in recent years due to the decreasing time I spent out in the field. I knew it all the same, however, because I had been in those very horseshoes the first time I’d encountered the Steel Rangers in Manehattan’s public library. For every Aurora Tide, there were two or three Key Limes.

“I’m sorry to be the one tellin’ ya this, but they used ya just like my mates used me. Ya think you’d be left behind like this if they really cared?”

Once again, I saw the moment where things went wrong in Stable 56, only from Orange Kyanite’s point of view. He did care about me, I knew he did. If Aurora Tide had been critically injured, I didn’t blame him for evacuating her. Kyanite had trusted Ardent and Vox greatly, and surely he thought I was in secure hooves with them. Still… after getting Aurora Tide out, why didn’t Kyanite return for us?

And if Stable 56 had still been occupied, I knew that Orange Kyanite wouldn't have approved of us using violence against them, so long as the dwellers weren’t hostile. But then, those ponies would've been expelled, forced out into a deadly, treacherous world that would've torn them to shreds. Wasn't that tantamount to a death sentence?

Bertha had let her question hang between us. I conceded that she had made some good points, and then continued the story.

“Chasin’ after your crew…” Bertha mused. “Sounds like they’re the airship Divide went into a tizzy over. Most of those folks are convinced it was a Cog spy craft or bomber, something like that.”

“I’ve been hoping someone could tell me exactly what happened,” I replied. “I heard that it was shot at?”

“Shot down.”

I inhaled. “Oh, Celestia…”

Realizing I was on the verge of panicking, Bertha quickly added, “Well, safely shot down, if that’s a phrase. I was boilin’ some water when we’d heard folks shouting about some flyin’ boat outside.” She jerked a thumb at the emergency exit door behind her. “We came outside to see what the hell them ponies were screaming about, and saw it alright. Some ship strapped to a balloon, floating way up high. Too high to see who was flying it, but it wasn’t long before Divide lashed out.”

Bertha paused to send her finger through the air like a projectile. “There was a boom, and the artillery they built to shoot through Cog power armor was sendin’ a round way up at the ship.” She used her other hand to represent the Phoebe, and her finger sailed past it. “They missed the first shot, by quite a bit. Second one flew high, so did the third. By this point, your ship had realized it wasn’t welcome here and had turned away, tryin’ to rise.” She sent another finger towards her hand, which hit it near the upper deck.

"Next shot hit. I couldn't tell much from where we were standin’, but a pony with binoculars was in earshot and givin’ the details." The next finger she fired at the Phoebe was high, but stopped just above it. “Then the artillery hit the balloon. Next thing we knew, they were goin’ down, though slowed by magic. Whoever was behind the wheel managed to turn the ship towards the Rift, and it seems they actually managed to land it in the canal, headed east towards Brayton Rouge. The Talons were on ‘em like sharks to a shipwreck, but got driven off by a whole swarm o’ bullets.”

I felt dizzy as I took this all in, dozens of emotions swirling around in my mind. I was filled with relief that the ship had landed safely, no doubt thanks to Cider Vinegar’s talented piloting skills. There was also fear that the first shot from the artillery could’ve been fatal to somepony on board, and foreboding at the idea of my allies also being trapped here in Mulisiana with me. If Aurora Tide had indeed been injured in Stable 56, perhaps Kyanite had been seeking a place to find medical treatment for her. Divide had ruined that chance, and I didn’t even know if the Apothecary was still alive at this point.

On top of that, this meant nopony back in Equestria would know our plight. I felt overwhelmed with uncertainty, not feeling that I knew the best course of action from here. Obviously I still needed to catch up to the Phoebe, and now I had a better idea of where it was headed, but I was still just one mare. Could I hire a Talon to help me follow the Rift to wherever the airship --or, just ship, now-- was headed? That would undoubtedly be an expensive ask, and if the mercenaries had already tussled with the expedition, I didn’t expect them to be very willing to help in any way. In fact, if they connected me to the ship… I didn’t want to end up like Bark Blossom.

The idea of rehiring Willow Wisp crossed into my mind and lingered. We were already well-acquainted, and she knew her way around Mulisiana as well as anypony I’d met so far. I wasn’t sure how much she’d charge for however long it took to chase down a sailing ship now, or if it was even a request that made sense… and she might have been hired by someone else by now.

I chewed on my lip, staring at the burnished steel of the counter in deep consideration as I asked Bertha, “Is the radio on the city’s crane open to the public?” Maybe it was possible to contact the Citadel to request assistance or orders.

“It was. At least, it still is, but it’s highly regulated by the Talons now. Teensy’s kept me up to date on it, they don’t want any Cogs usin’ the radio to leak intel or whatever.”

“Teensy?”

“Y’know, that itty-bitty griffon out there.”

“Oh. That’s an unconventional name for a griffon.”

Bertha smirked. “That’s ‘cause it ain’t his real name. Nobody can pronounce it, not even Toffee, and they’re datin’! Took to callin’ him Teensy instead, and it stuck. He doesn’t seem to mind it.”

“Ah. So he’s a Talon?”

“He is. Came from a local village; you may’ve noticed he looks a bit different compared to his mates up in your neck of the woods.” I certainly had noticed, and Bertha continued, “Anyway, he does shifts on radio duty, which, yes, includes coordinatin’ with the main Talon company back in Equestria.”

Back in Equestria! Now that phrase had me hopeful. With signal range like that, I could certainly get back in contact with the Citadel. Hell, I might even be able to reach Manehattan or Bucklyn Cross! I asked Bertha if that meant I could use the radio, and she replied, “Don’t worry, we’ll talk to him about it tonight.”

Sometime later, I became aware that Toffee had inched her way inside, only indicated when she cleared her throat behind me, her eyes nervously daring between mine and Bertha’s gazes. She held a notebook in her mouth, which was covered in orders. How long the tiny mare had been waiting to get our attention, I wasn’t sure.

“Ah, Toffee’s gonna take her lunch now,” Bertha remarked, indicating my fellow coworker. “You mind waitressing for a while, Quillwright?”







To my surprise, I found that I made for quite the adept waitress. Orders were easy enough to jot down, and my memory was resilient enough to allow me to recall a dozen names and table statuses as I moved about. While the job was certainly a departure from Scribe work, I didn’t feel too out of place recording and recalling information in a different environment. The skirt did its job, too; the tips began rolling quickly.

After half an hour of waiting on tables, managing refills and bringing orders in and out of the kitchen, I had already fallen into rote procedure. This was broken when I found myself taking an order from a table that included a familiar grey-horned, black-clad and hooded unicorn. She sat across from a pair of ponies, who looked to be a mother and son. The two had been speaking quietly when I approached, and ceased abruptly once I was in earshot.

“Uh, hi, Quill! Fancy seeing you here…” Willow Wisp’s voice carried an awkward hint, but she had the luxury of hiding beneath her cloak. On the other hoof, here I was dressed in a silly petite dress, any discomfort of my own clearly visible to all.

“Small world,” I agreed. “Would you like to order anything?”

Willow cleared her throat. “Yeah! Yeah. Um, I’ll have de gator gumbo wid extra onions. And also some tarberry punch.”

The pair opposite her ordered two small spicy salads with fried carrots. The mother seemed very antsy, with nervous eyes that darted between me, Willow, and behind me to the other patrons. Just as soon as I had turned away to bring the orders to Bertha, I heard the mother hiss at Willow, “You know I can’t agree to that.” When I brought their order back, the mother was shooting eye-daggers at Willow, who sat and uncomfortably rubbed her hooves together. While I found myself wanting to strike up a conversation with Willow, I knew that I had more customers to attend to and she still seemed busy with her own clients.

Ten minutes later, I noticed Willow Wisp was now alone in the booth, idly stirring the remains of her gumbo with a telekinetically-held spoon. Before I could come to collect her dishes and ask how business was going, the unicorn slipped out of the Castaway. When I came to clean her table, I found she had left me a generous tip.

Eventually Toffee relieved me, which I was grateful for. I’d developed a ravenous hunger being so close to the numerous meals I couldn’t try, and accepted a bowl of Bertha’s signature gumbo once I returned to the kitchen. While Crag’s home-brewed mead was very tempting, I didn’t think it wise to risk intoxication while on the job. Taking a seat at a card table squeezed into the kitchen’s corner, I found that Bertha and Crag were sitting down to take a short lunch break as well. Their bulks barely fit, but somehow they managed.

I swirled the soup’s contents. Bertha had used a type of seafood in this dish called “shrimp”, which I had read about once or twice but never tasted. Before I took a spoonful of the gumbo, Bertha warned me, “You can handle hot food, right?”

“Sure!” I scoffed. “I’ve had curry.”

Bertha guffawed, “Oh, right, Equestrian heat. Sun above, Quilly, you’re in for a surprise!”

Sure that she was simply exaggerating, I delivered the gumbo payload to my tastebuds. At first the taste was manageable; delicious, even! But true to Bertha’s word, it didn’t take long for the heat to dial up, and my eyes went wide. Once I was able to swallow the soup, my mouth opened wide to allow rapid breaths, a vain attempt to cool my tongue. The minotaur got a particular kick out of my reaction.

Over time I acclimated to the flavor, and in fact came to enjoy the burn. It was far beyond the dull warmth of the curry our Steel Ranger chef had once attempted to cook for us. From what I remembered, they had been wartime MREs we had scavenged from a military compound, accented with any spices the chef could sprinkle in afterwards. It had been a fun, different taste back then, but now I realized just how much it paled in comparison to cooking like Bertha’s.

When we were close to being finished with our food, I thought it the opportune time to ask Bertha another question which had been gestating since our first meeting. "Say, Bertha. You mention the sun a lot; are you referring to Celestia?"

"What? Pff, of course not. Why would I be? The Sun’s the Sun, it does what it wants."

"But Celestia guides it...?"

"Advises? Maybe. Guides? Quilly, if Celestia was the one controllin’ the Sun and she died, why do we still have days and nights?"

This point had come up when questioning my own faith in the Goddesses, and I had come to what I felt was the obvious answer many years ago. “Well, her spirit controls it now. She and Luna both ascended to divinity, and from the heavens continue to fulfill their duties.”

“And how did they ascend?”

“They… well, they died?”

“And then?”

A little frustrated, I answered, “They were alicorns. They were born with the powers to control celestial bodies, and that part of their souls transcended even the megaspells.” I shook my head. "So what, do you think the sun just… thinks for itself instead?" I tried not to scoff.

"I dunno what the Sun thinks. Honestly, it'd be rude of me to speak for it."

This whole idea was silly. "You think the moon and stars are alive too?"

Bertha nodded sagely. "In a matter of speaking, aye."

I sighed. "So, Bertha believes in the sun." Turning to her husband, I asked, "What do you believe in, Crag? The same as her?"

"Valhorsia, a warrior’s afterlife," the unicorn answered briefly. "Why?"

"I'm just, I don’t know... trying to comprehend how you two ended up together... I think?"

"Should've asked." Bertha got up to grab herself another bowl of rice. "Not like we're hiding."

"What Bertha means to say is that we were the sole survivors of our respective crews." Crag explained as he poured more mead into his tankard. "While we were foes once, here, in this strange new world, we have no reason to be. Strangers in a stranger land, you could say."

"Alright. Valhorsia. But what happens to, you know, non-warriors?"

"They stay forever in the coldest depths of the afterlife." Crag answered without hesitation. "Unable to feel the warmth of another being for all eternity."

I gulped. I'd heard the notion of hell before, but wasn't it a bit... harsh? There was nothing comparable when believing in the Goddesses. Furthermore, if Crag didn’t fight anymore, wouldn’t he end up there too? Noticing the shift in my mood, Crag smiled.

"I have a question for you. What is a warrior, Quillwright?"

I blinked. Wasn't it obvious? "A fighter, a soldier. Someone who engages in battle and warfare."

"That’s it?"

I noticed Bertha was biting back a grin, but I paid her no mind.

"Well, yes? I mean, if you want the proper definition-"

"So, do you think that anyone who is unwilling or unable to even raise a weapon or a spell would end up in Helheim?” Crag interjected. “I thought so too, for the longest time, before Bertha and I ended up here. It's... not that simple." He took a swig of mead, his voice now replaced by Bertha's.

"A warrior is defined by their spirit, their willingness to go out of the way to prove themselves and their beliefs, even those of pacifists. To prove to the world that the pegasi, or zebras, or minotaurs, or whoever else aren't evil. Or that knowledge should be saved and multiplied, or that the Steel Rangers aren't all bad." Finishing that, Bertha gave me a toothy grin.

Crag simply added, "Valhorsia doesn't seem that distant now, does it?"







Later, once the amount of orders had eased up, Toffee and I once again traded duties. I was eager to earn more tips, and the work proved easy enough.

“Waitress!” My ears directed me to the speaker, a donkey who I’d served previously, shaking an empty glass at me. This was the first time he’d asked for a refill; he’d ordered water, unlike the other jacks at his table, most of whom had chosen mead. I retrieved the water pitcher and brought it over to his table, giving the group another look. Each jack was on the older side, many with grizzled and unkempt faces, their beady eyes all watching as I approached. 

Though I couldn’t speak with the handle in my mouth, I tried to give the donkey a polite smile as I tipped the pitcher, filling his foggy glass. The donkey didn’t return the pleasantries; in fact, his eyes were focused intently on my side, where my wing was conspicuously hidden. Speeding up the pour just a little, I topped him off and gave the briefest curtsy that I could manage as I turned to leave him be. Before I could make my exit, however, he stopped me with a firm hoof.

“Tell me,” he began, voice low and accusatory. “That some sorta deformity?” His focus made no mistake as to what he was referring to. “I just love to tip the radiation-disabled.” That last adjective’s inflection was injected with boiling venom.

Shaking my head, I once again attempted to disengage.

“Oh? It ain’t?” His hoof was stubbornly firm on my withers. “So it’s a wing?”

I tensed at that, and blinked quickly, trying to look away as I continued shaking no. Even avoiding his gaze, his friends instead fixed me with hate and disgust.

“Cloud-fucker.” The jack’s voice was a lot louder now. “Where’ve you and your kind been all these years, huh?” His words were drawing the attention of other patrons, and I felt my face flush, my ears and tail tucking in.

“I don’t know…” I tried to say around the pitcher handle, but it came out as a mumble. Though my words failed, I did manage to squirm out of his grasp, hurriedly retreating to the kitchen.

He called after me, “Come back here!” and I heard him slam the table in fury, which caused me to jump in fright. Crag opened his mouth to say something, but I just rushed past him.

Bertha knew that something was wrong the moment she saw me; whether she’d been able to hear the donkey’s shouts, I wasn’t sure. My face and body language had told her everything she needed to know.

“You okay, hon?” the minotaur asked me as I shakily placed the pitcher in the sink to refill it. “Someone givin’ you shit?”

Before I could reply, her answer entered the kitchen. The furious donkey was glaring at me darkly, breathing through flared nostrils, then looked at Bertha. “You know you’re working with a pegasus?” he asked her accusingly.

The minotaur returned his expression twofold, her knuckles going white around her cleaver. “Aye, what of it?”

It was then that I also took note of Crag, who was standing in the threshold behind the jack. His typically chill demeanor was rapidly thawing, and a dangerous look in his eyes told me that he was ready to strike at a moment's notice should his wife be put in any danger.

"Just unbelievable…" the donkey fumed. "As if Divide didn't have enough ponies, now we got ourselves one of the feathered fuckers."

"Ain't nothin' wrong with ponies."

"Easy for you to say, cow, when you're getting rutted by one."

Though Crag looked almost murderous, Bertha took the insult in stride with stern features. "The donkeys ain't in any position to throw stones."

"Where was her kind when the super radstorm eight seasons ago hit us?" The jack's voice nearly cracked with contained pain and rage. "I lost my wife and daughter to that storm! Whole damned town was washed away. Our homes, family, friends…"

"Ya can't blame one pegasus for what her ancestors did."

"I can and I will." He stabbed a worn hoof at me, and I felt my hackles rise as his eyes narrowed coldly. "We let you ponies into Mulisiana because you promised to control the storms. You promised to keep us safe from the zebras. You said we'd be smarter thanks to your Institute, and more cultured with your Ministries. Nothing but fucking lies."

The room was silent.

“All of Divide’s gonna hear about her,” the jack threatened, pointing at me. “Nobody’ll stand for this.”

“Go ahead. If that’d stop ‘em from comin’, I didn’t want their patronage anyway,” Bertha shot back.

The donkey turned to leave, starting and uttering a gasped curse as he finally saw the hulking Crag behind him. While Bertha’s husband escorted the jack out of their restaurant, I tried to return to work, placing the water pitcher into the sink. There was only a dull ringing in my ears until Bertha snapped me out of it by patting me on the withers. I stumbled, and she tried to lighten her touch.

“Quillwright. You okay?”

I bit my lip, swallowed, and answered, “Y-yeah.”

Bertha blinked and tilted her head a little, studying me. “Don’t look like it.”

“I’m… I’m sorry. For causing a scene.”

“Ah-ah.” The minotaur cut me off with a frown. “That wasn’t your fault, it was his. He can’t blame ya for what’s happened in the past.”

Having wings had once made me proud. They had set me apart in the Steel Rangers, given me something unique to prove I could keep up with the unicorns I worked with. There were those among the ranks who disliked pegasi, of course, but they had never objected when I was able to contribute so much. Over time, they focused less on my wings and more on who I was as a pony.

Now… my appendage felt somehow wrong. Perhaps it was the uselessness of having only a single wing, or the ire that it drew from others. I stared at the floor as I considered it.

“He blamed me for losing his family and his home...”

“He blamed all pegasi for that.” Bertha resumed cooking as she spoke. “An’ a lot of miserable creatures in Mulisiana do. They wanna return to the pre-war way of livin’, when they didn’t have to worry about hurricanes. I think they've just forgotten how to live with mother nature."

So the donkey considered pegasi to be negligent. "I've… never really seen untamed weather like this before. It's nothing but clouds and rain in Equestria."

Bertha snorted. “And he’s complainin’ about a tropical storm that we get maybe once a decade. What, does he expect a single pegasus could clear the sky all by her lonesome? Gimme a break."







As we neared closing time, we prepared our own dinner. Toffee and Teensy joined myself, Bertha, and Crag as we ate out in the main room, filling a booth. Crag had pulled over a chair so he could sit at the end, while I found myself wedged into the vinyl seat alongside Bertha. We made small talk over our meals until I finally asked Bertha, “How did you and Crag meet?”

Bertha answered with a question of her own. “You know the Dead Sea?”

“Uh… it doesn’t ring a bell,” I admitted.

“I’m the one who killed it.”

I paused for a moment. If it were any other creature, I would’ve promptly laughed at the joke. From a minotaur like her, however… I was almost inclined to believe it.

A couple heartbeats passed before the minotaur guffawed. “Just pullin’ your reins. It’s got a lot of other names, though: the Glowin’ Sea? The Lunar Ocean? The Expanse? Heard of any of those?”

I had indeed heard of the Lunar Ocean, because that was the name recorded on most Equestrian maps. Now aware of the body of water Bertha was referring to, I informed her as such and let her continue.

“Those waters were where I cut my teeth. Strangest, deadliest, yet most beautiful part of the world you could lay eyes on,” she said, almost wistfully. “Sun only knows how many megaspells fell into that sea, from both sides. Did some mighty weird things; on the darkest of nights, the sea lights up with a greenish glow. Some creatures I’ve sailed with even say they can hear ghostly singin’ when them lights appear.”

The line between fact and exaggeration or embellishment was always a bit fuzzy when it came to Bertha and her many tales, she effortlessly enraptured the rest of us with her storytelling.

“Anyway, the Dead Sea stretches all the way from Mulisiana to the griffon lands up north. It’s vast, and mine was far from the only pirate crew prowlin’ its waters. I think the first time I ran into Craggy was when one of my ship’s cannons split his ship’s topsail.” At my look of surprise, Bertha gave a devilish grin. “Aye, we were enemies once... rivals, even! My ship, the Kyra, had fought with his, the Snowegg, a couple times, either just for the sake of shootin’ each other or over a vessel we were both tryin’ to raid. One fateful day, we engaged for the last time.”

“‘Snowegg’? What kind of name is that?” I giggled.

Crag leaned over in his seat to stretch his neck. “I was the sole pony among a crew of griffons.”

“Buncha crazy gulls,” Bertha teased. “We went at each other for hours. Then, when both ships were so full o’ holes they looked like floatin’ colanders, the beast arrived.” Her eyes narrowed. “A kraken.”

The minotaur was clearly enjoying my expressions of disbelief. “A… a giant squid attacked you?”

“Aye. It pulled the Snowegg underwater in minutes. The Kyra was quite a bit larger, so it latched onto the side of the hull and started reachin’ for those of us on deck, pullin’ creatures from both crews into the water even while we were still fightin’. Soon, it was just myself and Crag remainin’, neither able to best the other, so we joined against our common foe.”

Crag nodded his head in confirmation.

“After we severed half its tentacles..." Bertha began gesturing dramatically with her hands. "The kraken let go of the Kira and went mad, thrashin' around like a hurricane! Took out our sails, nearly smashed the ship in two. But then..." She made a show of raising one muscular arm like she was hefting something heavy. "I picked up the anchor," she described as squinted one eye, looking past me as if she could see her foe once again, "And I threw it deep into that oversized squid's back." She made the appropriate motion, and then slapped the table with a triumphant laugh, which sent several of our meals flying. Toffee's face was the picture of shell-shock, even after a quick apology from the minotaur.

"I wrapped the chain around my arm," Bertha resumed after we'd cleaned up most of the mess, "And steered the kraken back to shore. It beached itself and pulled us onto shore with it." She grinned more triumphantly than I thought was possible to express. “Crag here froze as much meat as we could cut from it, and we found our way to Neigh Orleans from there." She sat back and nodded at her husband. "Probably could'a opened a calamari restaurant with all that squid."

Crag smiled and inclined his head leisurely. “It was all very exciting.”

“You know, I outran a giant radigator a few days ago,” I couldn’t help but boast. As Bertha regaled us with more of her stories and told of the creatures she’d both seen and battled, I wanted to add in some of my own accomplishments. “It had to have been fifty feet long, at least.”

This lit up Bertha’s eyes. “Ah, you’re met Gnashy! He’s the stuff of legends down south. You should be proud you outran him!”

“I escaped it using a radio tower. Which, uh… it managed to bring down.”

It was Teensy’s turn to speak up. “Wait. You’re saying a radigator destroyed a radio tower? Where was that?”

“About six miles southwest of Buckwater, I think?”

The griffon frowned. At least, it looked like such an expression to me, as much as a creature with a beak could mimic. “That would explain a lot of issues we’ve been having lately. The broadcasts from towns on the southern coast are really fuzzy now.”

Bertha and I met eyes briefly, and the minotaur beat me to the question. “Say, Teensy. Quilly’s got some mates she needs to get in touch with up in Equestria. Could you be so kind as to help facilitate that?”

“Like…?” Teensy scrunched his brows and his headfeathers ruffled a little. “She wants to use the Talon radio?”

“I do,” I answered. “Just for a few minutes. I’m not a Cog, I promise. I just need… three minutes?”

Teensy clicked his beak in a conflicted gesture. He gave Toffee a look, his marefriend simply replying with a timid shrug. After that, he noticed the expectant look that Bertha was giving him. “I, uh… well, maybe I could let you in for a couple minutes.” The small griffon took a very deep breath for his size. “But I’d say we need to go in really late. The fewer Talons there to question it, the easier it’ll be for both of us.”

An hour later, we had finished our dinner and cleaned up most of the restaurant, preparing to fully close it down. I returned my red skirt to the closet, then got back into my Stable suit. Taking my saddlebags, I felt a surge of accomplishment as I tossed in the caps I’d earned as tips, totaling a whopping forty-eight. Back in the kitchen, I found Bertha wiping away the last of the day’s mess on the main counter. As she threw the rag into the garbage, she regarded me with a smile. “Hoy, Quilly. On your way out?”

“I am. It’s… it’s been great working here, honestly,” I told her. “I never imagined I’d ever work with a minotaur.”

“Not so bad, was it?” Bertha handed me my salary for the day, a hundred and fifty caps. “Hopefully we gave you some ideas to think about.”

“You did.” Truthfully, she’d given me more than just caps; she’d provided a trove of stories and several new considerations about my role and my future.

“And Quilly, ‘fore ya go.” She nodded at me. “You’re strong for a pony, not just in body but in heart. Don’t worry, because if anyone can save your crew, it’s you.”

My spirit swelled at the compliment. “Thanks, Bertha. That really, seriously means a lot.” Admittedly, I didn’t share the same level of confidence that she did, but it still felt good to hear.

“And if by chance you ever find yourself back in Divide… say, after you save your friends,” Bertha winked. “Be sure to stop by the Castaway again. Come Cogs or synths or storms, we’ll still be cookin’, even for Steel Rangers.”







I met up with Teensy and Toffee outside of Castaway. The two were chatting, and as I approached, I heard the griffon tell his partner that he’d see her at home. The mare pecked him on his cheek, then gave me one last shy smile before she departed. I informed Teensy of the repaired robes I needed to retrieve, and he followed me as I returned to the seamstress's shop. The mall was significantly quieter at this hour, with only a few shoppers still milling about, looking for last-minute purchases. Many shops had closed already.

Thankfully, the seamstress was not among them. The elderly griffon presented me with a gloriously-restored set of Scribe robes, with the patched area almost indistinguishable from the original fabric. I thanked her profusely and hugged the valued garments tight. As much as I wanted to put them on now, I was still wary of how they might look to Divide’s people in light of the Cogs’ fashion sense, at least when it came to their preachers. This thought also prevented me from offering to sell her the Stable barding then and there, even though I wanted to. The caps it could earn me wouldn’t be worth the risk of a visible wing or suspicious robes.

Leaving the mall, Teensy led me toward the center of the town’s halves. He didn’t speak much, at least not until we neared the base of the crane. “So, uh, listen. I’m not exactly supposed to let you use the radio, not without the right paperwork. It’s a recent thing, with the way everything’s been, you know…” He looked up at the top of the tower. “So just let me do the talking, alright?”

“I appreciate you doing this for me.”

“It’s fine. Bertha asked, and I owe her enough to help out whenever she’d like me to.”

“You two have a history?”

Teensy used a wing to adjust his head feathers as he informed me, “When I left my village and came to Divide looking for work, I got turned away from the Talons because of my size. Bertha and Crag hired me as a server, and from there they helped me hook up with Toff. Bertha knew I had an interest in the Talons and electronics, and she was able to get me a radio operator position.”

“That’s kind of her,” I commented. “She’s got connections with the Talons?”

“She’s got influence all over Divide. I’m sure you noticed, but she’s a big personality. Lots of connections, lots of friends, and yeah, that extends to even the Talons.”

The lower frame of the crane had been enclosed and constructed into an armory, illuminated by dim windows and sporadic gem lights. Along the back of the structure was a series of stairs. They were the narrow and flimsy kind that reminded me of fire escapes, and similarly, the stairs terminated in a platform fifteen feet above the ground. An attached collapsible ladder was the only visible way to reach the stairs without wings. There was also a barbed-wire fence that encircled the crane’s base; it was clear that this was all viewed as adequate security, since the Cogs had neither magic nor flight. Unfortunately, I no longer had the latter ability, and Teensy reminded me as such.

“I don’t have the key to unlock the gate, so we’ll have to get you over the fence somehow. After that, I can drop the ladder for you.”

“You Talons never use the stairs, do you?”

The griffon scratched his beak. “Can’t say we do. Used to have proper stairs up before the Cogs started breathing down our necks.”

We had a brief debate on the best way to cross the fence. We settled on trying tandem flight; Teensy was too small to carry me over all by himself, but with the help of my single wing, it was possible. When I spread my appendage, I realized just how weak it felt now that I was no longer flying. I made a mental note to start exercising my wing in the future.

I tightened my saddlebags as tight as I could manage, and then Teensy took hold of the left side. I backed up for a running start, and then galloped at the fence while we pumped our wings in sync. Kicking off the ground, we were able to lift into the air on a shaky, upwards trajectory. Teensy groaned as I tucked in my legs, and we rose just high enough to clear the fence, though I painfully brushed the top of the barbed wire coils. Once we were over, our strength gave out and we tumbled to the concrete in a heap.

Out of breath, sore, but past the fence, I waited as Teensy flew up to the ladder and quietly dropped it down to me. Laboriously, I hooked my fetlocks around the rungs and pulled myself up slowly. Life was so much easier when I could fly on my own.

Once we had climbed the stairs to the upper balcony, our efforts were rewarded with a bird's-eye view of Divide. It was truly sprawling, and I could see much of the city's northern half from here as well, which looked to be very close in size. We kept moving, passing a windsock which fluttered lazily in the breeze. Protruding past the base of the railing were a number of makeshift perches where griffons could drop from to begin an easy glide. On the far corner stood a flagpole with a fluttering black flag emblazoned with the Talon emblem. Seeing it now, I realized that this was likely the symbol carved into my dagger.

Close to the edge, I felt my heart thump enthusiastically at the reminder of true flight. However, my short thrill of excitement was replaced by one of fear as I felt my wing stump wiggle. At this height, a fall would render me little more than a pulverized pegasus pancake on the pavement below.

The main communications room was very dark at this hour, only lit by a few candles, terminals, and the blinking lights of radio equipment. As soon as we entered, my nose was assaulted by the concentrated scent of griffon dander, interspersed with metal and chemical smells. I spied only one avian present at the moment, who was dozing behind a desk, a headset crookedly clinging to her head. Teensy led me over and prodded the other griffon into consciousness.

“Hey, uh, Gail?”

“Mmm-huh?” She awoke with a squawk.

Teensy looked at me briefly, then back to the other Talon. “Got a... civvie here that needs the radio for a minute.”

Gail blinked hard, then rubbed the sleep from her eyes as she sat up. “Oh. She’s been cleared for it?”

“It’s a request from Bertha,” Teensy answered pointedly.

At this, Gail stared at Teensy for a few seconds, then turned her eyes to me for the first time. “Oh, Bertha…?” She rubbed her beak, then stood. “Well, uh, alright then.” She looked over her shoulder at the rest of the room, still mostly shrouded in darkness. “Gerhard’s still got a stick up his tailfeathers about Bertha and her ‘special privileges’.”

“We’ll try to be quick,” Teensy said, addressing both Gail and myself. He leaned over the desk to check the radio equipment briefly. There were charts filled with numbers covering the desktop, though it was too dark to make out anything specific. “Go ahead, Quillwright.”

I sat down hesitantly, now also peering around apprehensively. When Teensy had finished making a couple adjustments, he handed me a headset and a microphone. This was followed by a quick tutorial on how to adjust the signal and fine-tune the connection should I encounter any interference. When I was certain I understood all the basics, I fit the headset over my ears and began searching for the frequency that the Steel Ranger Citadel could be reached on.

Scanning the radio waves took me longer than was comfortable. I hadn’t operated a radio like this one in quite some time, as any communications the Steel Rangers needed to make were handled by a different branch of Scribes in the Citadel, those more inclined to the engineering side of preservation. There were times when I had needed to ask other chapters for information regarding a subject I was researching or for intel that might help an upcoming expedition, but those had been few and often far between, especially since moving into the Citadel.

“... -know that all of Equestria appreciates the work you are doing. As our great city rebuilds, we will push on towards a brighter future for our children, our grandchildren, and generations far removed. Their lives will be enriched by this incred- ...” My jaw clenched tight at the words; hearing Red Eye’s propaganda was a surefire method to ruin my day. My mind flickered back to the image of Fillydelphia’s imposing walls, which towered over the Citadel, close enough that we could make out the patrolling slavers.

Early on in my career among the Steel Rangers, I had entertained violent fantasies about what our organization could do to those monsters. Power armor was an impenetrable, unstoppable force, and surely we would soon storm into the hellhole and deliver justice to the slavers. When I had proposed the idea to fellow Rangers, however, they expressed little to no interest in such an endeavor. Sure, most didn’t approve of Red Eye or of slavery, but eventually I had to accept a harsh realization.

For all our technology, of all our bravado and our carefully crafted image of power and authority, the Steel Rangers were no match for an army the size of Red Eye’s, nor for a city as vast, entrenched, and defended as Fillydelphia. And so for years, those soaring walls had taunted me. There was nothing I could do against them, no way to topple them and no way to save my family...

My mental tangent was disrupted by the honk of a tuba and the trill of harmonicas as music filled the headphones. The Red Eye propaganda had concluded while I was lost in thoughts, and now that unbearable marching music was playing. Now in a foul mood, my hoof sent the dial back out into the radio waves to continue searching. Eventually I found myself in the middle of a transmission that included some familiar phrases.

“-...To clean, and if possible, restore. They should prove useful, over.”

“I look forward to reviewing them, over.”

I recognized that second voice: Scribe Pine, who had been one of my first transcription partners in the Citadel! Quickly, I activated my microphone and interrupted their conversation.

"Break, break, break! This is Nimbus Tango Five, I’ve got an emergency message for Sierra Delta Four, repeat, an emergency message for Sierra Delta Four! Do you copy, over?"

“Roger. Sierra Delta Four is away, over.”

Pluck my feathers. “Copy... um, is Hotel Bronco Two around? Over.” Thankfully, I still remembered the callsign for Head Scribe Citrus, since Elder Melonseed was reportedly indisposed.

“Affirmative. Stand by, over.”

Whoever had been on the other side of Scribe Pine’s casual conversation before I cut in awkwardly said, “I’ll call back later, out.” The silence that followed lasted a few minutes, during which I heard the pair of griffons behind me chatting idly.

“Have you heard there’s supposed to be a pegasus in Divide?” Gail mentioned. I felt my wing pull in a little closer beneath my barding.

Teensy cleared his throat, which sounded like a short and throaty whistle through his beak. “Yep, pretty crazy.”

When Head Scribe Citrus’s voice crackled into the headset, I nearly jumped out of my hide. “Come in, Nimbus Tango Five.” I acknowledged her, and she followed with, “Go ahead, over.”

I swallowed, trying to relay the disaster that had been the past week while on an unsecured frequency, possibly monitored or recorded by the Talons. “The -- I don’t have much time -- the mission’s gone south. Target was empty but caused two KIAs. The bird departed without me, then grounded somewhere. Over.”

The news took Citrus aback; at least, I assumed so judging by the long pause between my 'over' and her reply. "Acknowledged. Is the target still salvageable, over?”

“Affirmative, over.”

"Is the jewelry still in your possession? Over."

My eyes flicked down to the PipBuck on my foreleg. "Affirmative. I have it, over."

“Return home with the jewelry immediately. Over.”

But what about the rest of the expedition? "Negative. My…" I took a steadying breath. "I’m grounded too. Over."

I heard the faintest hint of a groan on the other end. "Acknowledged. Can you return another way? Over."

Behind me, I felt Teensy tap me on the withers with a talon and whisper, “Try and hurry it up, Quillwright.” He sounded tense.

“Negative. I’ve been traveling on hoof since I left the target.” Gnawing my lip anxiously, I followed up with, “And what about the others? Over.”

“Tracking them alone and in your condition is far too high a risk for you to take,” Head Scribe Citrus answered. “I believe Sierra Delta Four and Whiskey Foxtrot Six would come to the same assessment.” I doubted Elder Melonseed would be so quick to dismiss the rest of the expedition. On the other hoof, Star Paladin Blueberry Sabre, to whom the second callsign belonged, would’ve agreed with Citrus’ harsh command wholeheartedly. “Your discretion is trusted, Nimbus. As the acting Head Scribe, you will assume leadership if Jubilee Zulu One is unable to. Over.”

If Orange Kyanite is unable to. “A-affirmative. Um, and one more thing…” I was about to try and ask whether the Head Scribe had any knowledge of the Mareami contingent of Steel Rangers when Teensy interrupted me.

“We have to go now, Quillwright.” There was a fearful urgency in his voice, which jolted me into action.

With one more press of the microphone, I ended the transmission with, “Out.” I then stood and tore off the headset, which Gail was already taking from me and returning to her seat. I began towards the door, but Teensy shook his head and directed me to take cover beneath a nearby desk instead. I swiftly did as he asked, squeezing my body into the uncomfortably cramped but sufficiently dark space.

Seconds later, I heard the door to the outside open, then a gruff voice. “Hey, Pip, what’re you doing up here at this hour? You’re not on duty.” How many different synonyms for small is Teensy referred to by?

The griffon in question replied, “Just came to say bonjour to Gail.” As if he’d already decided that that was a poor excuse, Teensy added, “Say, we were just talking about how there’s supposed to be a pegasus in town.”

“Fascinating. You know the rules.” The speaker sounded familiar, and I had a creeping feeling that it belonged to Gerhard, the first Talon to accost Willow and I before we’d arrived in Divide.

“Yeah. I’ll, uh, just go, then.”

When Teensy had exited the room, Gerhard told Gail, “I need you to get ahold of Bluebeak in Prancecola for me, we have another contract for him before he comes back.”

While the griffonness began the call, I dared a quick peek above the edge of the desk, my ears kept flat. Sure enough, the imposing Gerhard stood just behind Gail. I needed to escape; not only would Gerhard recognize me, but I had potentially incriminating robes in my bags.

I waited until Gail had surrendered her seat and headset to Gerhard, then scuttled across the floor to the exit. By some stroke of luck, I was able to escape, noting that Gail had watched me leave with an unreadable expression. Teensy was waiting for me on the balcony outside, leaning against the railing. His feathers fluffed in relief when he saw me.

"Oh, good, you're out," he addressed me. "That could've gone south really fast. You get everything you needed done?"

To be honest, the call hadn't changed anything. We certainly weren't getting any backup from Equestria; without another airship, sending a force by ground would take too long and be too dangerous. Head Scribe Citrus thought it best that I should save myself and not risk my life to save the rest of the expedition, but there was no way I could abandon my allies like that. I had sworn an oath to the Steel Rangers, and that oath called me to protect, not to flee. I had to find them, to find Kyanite; he would know what to do.

"It was enough."

We descended the tower, and once we had reached the end of the stairs, we used our tandem flight technique to clumsily soar over the fence. I managed to stick the landing this time, my wing hanging languidly at my side with exhaustion.

I repeatedly thanked Teensy for his help, and he waved them all away with a, “Don’t mention it.”

The Beehive was my next destination. Willow Wisp’s apartment wasn’t difficult to locate, thanks to how brightly its orange paint stood out from its neighbors. As I arrived, I raised a hoof to knock on Willow’s door, but hesitated.

I had already taken advantage of her and her hospitality before. To do it again, to wake her up and intrude on her own home… it didn’t feel right. I did, however, need to catch her as soon as she left her apartment tomorrow, since I didn’t know if she was leaving town or still looking for a customer. I sat down at her doorstep, using my saddlebags as a lumpy pillow and keeping the hellhound dagger within reach.

To stay awake as long as possible, I turned to the Pipbuck, inserting an earbloom. There were still a number of logs from Stable 56 that I hadn’t listened to yet, so I inserted an earbloom and resumed listening to Overmare Sprocket as she detailed the early days of the shelter’s operation. To keep my eyes open and busy, I scanned over some of the magazines I’d bought in the mall.

“... Tenacity and the other engineers have concluded that the teleportation chambers cannot connect to the original destination. The first reports we received, the ones from Equestria that sent us onto the Stable to begin with, were of Canterlot being attacked. As much as it pains me to think, the capitol is probably nothing more than dust now, and that means the receivers in the Ministry of Peace are a no-go.

“It’s a shame. Those kids are bright, EIT alumni all. Most of them even helped with the original teleporters, so if anyone could fix ours, they'd be the ponies for the job. Tenacity had some funny stories about how the prototypes could go wrong, but also some terrifying ones. Early tests showed that the teleporters would sometimes only move half of an object; thankfully, they hadn't graduated to living test subjects yet.

"But also, sometimes an item would vanish in the chamber and simply never reappear. She...  implied that the Institute did eventually figure this one out, but she kindly refused to elaborate when I pressed her on it. On one hoof, I understand that it's classified wartime information, but… the war is over now, so what's the harm?

"Still, Tenacity and the other engineers are trying to rework the connection so that we can get these products out into Mulisiana via the receivers in EIT's science hall, so they can save those on the surface. I… I hope we still have a country left to save. My folks in Mareami should be safe, since I earned them both tickets into the Stable there. Still... Celestia, I just hope we can leave soon."







The shriek of scraping metal roused me from my slumber as I heard Willow calling to Wick. Groggily, I raised my head, blinking up at the unicorn guide who was stopped and staring at me, curled up on her doorstep. From this angle, I could see her confused and surprised face beneath her hood.

“Uh.... Quill?”

I struggled up and straightened my clothes, then my mane. “Yeah, um, hi, Willow!” I said as I pulled out my earbloom and stuffed my magazines into my bags.

“What’re…?”

Deciding to cut right to the chase, I blurted, “I’d like to hire you again.”

Willow paused, then asked, “Y-you would?”

I nodded. “I would. Are you, uh…?”

Looking down at Wick, Willow finished for me, “Leaving? Yeah. I found a new customer yesterday, see.” She turned her attention up to me. “I wouldn’t mind helping you again, but de t’ing is dat de customer needs a guide in de Sunken Valley."

“Well, I need to go to Brayton Rouge now. That’s through the Valley, isn’t it?”

“It is…” Willow confirmed apprehensively. “... But it’s not like what we’ve been going t’rough up ‘til now, no. Really treacherous.” She gave Wick a pat on the head. “I’m about to leave Wick wid a pet sitter here in Divide; I’m not gonna bring him into a place like de Valley.”

I reached into my saddlebags and produced a green VimVam cap. “Here’s a hundred. I can pay you this now, and provide an extra gun while you’re traveling.”

Willow stared at the cap briefly, then looked up at me. “I’ll have to ask my customer if dat’s okay. If it were just me, I’d gladly have you along, yeah.”

The ‘pet sitter’ that Willow had referred to turned out to be Divide’s local veterinarian. A few ponies ran the business, including a unicorn mare who greeted Willow warmly and by name. “Oh, hiya Willow! Here to give Wicky a check-up?” She crouched down to greet my guide’s dog, who was wagging his tail feverishly, clearly happy to meet this pony.

“Hey, River Lily. I’m afraid not, no. I’m taking a client into de Sunken Valley, so I need to leave him here for de time being.”

The interior of their shop was lined by cages filled with all manner of pets, from cats and dogs to birds and even small de-fanged gators. Outside, there had also been a larger pen where I spotted a tortoise ambling about. One of the veterinarians was placing a kitten back into its cage, having been holding the feline by the scruff of its neck. The tired pony’s face was covered in tiny battle scars.

“Oh, we’d be happy to have him! Who’s a good boy~?” River Lily cooed as she stroked Wick’s head, the dog having fallen into a pleasurable trance. When she’d finished, it was Willow’s turn to give her pet some love. She wrapped Wick in a tight hug and kissed his head.

“Be good, cher,” she soothed. “I’ll be back for you.” Wick eagerly licked her face in reply.

Once the visit to the veterinarian had concluded, we headed to Divide’s main gate. There were a few caravans and milling creatures gathered on both sides of the wall, and as we exited the city, Willow led me past a small crowd and to an individual who stood apart from the rest. My unicorn friend addressed the creature before I had a chance to see who it was.

“Hey, uh, I have anot’er customer dat’s gonna tag along, if dat’s alright?” The pony she addressed turned to appraise us, and I froze. He wasn’t a pony at all!

An aged zebra stood before us, the stripes of his fur faded from the passage of time. Despite his age, he still looked powerfully built. His silvering mohawk parted lazily at his bangs, falling over piercing turquoise eyes. He wore a patched jean jacket, with a pair of wire-frame spectacles hanging from the collar. Around his withers were two necklaces, one with a dark, ward-like jewel in the center, the other with a pinkish-purple feather. He also wore a battle saddle, with bags strapped to the left side and a long weapon on the right, hidden underneath a tattered plaid blanket.

“She’s a good shot,” Willow added, as if she felt she needed to justify my presence. “It’s good to have backup in de Valley, yeah?”

“Agreed,” the zebra responded. His dulcet voice carried the distinct, clear accent of Equestrian. I felt his eyes as he quickly assessed me, then locked with my own gaze. Though he sounded hesitant, he followed with, “... I suppose it would be alright.”

Willow gave the dirt a short stomp of approval. “Dat’s a relief.”

Still watching me, the zebra’s lips pulled into a small smile. He extended a hoof to me. “Pleased to make your acquaintance, miss. My name’s Zero.”

Footnote: Level Up.

New Perk: Down South Cookin’, Rank 1 - Your experiences working in Bertha’s kitchen have imbued you with new culinary knowledge. You now have access to regional recipes when cooking.
> Chapter 10: Out of Sight
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------


“Now, I'm not normally one to discourage an adventurous spirit, but certain... events have convinced me of the value of forewarning."






“How do you spell that? Z-i-r-o? Z-e-e-r-o? Z-i-e-r-e-a-u?”

That was the question that immediately sprung to mind and nearly escaped my lips. However, a sudden nervousness stole my voice. In spite of my hesitation, the zebra still held his hoof out to me in greeting.

Why not greet him back? I swallowed back the uneasiness and bumped his hoof with mine. He nodded, then addressed Willow. “So, Miss Wisp,” he began. “How about we get started?”

“Don’t wanna waste any daylight while we got it, yeah,” the unicorn agreed, her hooded face briefly turning towards the morning sky. “Gonna be dark enough in de Valley as-is.”

Just like that, we departed from Divide, traveling back down the heavily-beaten road that led to Route Forty. Willow took the lead as we cantered, Zero close behind her. I trailed both of them a short ways, stealing glances at the old zebra and his weapon while my mind worked.

Some small, paranoid voice inside my head insisted that his name was in fact the number zero, but what kind of name was that? It clearly couldn’t be his real one… unless he was formerly enslaved or simply had parents with a cruel sense of humor. And if he was conducting business with pseudonyms, what did he have to hide? Who did he work for? The rifle that hung from his battle saddle not only looked advanced, but he kept it covered as if trying to keep it a secret. He’s not from the Institute, is he?

These musings were shoved around by a voice that sounded quite similar to Bertha’s. Why should I immediately jump to negative assumptions? Yes, he was a zebra. If he were a pony, would I be so suspicious of him, or go as far as to think he could be an Institute spy? The college was founded by ponies, so that would be an even more likely scenario, if still probably untrue.

Still, this was the post-apocalypse and a land still largely mysterious to me. Some caution around strangers was warranted, wasn’t it? Seeking to put both voices to rest, I settled on the middle road. I wouldn’t assume the worst of Zero, but I would still keep an eye on him. Hopefully he would earn his trust soon.

It didn’t take long for us to arrive at Route Forty. The wide strip of pavement was cracked and pitted from the many decades of exposure and never-ending hoof traffic, but provided a relatively safe path for creatures to follow through Mulisiana. We turned and headed east down the highway, entering new and uncharted territory for me. Over time, the trees began to grow more densely, and a light mist settled over our surroundings. We passed a large brown metal sign that read “Marepas National Forest: 6”.

“Say, Willow,” I called ahead, then sped up to a trot. Zero watched as I passed him, then came up on the other side of our guide. “You haven’t described the Sunken Valley to me yet. What’s it like?”

The unicorn shook her hooded head. “Dere’s a reason why I left Wick behind... several, really. De Valley’s covered in trees and fog, often so t’ick dat you can’t hardly see a pony’s lengt’ ahead. Den dere’s flaming geysers, sinkholes, quicksand, radiation, and plenty of bad-bad bugs out to eat you.”

I felt my ears droop slightly.

“Unusually large rats, too,” Zero chimed in, smirking slightly.

“I don’t tink dey exist, no.”

What’s he talking about? “Are there any ponies or other creatures living in the Valley?” I inquired. “Any towns or the like?”

“Nah. Brayton Rouge is technically on de edge, but nobody’s lived there in a long time. As for staying in de valley itself, well…” Willow looked up briefly, though I got the sense that her unseen eyes flicked to our zebra companion. “It’s de kind of place you live if you want to be left alone, yeah.”

True to Willow Wisp’s word, the fog did not take long to manifest. Route Forty assumed a gradual downward grade as we continued, and as the fog and trees thickened, lamps that matched Divide’s began to line the road. They were considerably smaller and many were in disrepair, either fallen over or flickering as the crackling gemstones spun at inconsistent speeds. Willow noticed me checking them out.

“A few decades ago, Divide tried to fund de construction of a safe passage t’rough de Valley. Problem was dat folks had a hard time overcoming fears and superstitions, so most still preferred to take de long way around,” she informed me. “When Brayton Rouge was abandoned, Divide lost de main reason to maintain any roads in here. Dere’s still some lamps left, but not very many, no.”

We were now stepping around puddles in the road, and the pavement was already displaying its disintegration the deeper into the forest we traveled. Defaced road signs gave us occasional updates on our distance from the official entrance to the national forest. The temperature was falling as the fog enveloped us in its cool embrace, and my ears soon popped from the change in air pressure.

“So, uh… how long do you think we’ll be in the Valley?” I asked.

“Well… we’re…?” Willow glanced at Zero, who whickered.

“I need Miss Wisp’s help finding a particular building. Once we’ve located it, the two of you can go on your way.”

“You won’t need a guide back to your… uh, friends?”

“I shouldn’t, no.”

Willow nodded. “Alright den.” To me, “Brayton Rouge is maybe a fifteen-hour trot away from Divide, if de trip is smoot’. I reckon dat it won’t be too far away from where Zero’s looking to end up.”

Passenger wagons, chariots, and motorwagons dotted the road as well. The further we had traveled from Divide, the less scavenged the vehicle carcasses had been. By the time we reached the forest’s official entrance, they were almost untouched. There had been a pile-up of vehicles around both sides of a small gatehouse, with one motorwagon having crashed into the corner of the building and collapsing most of it. A passenger wagon was parked on the shoulder just before the gate, its side decorated with graffiti.

There was a large, rustic welcome sign in front of the gatehouse, reading “Marepas: Where Magic Was Born.” While the others took a look at the sign and the ruins, I investigated the passenger wagon. Names of those who had been lost in the Valley had been listed beneath the windows. Prayers to Celestia and other deities surrounded the victim’s names, along with some crude jokes which had been scratched through. As I circled the vehicle to the front door, I peered up through the windows, which alternated between filthily opaque and broken.

Cramped stairs led me to the interior, a long aisle stretching out before me filled with a dozen rows of seats. A few suitcases and bags were scattered here and there, but as I opened and rifled around in each one, I found that most were already looted. Some seats had been removed, and I found makeshift mattresses in their places.

A suitcase’s interior pocket rewarded me with a Mulisiana visitor’s guide. Unfolding it, I was greeted by a large, full-color map of the region, along with lists of attractions and landmarks deemed interesting enough to grab the attention of tourists. Now this is a great find!

“You done in dere yet, Quill?” I heard Willow call from outside.

Folding up the map, I shouted back, “Yeah, be right there!” As the papers went into my own bags, the commotion seemed to have stirred up another noise from somewhere inside the wagon. It was a low, vibrating sound, almost like insect wings. My fearful mind right away thought of goremoths, but that didn’t seem to make any sense; their wings were quiet and fragile, not able to flap so fast as to hum like this.

The noise echoed across the floor. Crouching down, I peeked underneath the seats on the right side. Everything looked clear, so I switched to check the left. Green, glittering eyes met mine, and then a furious buzz arose as the creature climbed atop the seat it had been resting beneath and then took to the air. It looked like a bloatsprite, only its mouth was horribly stretched, half as long as a foreleg and tapered into a sharp, needle-like point.

I screamed in panic and stumbled backwards. Riptide is somewhere in my saddlebag! I had just glimpsed it when putting the map away, why hadn’t I thought to grab it?

“Quill!” came Willow’s voice, but I was too busy scooting my way down the aisle on my rump to reply. The pointy bloatsprite zipped towards me, and I had only seconds to spare before I raised  my saddlebag as a shield. The needle mouth punctured the bag, the wickedly-sharp point halting only inches away from my breast. The sprite tried to pull back with an angry beat of its wings. I threw my saddlebag down the aisle, taking the creature with it. While it struggled to chase after me, I scrambled out of the wagon, joining Willow and a concerned-looking Zero.

“B-bloatsprite,” I panted, shivering with fear and disgust. “In th-the wag-”

“Aw, shit!” Willow yelled, her horn lighting up to draw her shotgun. I turned to see that the sprite had freed itself and had zipped out through one of the shattered windows, its tiny body charging at us like a spear. Just like a spear, however, it lost to gun, as Willow blew it apart with a well-aimed shot. Bits of insect gore splattered onto the pavement in front of us.

“Bloodsprite,” Willow spat. Whether she was correcting me or simply cursing their name, it was hard to say. As the unicorn opened her shotgun to replace the spent shell, I noticed Zero was reaching down to grab a blanket with his mouth. Realizing this was the same plaid one that had covered his weapon, I caught a glimpse of just what was attached to his battle saddle before he concealed it again.

The rifle was a bulky and complex mix of exposed rails, coils, and wires, giving me the sense that it was a prototype weapon of some kind. I couldn’t ascertain any more specifics before it was shrouded by the blanket, and Zero furtively cast his eyes to Willow and then to me. We made eye contact, and I looked away quickly.

Willow was oblivious to any of this. “Almost as bad as goremot’s,” she muttered as she kicked a pebble at the remains of the bloodsprite. “Dey’ll suck you dry in seconds if dey get dat needle-mout’ in you.”

“Excellent,” I groaned. “I haven’t lost enough blood yet…”

When I retrieved my saddlebags from the passenger wagon, I checked inside to assess the damage done by the bloodsprite. Fortunately, the thick stack of reading material I’d purchased in Divide had absorbed the blow and saved my hide. Unfortunately, the center of every page was now missing a chunk, so reading them would be a bit more difficult.

I need a holster, I thought. Looking down at my forelegs, I also reflected, And to make more use of my E.F.S.

As we passed the gatehouse and into the national forest, Willow halted and extended a hoof to Zero. “Hey, can I see dat brochure again?”

The front of the brochure in question displayed the image of a bright, colorful theme park. The title read, “Wonders await in VimVam Land!” When Willow unfolded the paper, a map of the park was revealed, complete with roller coasters, merry-go-rounds, slides, and what looked suspiciously like a fancy Stable entrance in the center of it all.

“Check the back,” Zero informed her.

Willow refolded the brochure and flipped it over. A compressed map of the region pointed to the park’s address, while directions below listed a nearby hotel, only a few miles away from a town called Martingale. Our guide tapped the name with her hoof. “Okay, yeah, I know de way dere. Once we arrive, it shouldn’t be much trouble to reach de hotel.”

Zero nodded. “We’re right behind you.”

Willow formed a bulb from her lighter, then allowed the wisp to forge a path through the building fog that shrouded the road ahead of us. “Stick close.”





Being proactive for once, I switched on my E.F.S. and kept it activated as we traveled. The compass indicated that we were heading eastward, and I spotted the occasional red blip appear for a moment and then vanish. The fog was growing so thick that neither I nor whatever the spell was detecting could see each other. We thankfully hadn’t crossed paths with anything yet, but it was still unnerving knowing that we were in hostile, untamed territory.

By this point the roadside lamps were a true rarity. While the sun was still able to add a bit of ambient light to the Valley, most of our vision was afforded by Willow’s bulb, my PipBuck’s screen, and a flashlight mounted to Zero’s battle saddle. Our guide’s red mane was otherwise the brightest part of our group, I reflected with some amusement.

“Ow!” I hissed as I clipped my hoof on an uneven chunk of road. The pavement beneath us was almost completely worn away now, shattered by weather and conquered by the undergrowth. Zero checked back at me.

“You okay?”

“I’m fine,” I huffed. Shaking my sore hoof, I fell back in behind him, my eyes once again drifting to the concealed weapon he was carrying. Part of me desperately wanted to ask if I could take a look at it. Maybe when Zero fell asleep, I could sneak a peek…

“So have you ever been to Brayton Rouge before, if you don’t mind me asking?” Zero asked.

It took me a few moments to recognize that the question was directed at me. I looked back up at the zebra, who had a brow raised.

“Uh…” I cleared my throat. “No, I haven’t.” I kept my gaze fixed ahead, now watching Willow’s bulb as it cut through the misty air.

“Hm. Well, it’s sad to say, but you aren’t going to see the city in its prime. I visited before it was ruined… place was just beautiful. The cathedral alone was worth seeing; still is, to an extent.”

Willow chimed in, “What’d de donkeys even worship so much to build a church dat big?”

I had certainly wondered that the first time I’d heard of a cathedral. Pre-war spirituality was a topic I didn’t fully understand. Ponies had held a reverence for Celestia even before her ascension, but actual religion was a practice that seemed mostly left up to the zebras. Now I knew that minotaurs worshipped the sun and northern creatures believed in a warrior’s afterlife, but I hadn’t thought to ask Bertha or Crag whether those religions had existed before the megaspells or not.

“From what I understand, the donkeys have a pantheon of saints that they revere,” our striped companion tried his best to answer. “The cathedral’s lined by stained-glass windows that honor each, but I can’t say I know much beyond that.”

“Fat lotta good dem saints did ‘em,” Willow sneered.

Soon our guide brought us to a halt on the bank of a river. I couldn’t determine the size of the river for all the fog that obscured my vision, but the waters did stir with a gentle current. Willow’s bulb was glowing as bright as it could, illuminating a shoddy wooden platform on the shore, with a pulley system above it that sent a cable out across the water.

“We have to take a ferry?” I groaned, my stomach already knotting. Mulisianan rivers were already a terrifying image, and now one with the extra hindrance of fog was like the perfect nightmare.

Willow lit her horn, using it to rotate a crank on the platform. Rusted gears squealed as they turned, moving the cable. “Used to be an old wooden bridge here, den it got washed away in a flood, so… yeah. Ferry.”

When the boat in question finally came into view, it failed to assuage my fears. The ferry was covered in ivy, and when it clunked against the platform, a shower of rust and condensation fell from its railings. Willow tested the floor with a hoof, and when she didn’t fall through, put her full trust in the ferry and stepped on. Zero followed her lead, and after some hesitation, I joined them. It wasn’t cramped, but I still felt uncomfortable as Willow brought us back out over the water.

“Is it possible to get seasick on a river?” I asked Willow half-seriously as the unicorn took up a long stick with her telekinesis, which had been resting in a small pile of similar implements. She stood at the front of the ferry, looking for any floating obstacles that would need to be pushed out of the way.

“Uh… you get seasick just from de motion of water, yeah? So I don’t see why not,” Willow answered, before double-taking at me as I sat and languished in the center of the craft. “Wait, you’re not gonna be sick, no?”

My response was just to sigh and bury my face, shivering a little as I heard the sloshing of water only feet below the deck.

Zero took over on the crank, allowing Willow to concentrate fully on warding away obstructions. She evidently missed a few, as I would periodically hear and feel the thunk of a log bumping into the ferry followed by Willow’s curses. Our trip across the river lasted several minutes, until finally there was a clunk that rocked the ferry in a different way. I looked up to see that we had reached the end of the cable, attached to a pole which leaned crookedly towards us.

“Where’s the shore?” Zero asked as I stood on quivering legs. Indeed, when we joined Willow at the front of the ferry, we found the platform was askew, while more water stretched before us.

“Dis… dis is it.” Taking her stick, Willow planted it into the murky swirls next to the platform. The shaft sunk… and sunk. When it was almost fully submerged, Willow pulled it back out. Mud coated the stick almost up to the halfway mark. “Fucking hell, it’s flooded.”

I bit my lip. “Is it safe to disembark, or…?”

“Uh…” Willow slowly spun the stick in midair, her tone conflicted. “I mean, technically yes. De ground does rise up ahead, so we wouldn’t be going de rest of de way to Martingale in water or anyt’ing.”

“But?” Zero asked.

“But wid recent flooding like dis, dere’s gonna be quicksand all over de place. I can navigate it, it’s just gonna be slow going.”

“Is that our only option?” the zebra prompted again.

Willow looked downstream. “We… we could detach de ferry and take it down de river, hope dat we find drier ground. T’ing is, I don’t wanna be dat asshole who destroyed de ferry for anyone else who comes t’rough in de future, not just including myself.” She then indicated the way we came. “Den of course we could always go back and look for anot’er ferry, but I don’t remember where de ot’ers are and we’d be losing a lot of valuable daylight.”

“I vote we get off here,” I stated. Zero nodded his agreement.

Psyching herself up, Willow led us onto the platform. It creaked and bounced a little, but held. Our unicorn guide then retrieved a bundled rope from her saddlebags, which she gave to Zero. "Hopefully we won't need it, but you should hold onto dis." She then turned her body away from him, looked back over her withers and flicked her tail. “Now, Mister Zero, hold my tail.”

“Uh…” The zebra scrunched his eyebrows.

“Dis is serious!” Willow growled. “Look, I-I wouldn’t just ask you to do someting like dis for fun. Single-file, we’ll be less likely to take a wrong step.” She took a shaky breath. “And if I do fall in, I need you two to be ready to pull me out. Don't wanna be stuck for very long, else I’ll catch hypo… hyper... uh, y’know. Freeze.”

Zero took a deep breath, then reached his head forward and lightly bit onto Willow’s tail. One of her hindlegs twitched, but she kept her composure.

“Okay, Quill, now you take Zero’s.”

I saw the old zebra in question side-eye me. Looking at his long, brush-like tail, I shifted in place uncomfortably. “I… uh…”

Willow shook her head and nickered, “Ugh, Quill, eit’er you hold his or he holds yours.”

Reluctantly, I moved behind Zero and took up the zebra’s tail in my mouth. His body carried the scent of a campfire, and I was frustrated that I was enjoying the pleasant scent in such an awkward way. Seeing that our little train was finally assembled, Willow used her stick to test the area immediately in front of us. I noticed different levels of resistance as she stabbed, and after multiple tests, she finally took her first cautious step into the water.

She gave it some time, ensuring that the ground somewhere beneath was supporting her, before her second leg went in. The brown water reached her knee. While the PipBuck had proven itself waterproof already, I didn’t want to risk it further or have to clean the device again, so it was placed into my saddlebag before I also took a dip. The water was chilly and the soil beneath was a doughy texture.

We moved through the marsh very slowly, Willow constantly testing with her stick while Zero and I followed her path as closely as we were able to. On occasion I felt one of my hooves sink a little deeper into the quaggy ground than I was comfortable with, and as I wobbled my wing would subconsciously extend and retract as needed to maintain balance. My companions also stumbled occasionally as they too discovered submerged pocks. A couple of times, Willow was forced to stop completely as she poked with her stick, then turned us to a slightly new angle.

This took us a considerable amount of time, my eyes eventually feeling dizzy due to the gently undulating stripes in front of me. Willow proved her skills by keeping us mostly dry, and at last the waters receded to fetlock-level. It was here that she called a break. My legs were terribly sore from the combined effort of walking through water and trying to maintain balance for so long. I dropped Zero’s tail, spitting out a few loose strands of hair.

“Sorry, ma’am,” the zebra apologized to me as he released Willow’s tail. “Glad we’re almost out of here.”

Our guide was breathing heavily as she rested a shoulder against her stick. “Martingale shouldn’t be more den half an hour or so nort’east. Still need to be cautious, but I t’ink we’re past de worst.”

I noticed that grass was now beginning to poke above the water. Small clusters of tarberries  were also spread around, and had recently tempted a radhog to its demise. The animal lay half-submerged within the muck, and what flesh was exposed to the air had been left shriveled and exsanguinated, as dozens of tiny wounds in its back indicated that it had been feasted upon by bloodsprites while incapacitated. Whether the hog had been dead or alive when it was drained, I couldn’t say.

This detail urged me to retrieve my PipBuck, reattaching it and booting up the E.F.S. The compass was mostly empty, save for one or two marks which vanished soon after they registered. I let Willow know and she nodded. “Zero, you any good wid whatever you have on dat battle saddle?”

“I am.”

“Glad to hear it, ‘cause we may need it ready. Bugs are still around in places like dis, and if we meet any…”

“Got it.”

My hooves were frigid by now, but the thought of finally reaching dry land soon gave me a much-needed burst of energy. We reassembled our train and forged ahead again. The going was as smooth as it had been until I noticed one, then two, then three red marks appear on the compass ahead of us. They darted back and forth rapidly, then shot to the side. I turned my head forward to inform Willow and noticed that there were six new marks ahead of us, all moving just as erratically.

Dropping Zero’s tail, I called, “Willow, lots of hostiles ahead!” We all halted and listened intently. There were distant high-pitched sounds, muffled by the fog, though they were growing louder.

“Get low to de ground,” our unicorn guide commanded. “Swarm.”

We crouched down, our barrels just above the now inch-deep water. I drew Riptide, checking to ensure it was loaded, and then looked up just in time to see Zero unveil his weapon again. The idea of it being a magical energy weapon was now certain, though I wasn’t sure whether there were crystals housed beneath its brushed steel barrel. Sadly, I didn’t have the time to admire it.

I could now discern the noises that surrounded us more clearly, identifying the chirping screeches of goremoths. I shivered with dread. Willow had now set her stick aside, trading it for her shotgun.

Out of the fog, a pair of large, delicate wings shot over Willow’s head, brushing against her hood lightly. The goremoth seemed to pay us no mind as it also passed over Zero and myself. Another of the insects followed, then another. Then, chaos exploded over our heads as a dozen bloodsprites and just as many goremoths escaped the wall of fog, both groups locked in fierce combat above us. The fog stirred into swirling vortexes above us from the many beating wings.

A particular pair of battling bugs, spinning as they bit and clawed at the other, careened over us. I watched as the bloodsprite fell from the grapple, landing on Willow’s neck. While it was confused and didn’t seem to immediately recognize where it now lay, the pony beneath thought that a lethal insect was just about to bite her. With a whinny of shock and panic, Willow threw her head back and bucked. The action was successful in flinging the bloodsprite off, where it landed in the muck.

However, it also caused Willow to lose her footing. Three of her legs plunged down with a deep sucking noise, and she gasped as she sunk in the quicksand. Zero immediately stood and primed his rifle, setting the coils beneath the barrel to vibrate and crackle with arcing blue magic. A trigger bit flipped up for him, which he took and fired off a shot into the body of a goremoth. The insect was vaporized, the only remains left being a few wing scraps that fluttered down over Willow.

Willow Wisp was now half-submerged in the mire, with only one foreleg free. The quicksand was halfway above her barrel and just above where her cutie mark would be. Her voice rose quickly as she panted, “Fuck! Fuck, dat’s cold!” She shivered as her cloak was rapidly soaked by the wet muck. Her saddlebags had flattened on top of the quicksand and she quickly wrapped them in telekinesis to keep them safe and dry.

I raised Riptide and squeezed off a shot of my own, the bullet flying wide of the bloodsprite which was my intended target. There were probably ten insects still visible around and above us, though my E.F.S compass definitely listed more out in the fog.

Zero’s rifle hummed and then cracked, sending a bright blue projectile searing through another goremoth. We both continued firing until Zero’s rifle clicked. He rotated the weapon forward and down, then ejected some kind of cartridge from the side. “Willow, are you alright?” Zero shouted urgently as he retrieved another to reload. “What do we do?”

“Oh…” Willow groaned as she telekinetically pulled her hood down, any desire to hide her appearance from Zero forgotten. “I shouldn’t sink any more, just keep shooting de bugs!” Her horn flared, and her bulb, still floating ahead of us, intensified in kind. This drew the attention of the goremoth faction, who converged on the new light source.

Zero loaded another cartridge and locked the rifle back into position. As he took aim, a bloodsprite hurtled over me and landed on the zebra’s back, its needle mouth stabbing into his back at a low angle. He screamed and writhed as the sprite’s wings beat excitedly.

“Duck!” I shouted around Riptide, taking aim.

Through the pain and rapid blood loss, Zero heard me. His head went down. I squinted and bit into the trigger. The bloodsprite popped, showering the zebra’s stripes in dark gore. Grunting, he aimed again and fired his rifle, shredding apart multiple goremoths who were attacking the bulb.

I found that Riptide was now empty, and I changed out the spent magazine for a new one. Willow had grabbed onto her shotgun and was using it to keep the last few insects away from her. Within twenty seconds, the last bloodsprite that we could see was obliterated by Zero’s rifle. The distant screeching of goremoths faded into the fog and was replaced by silence once more, broken only by our heavy breathing and the chattering of Willow’s teeth.

“Mais la,” Willow inhaled. Her tangled mane hung in her eyes, and unable to reach it with her hooves, she resorted to her weakening magic to brush it out of the way.

Zero grit his teeth. Taking the rope bundle, he stiffly trotted closer to Willow. “You okay, Miss Wisp?”

“B-b-been better…” she replied. “F-first time I’ve fallen int-to quicksand.”

The rope was wrapped around Willow’s free foreleg, and Zero attempted to pull her up and out. The zebra had little purchase on the soft ground, and his movement unsettled the ground beneath his front hooves, causing his legs to sink slightly.

“Wait,” Willow stopped him. “I n-need to add m-m-magic to it…”

I collected the dropped quicksand-poking stick, then joined Zero. Only then did I notice that the bloodsprite’s decapitated head and needle-mouth were still protruding from his back, blood dribbling from the frayed neck.

“Hold up, you’ve still got, uh, bug stuck in you.”

“I do?”

Zero grimaced as I carefully extracted the needle-mouth. I tossed it on top of the first bloodsprite which was still trying to escape the quicksand, and it buzzed angrily as it was pelted by one of its own. Zero took up the rope and heaved, while I fell in behind to add my weight to the effort. Willow turned her telekinesis on herself, wrapping her body in a soft golden glow. As weak as it was due to her previous exertion, it still made pulling her up easier.

Hauling her towards us, however, proved a much more difficult task, and before Willow finally made it back to more solid ground, the rest of her body and much of her head had been splattered by the quicksand, which clung like mud. The unicorn finally emerged, trembling, and then collapsed to her knees in exhaustion as her magic imploded. Zero and I were at her side, helping shed the sodden cloak that was glued to her.

Zero didn’t flinch when Willow’s radiation scars were revealed beneath her clothes. He took the blanket which had once covered his weapon and wrapped our guide in it, not caring that the fabric was being deeply stained by the quicksand which still dripped from Willow’s fur. She used a corner of the blanket to wipe her face clean, and looked up at us as she shivered.

“W-we n-need to m-move,” she breathed. “M-make a f-f-fire somewhere t-to warm up…”

Zero gazed around. “Can you guide us the rest of the way out?”

“I c-can, yeah..”

Retrieving her stick, Willow stood again, pulling the blanket tight around her small frame. Before we continued, Zero insisted that he hold onto Willow via the rope, which he tied around her barrel. Then, slowly, we resumed our traversal of the marsh. Within a couple minutes, we had found the shattered remains of the highway. Now back on a solid surface, I felt like I could kiss the pavement.

“Thank Celestia!” I praised, clopping my hooves on the road.

“You’re w-welcome…” Willow muttered, dropping to her knees. “M-Martingale shouldn’t b-be much further.”





The majority of our daylight had vanished by the time we reached our destination. Martingale revealed itself slowly, emerging from the fog building by building. The town was eerily quiet, and I imagined the town in its pre-war state could’ve been described as sleepy. Forests already had a way of dampening the bustling sounds of civilization, and the omnipresent fog only deepened the stillness. The clip-clop of our hooves, the rustle of saddlebags, and Willow’s chilled curses were the only noises that echoed in the street, which hopefully meant we wouldn’t encounter any cannibalistic tribals here.

Willow was shivering quite violently by this point. Concerned she may be experiencing hypothermia, I commented, “Let’s just use the first decently intact house we find.”

The others agreed heartily. Zero led us to a nearby townhouse, choosing one of the entrances and kicking it inside when it failed to open normally. The interior was musty but structurally sound. As a bonus, it had a fireplace and was fully furnished. Zero took his rifle to check the other rooms for dangers while Willow dropped onto the couch. She placed her saddlebags on the floor and fished out her lighter.

“C-can you get a f-fire going?” she asked me.

I peered into the hearth. Ashes and dust were all that were inside, so I turned back to the room and looked about for adequate firewood and kindling. The shelves of a collapsed bookcase became the former. Noticing the railing that lined the staircase in the corner of the room, I used the hellhound blade to saw out some of the uprights, which were converted into the latter.

Willow had dropped her lighter, choosing to instead curl up on the couch. I fumbled with it; griffon inventions were not easy to use without magic, and my hooves struggled to hold the small device. Finally, I held it in my mouth while I flicked the flame into being, then held it against the kindling as I tried to coax a fire into existence. The lacquered wood burned well, and soon we had a decent fire going.

Sitting up and cocooned in Zero’s blanket, Willow scooched close to the fire once it was underway and held out her forehooves, feeling the heat. “Dat’s better…” she sighed in relief. Her shivers began to slow, and soon she was steady.

“Zero, how’s your back?” I asked.

The zebra was studying his pamphlet by the front door. He flexed his spine a little, wincing but shaking his head. “Tolerable. I’ll take care of it later; there’s a VimVam station in town, I want to go check it out and see if I can bring us back some fuel.”

“But… we have plenty of kindling?” I pointed out, confused.

“This stuff burns for a long time, and insects hate the thick smoke it puts off. Don’t want anything crawling down the chimney.”

“Oh, well,” I glanced at the fire, then to Willow, then back to Zero. “I... could come with you, just in case.” And so I can make sure you aren’t contacting the Institute or anything.

Zero looked a bit surprised by my offer, but accepted. “Sure, another pair of hooves would be nice.”

“I’ll hold down de fort,” Willow sighed, rubbing her forehooves together.

Before we left, Zero informed Willow that he had found some towels in an upstairs bathroom that she could use to dry off. Once outside, we turned and headed into town, continuing on the road we’d entered on. Our lights were kept low and forward. Even though I wasn’t alone, I felt a creeping paranoia from all the persistent black fog that followed behind us.

“Nice shooting back there, by the way,” Zero complimented.

I dipped my head briefly and replied, “Thanks, you too.” Sensing that this was my best opportunity, I finally turned and asked, “Your… uh, that rifle of yours. What is it?” My teeth clenched in regret as I waited for an answer, feeling that I was asking for an answer he wasn’t willing to provide.

“Oh, this?” He tried to rotate his body enough to give me a better view of the gun. “It’s a gauss rifle. Shoots accelerated crystal-tipped ferromagnetic rounds that explode on impact.”

Had I not been so self-conscious around Zero, I would’ve been drooling. “That’s… very interesting to know, thanks!”

“Sure. You’re a weapons enthusiast?”

“More of a technology enthusiast, I’d say.”

Zero nodded. “It’s the only one of its kind.” His lips pursed a little, and he amended, “... That I know of, anyway.”

Yeah, that’s not suspicious.

As we cantered down the street, I noticed the ground beneath start to gradually take a downward angle, until we both halted as the road simply fell away before us. An enormous sinkhole took up the center of an intersection, its yawning chasm plunging into darkness. I panned my light down inside, reflecting off broken pipes that poked out beneath us like roots over the maw. It seemed that much of the fog was either rising from the sinkhole or was floating down into it.

How deep into Equus the hole went was anyone’s guess, but I felt my hooves tingle at the thought of falling in. How far would I plummet before I finally hit something? As we stood at the rim, Zero kicked a pebble into the darkness. We waited to hear the echo from the bottom. After a minute of silence, we gave up and moved on, skirting around the edge.

The lengths of two streets were searched and another large sinkhole avoided before we finally discovered the fueling station. A large sign on the edge of the road depicted the VimVam logo I had seen so many times now: two V’s stacked atop each other, this version with old, burnt-out bulbs inside the letters. Below were fuel prices listed in bits per gallon. Based on my limited knowledge of how bits and caps compared in both value and in regards to inflation, they looked to be ludicrously overpriced.

After the sign, we encountered two rows of pumps. The tall green contraptions had long tubes that extended from the sides, one of which was still inserted into a motorwagon parked beside it. Zero pulled it out, inspecting the nozzle and giving a lever at its base an experimental click. Nothing happened.

“Pump’s dried out.” He returned the nozzle to a hook on the pump, then knelt down to look underneath the wagon. “Let’s see if I can detach the tank, there might be some inside…”

“So what exactly is this fuel?” I asked him. “I’ve seen drinks all around Mulisiana called VimVam, did they fill motorwagons with it too?” The idea was equally absurd and concerning.

“Technically, yes.” Zero had shed his battle saddle and climbed fully underneath the vehicle now. He rapped his hoof on something attached to the undercarriage, creating a heavy thump-thump noise. “There we go…”

I waited for him to explain more, but it seemed he was preoccupied with rocking the motorwagon, his hooves grasping the tank on both sides. “What do you mean?” I pried.

“Ah, well, you’ve seen wilt apples before, haven’t you?” Another clunk. “This company found a way to make them tolerable as a drink. Towards the end of the war, they also managed to engineer a biofuel out of them, too.”

Apple fuel? “This stuff could’ve helped end the war… we wouldn’t need the zebras’ coal anymore.” I knew that some crazy alternate energy sources had been experimented with in Equestria, but I’d never heard of Mulisiana’s endeavors.

Zero grunted. “Again, it came around real late... too late. By that time, the war was being fought over way more than just coal.”

He had a point. After Littlehorn, the conflict between Equestria and Zebrica had taken a decidedly personal spin for most involved. By the end of the war, both sides seemed bent on simply destroying the other, convinced that reason or negotiation was foregone. The zebras believed wholeheartedly that Luna was still Nightmare Moon; if Equestria had switched to powering their trains and motorwagons with apples, it wouldn’t have stopped the balefire.

“Now all it’s good for is keeping the Cogs’ power armor moving,” Zero continued. “Which means it’s good for nothing.” He scooted out from under the wagon, his hooves smudged with grease and his mane peppered with flecks of rust.

"... So you're telling me that Cog power armor runs on apple juice?” I scoffed. Only then did I recall the brilliant mare who had created the Steel Ranger’s power armor, and realized that she would probably approve highly of an apple-based biofuel.

“That’s one way to phrase it.” The old zebra slowly stood again, taking up his battle saddle. “I need a wrench to get the tank out. Gonna take a look inside, feel free to come with.” I thought of my hellhound dagger, but I felt hesitant to lend it to Zero.

The station’s exterior was quite extravagant, with curving metal buttresses and large glass walls that were heavily stained by the elements. A green-and-white color scheme ran throughout the place, even down to the slick emerald floor inside. Above was a ceiling with multiple skylights, streaked by rain and a ward against the clouds of fog that rested on top of the building.

Multiple aisles formed by looted shelves were spread across the room. Assorted products were scattered across the floor, along with empty VimVam bottles or candy wrappers. Zero began trotting down the aisles while I went to the front counter. There were racks of knick-knacks and souvenirs abound, as well as --to my excitement-- brochures! I grabbed one, studying it briefly. The front depicted a pair of beige unicorn stallions, both aged and grinning. One had a well-groomed red moustache that matched his and his partner’s manes, and the two wore matching pinstripe suits and boater hats.

A quick peek inside told me a brief history of VimVam, along with pictures and a cheap plastic membership card. The whole thing was slipped into my saddlebag for later review, and Zero soon returned to the entrance holding a combination wrench in his mouth, looking satisfied.

Back outside, the stallion was able to unbolt the fuel tank from beneath the motorwagon. Once it was separated and sat near the pump, Zero opened a short valve and peered inside. I too checked, seeing a shallow amount of liquid rippling within. Not only that, but I got a whiff of the biofuel, which had me coughing and blanching. The stench was like rank apple whiskey, far more potent than any alcohol that I’d ever smelled.

Zero didn’t seem as bothered. Reaching into his saddlebag, he pulled out a device and placed it on the ground before him as he booted it up. For a moment I didn’t recognize what he was using, but when it clicked in my mind, I couldn’t suppress a gasp.

I thought I’d been stuck with an antique; Zero was carrying an original PipBuck model! Unlike mine, the 1000 hadn’t yet been miniaturized to be wearable. Instead, it was closer to the result of squashing a terminal into a flat, tablet-like form, complete with a screen and full keyboard. Large vacuum tubes and what looked like a camera were somehow incorporated into the sides. Zero extended an antenna from the top, causing the screen to flicker on and display a topographic view of Mulisiana covered in grid lines. Wait, is that a full-color display?

Noticing that I was watching curiously, Zero gestured at the station behind us. “Making a note of this place, planning on coming back later to destroy any other fuel I can find,” he explained. “Don’t want the Cogs getting their hooves on any of it.”

I nodded. While I had been interested in what he was doing, I’d been more intrigued simply by where and how he’d acquired such a relic of the pre-war world. Before I could ask, Zero had powered off his PipBuck and returned it to his bags, then hiked the fuel tank onto his back.

“Come on, don’t want Miss Wisp to get lonely.”





After pouring some of the biofuel into the fireplace, I backed off with a snort as thick black smoke billowed up from the combusting liquid. It thinned out a little after a couple minutes, but would end up leaving that foul apple scent hanging in the air for over an hour. Zero was also correct in its longevity; the flames burned strong for as long as I had enough makeshift firewood to feed into the hearth.

I parked myself on a loveseat next to the couch, which I pulled up closer to the fire. Zero excused himself into the kitchen. Groaning, I stretched my sore muscles.

“I miss Wick,” Willow sighed longingly.

“Me too.”

With a smirk, Willow looked over at me. “You and Zero getting along?”

“He’s… alright,” I admitted. “I still have some reservations, but he seems nice enough.”

“Reservations?”

“You know… the gun? Where on Equus did he find something like that? Plus, I just found out that he’s got an original PipBuck; those weren’t common even in their heyday. And… I don’t know, there’s just something different about him.”

Willow raised a brow. “Maybe he’s just a collector of rare t’ings, who knows? I’ve had clients dat brought along weird-weird stuff.” When she saw my own questioning expression, she elaborated, “One mare had dis gun wid a leaf blower or whatever built into it, yeah? She’d drop junk into it and boom, she’d splat a radroach wid a stapler or a coffee mug. You ever seen one of dose?”

“Can’t say I have, no.” I didn’t really feel like that was a fair comparison to Zero and his rifle, but I didn’t vocalize my objection.

We sat watching the fire for a bit longer. The reverie was soon disrupted by a great clatter from the kitchen, causing us both to start. I heard Zero grunt, and Willow gave me a concerned look.

“Zero, you good?” I called.

The zebra exhaled and responded, “Just knocked some things over. Gah…”

“T’ink Gramps pulled somet’ing?” Willow joked. Rolling my eyes, I went to check on him.

I found Zero attempting to wrap a bandage around his barrel. Such a maneuver was difficult to perform by hoof, and he’d only managed two or three wraps around his back wound by the time I had arrived. A set of pans had fallen to the floor, and as I entered Zero was placing them back on the counter.

“Hope I didn’t scare you two,” he said. “My tail has a mind of its own sometimes.”

Noticing the pile of gauze on the floor, I offered, “It’s fine; need some help?”

It was Zero’s turn to hesitate after a question. “I would be much obliged, yes. Thank you.”

Bandaging only took a minute with my assistance, and his injury was successfully swathed in weak healing magic. The bloodsprite had left a nasty scar and taken some of Zero’s blood, but thankfully it hadn’t pierced any vital organs or otherwise dealt critical or permanent harm.

“I appreciate it, Miss Quillwright.”

“Don’t mention it.” Now’s my chance! “I do have one more question for you, if you don’t mind…”

“Oh?”

“How do you spell your name?”





We took turns using the fireplace to warm up our dinners. As Zero slow-roasted a pair of skewered carrots he’d packed, I visited the upstairs bathroom. On the floor inside was the tarnished towel Willow had used to clean up earlier. Setting the PipBuck next to the sink with its screen lit, I dug around in a closet behind the shower and found a washcloth that I used to wipe down my hooves. I undressed and laid out the Stable suit to assess whether the stains from the marsh could be washed out or not. They seemed manageable, but now I had an excuse to finally don my Scribe robes again.

I pulled the folded garments from my saddlebags, hearing a clink as I did so. After shaking out the robes, I discovered that the voodoo necklace had fallen out of the bag. Its jewel twinkled in the pale amber light of the PipBuck, and I kept my eye on the jewelry as I pulled on my robes. Once I was dressed again, I picked up the necklace and turned it over in my hooves.

The magic contained within didn’t seem to be open to me, but when I had put it around my neck in Magnolia Grove, that had opened the door to meeting Cotton Knit, hadn’t it? A town like Martingale surely had its share of ghosts, and maybe even this home contained a spectral resident…

The radio was tuned to static and the necklace slipped on. I nervously stared into the mirror, my face lit from below in a spooky way. Expecting to hear a whisper, I cautiously perked my ears and asked, “Hello?”

Silence. I held my breath.

A murmur.

My hackles raised in electric excitement. Oh my Goddesses, am I becoming a medium?

A muffled laugh. Downstairs.

The thrill that had quickly built up dispersed through a disappointed snort. Resignedly, I shook my head. What, did I expect contacting those beyond the veil to be an on-demand ability? The PipBuck went onto my leg, and I cantered to the door. As I was passing through the threshold, a noise came from behind me, somewhere in the pitch-black and still bathroom. It was faint, so slight that I might not have heard it in any other condition. A light inhale, one that came from just behind my ears.

“... Run.”

I nearly fell down the stairs as I made a hasty retreat from the second floor. Willow and Zero halted their conversation to regard me with confusion.

“You good?” Zero asked. His eyes narrowed slightly when they flicked down to my robes, but it was a brief flash before he was back to normal.

Still attempting to catch my breath, I quickly glanced between the darkness at the top step and my companions. When nothing came chasing me, I started to calm down a bit. “Mhm, just a little spooked out, heh…”

Willow sniffed and tossed her mane. “Don’t worry, we’ll protect you,” she assured, laying the sarcasm on thick.

I returned to the loveseat, now trembling more than Willow. Once I had some leftovers cooked up and consumed, I found a sense of ease again. Zero had since drifted off in his chair. Willow burrowed into the couch and stared into the fireplace. Before I recorded the day’s events, I retrieved the brochure and read it by firelight.


The VimVam Story Begins…



Our wonderful corporation was founded by two of the most nonpareil ponies ever to live: the brothers Flim and Flam Skim. Both Mulisiana natives born in our very own LaFerrier, the colts demonstrated a knack for creativity and efficiency from an early age, going on to enroll in the Equestrian Institute of Technology. They nearly achieved valedictorian statuses, had they not been so hard at work designing the very first steam engine, a pivotal invention in Equus’ industrial revolution.



The Skim Brothers used this remarkable power source to build the very first motorwagons. Having just created a brand new industry, these two masterminds then moved on to a venture near and dear to their hearts since foalhood: beverageering. With a state-of-the-art steam vehicle that could not only drive itself but also squeeze cider at an incredible rate, the Skim Brothers completed a successful tour in Equestria before returning home. Though the machine sustained damage during the trip due to high demand, this did not deter our clever founders.



Already thinking two steps ahead, they then focused on harnessing Mulisiana’s most common fruit, the wilt apple, to create a drink that could rival the best that Equestria had to offer. For anypony else, this task would have been monumental. For Flim and Flam, it was simply another contribution to society. With a unique blend of artificial flavors and additives, the newly blended “VimVam” quickly became a Mulisiana sensation. The classic apple formula was soon joined by a wide variety of other flavors, eclipsing Sparkle~Cola in sheer quantity and proving the more popular product “down south.”



The VimVam Story Continues...



Even today, the VimVam Corporation is at the forefront of invention. Wilt apples not only refresh your body, but now power your vehicles as our patented biofuel. State-of-the-art amusement park VimVam Land is influencing a new generation of colts and fillies to become the most nonpareil creatures they can be. And soon, VimVam will unveil a product which will rock the world of physical wellbeing.



In the immortal words of our founders: “Make the purchase of a lifetime!”


Footnote: Progress recorded. Level Up.

New Perk: Exterminator, Rank 1 - Swat those pesky bugs! You deal 15% more damage against mutated insects and sprites. You now also have a chance to find useful spoils on their corpses.
> Chapter 11: Emergence - Part I
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------


"Living in willful ignorance is an ugly thing, but Gaia often speaks loudest in the wild places of Her creation.”






As the shimmering healing magic closed around Quillwright’s foreleg, it fused into one bright band of white light. The young pegasus sighed with relief as her wound was sealed. The spell then softly dissipated, leaving nothing but the faintest of scars to indicate that an injury had been present.

Smiling, Aurora Tide draped the blanket back over her patient and nodded. “Good as new. Now, Quillwright, might I ask why you came to us? Where are your family or friends?”

“They’re…” Quillwright’s mouth hung slightly open as she scrunched her brow. An expression of fear crossed her face before being replaced with guilt. “They’ve been taken by slavers. F-from Fillydelphia…”

“Oh, poor filly,” Aurora breathed. “I’m so sorry.”

At this, Quillwright shook her head, her back straightening with energy. “B-but that’s why I found you! I need your help!” Driven by resolve, she stood from the bench. “It only happened a couple hours ago, we can still rescue them!”

Aurora paused, her eyes quickly scanning the surrounding room. The Manehattan Public Library was currently being turned upside-down by Scribes, who had only just begun the grueling work of sorting through the thousands upon thousands of books stored within. “I… I wish we could help you, dear, I really do. But the decision isn’t mine to make.”

“But your… your posters say you’re here to help us! That Steel Rangers always do the right thing!”

The commotion seemed to draw the attention of one of the Scribes, who trotted over. “Something amiss, Aurora?” he asked, indicating the indignant pegasus filly.

“Not at all, Sheaf. Quillwright and I are just having a discussion.” She tilted her head. “Do you or Missive need me for something?”

Sheaf waved her off with a hoof. “Not unless you have a spell to sort every book in here into alphabetical by title, no. They’re sorted by categories and then author last names.”

“You’re looking for a book?” Quillwright chimed in. “What is it?”

Sheaf glanced at the filly with amusement. “We are, and it’s nothing you need to be concerned about, tribal.”

Looking at Aurora Tide, Quillwright asked, “What if I was to help you first?”

Turning, Aurora Tide raised an eyebrow. “Hm?”

“If I helped you find this book, would you help me save my parents?”

“It… it doesn’t work that way in our order, I’m afraid. You’d need to be one of us to propose such a mission, and after that gain approval from numerous ponies far above my station.”

“Not to mention you’d need to be literate,” Sheaf sneered quietly. Aurora shot him a disapproving look.

Quillwright seemed to think on this, then cast her eyes across the many towering bookcases that lined the walls.

Once Sheaf had rejoined his comrades, Aurora Tide frowned. “I’m sorry, Quillwright. I wish I could help you, really, but…”

“What’s the book you’re trying to find?”

“Perplexing Pony Plagues. A month ago one of our expeditions in the wasteland came down with an unfamiliar illness, one which has only worsened over time. We haven’t found any successful treatments yet, but we’ve seen references to this book in the past so we came here to locate a copy.” Aurora shook her head. “The Scribes have been begging for a proper exploration and catalog of anything and everything useful in the library, so they’ve finally gotten their wish today.”

A commotion arose from the far end of the room, beyond an open doorway. A scream, several shouts, and the crackling zap of laser fire interrupted everyone’s work. Several Scribes and armored ponies went to investigate, but a pair of young Steel Rangers rushed out from the doorway to meet them first. One was clearly distressed while the other was still shouting, “What’d I tell you?!”

“Ghouls!” the other shakily exclaimed to a Knight who was arriving. “I-I had to defend myself-!”

“Yeah, except you missed your first shot and started a fire, idiot!”

Those words sent a wave of silent shock across all who were in earshot. Dark smoke began creeping out of the doorway, rolling up the wall and collecting across the ceiling. At this, everypony launched into action, desperate to extinguish the fire and to keep it from spreading into the main room.

Aurora Tide turned to Quillwright and addressed her, “You need to get outside, now!”

As she reached to pull the young pegasus towards the exit, however, Quillwright backed up. “No, I can still help!”

“Absolutely not!” The Apothecary made another grab, but Quillwright took to the air and was out of physical and magical reach in moments. Jostled by evacuating Steel Rangers, Aurora called once more for Quillwright but it was no use.

Ascending to the second floor of the library, Quillwright noticed wisps of smoke drifting around the bookcases, seeping up from somewhere below. There were only minutes before the building would be completely engulfed by fire, so she needed to act quickly. Her eyes were already beginning to sting, and a cough rattled up from my lungs…


***


“Akh akh!” I shook awake as I coughed violently. Black smoke washed across the ceiling, and I sat up in alarm, my wing whipping itself up in front of my mouth in an attempt to filter the smoke. My nostrils were assaulted by a combined scent of burnt apples and a strangely sweet odor that I was unfamiliar with.

Willow was parked in front of the fireplace, cringing backwards and choking as dark clouds of smoke roiled around her. She cursed and lit her horn, clearly trying to extinguish the fire somehow. When she heard me stirring, she looked my way and called an apology. “Sorry, Quill, just trying to put dis out…” This sentence was cut off by another painful-looking cough.

I struggled up and out of the loveseat, approaching with my feathery filter still extended over my mouth. “How’d you…?” I began, before I nearly hacked up a lung from inhaling the smoke.

“Fuck!” Willow was having a difficult time as well, and as she fanned her hooves in front of her to ward off the toxic fumes, she finally gave up. “Let’s… ack, let’s get outside!”

We caught our breath after retreating to the street. The morning air was much clearer, still filled by fog but now lit up by the early sun. Tears streaked down Willow’s face as she blinked furiously, shaking soot from her mane and magically straightening her clothes. Black smoke was escaping from the front door, and I turned to Willow with concern.

“Uh, Zero isn’t still in there, is he?”

“Nah, he…” Willow coughed again. “He left a while before you woke up, said some’ting about dat place you got de fuel from last night.” I noticed the unicorn was still shivering.

“How’re you feeling?” I asked while patting my robes to knock off clouds of collected ashes.

Willow swallowed with a grimace and cleared her throat. “Not much better, no. Still got de frissons.” Her voice was weaker than usual, left hoarse from coughing. “I might actually be sick.”

“... It’s not typhoof, I hope?”

“Too early to say, I t’ink.”

After the apartment had aired out some more, Willow telekinetically gathered a clump of mud from a nearby flowerbed. “I dumped some water on de fire first,” she explained as the moist earth rotated in her golden field of magic. “Didn’t work out so well, no.”

We held our breath and ventured back inside, where Willow used the mud to smother the smoking remnants of the fireplace. We collected our saddlebags, and I attached the PipBuck to my leg, the E.F.S. display flickering on in my periphery.

Exiting back onto the street, Willow peered at me to ask, “By de way, you guys didn’t happen to see a pharmacy in town last night, did you?”

“I didn’t notice any,” I informed her. “We can look on the way to find Zero, though.”

“Dat would be nice.” She smirked, then added, “If we can’t find one, a comic shop would make me feel better, too.”

We studied every faded sign and peered through grimy windows, but this street was devoid of healthcare establishments. The morning sunlight was enough to provide a more complete picture of Martingale. The homes and businesses here were once colorful, their wooden frames painted in a wide selection of pastel hues. Mulisianan flags hung from many of the houses, accompanied by purple, white, and gold bunting banners underneath windows and along porch railings. Much of the greenery that had been planted in front yards or in pots and planters were spilling forth into the road or devouring the buildings closest to their roots.

I managed to lead us through town and back to the filling station. Once there, we found that Zero hadn’t yet managed to burn any of the biofuel, though he had mostly disassembled one of the pumps. He sat near to it, studying the components before taking some tools back to the main device.

“Howdy, Miss Wisp,” Zero called as we approached. “Feeling any better?” He gave me a nod of acknowledgement, which I reciprocated.

Willow shook her head, wincing at the motion. “Looked around for a pharmacy, haven’t found one.”

“I’ll help search,” the old zebra offered. “Don’t have everything I need to start a fire below anyway.”

As Zero stood and packed away his tools, Willow commented, “Already went t’rough dis once wid Quill.” She elbowed me and muttered, “Camphor’d be nice to run into out here, yeah?"

I was saved from having to respond to that by Zero, who asked, “Who?” He was squinting at Willow with one ear perked up.

“Camphor, he’s dis weird-weird doctor wid a pet goremot’. Helped us out a couple days ago when Quill came down wid typhoof.”

“I know him. So that’s the name he’s going by these days,” Zero snorted, looking away. “Glad to hear he’s still alive, at least.”

“Wait, you’ve met?” Willow sounded surprised.

“He was part of our tribe many years ago. We didn’t see eye-to-eye on much, and, well,” Zero gestured back and forth with his hoof. “One thing led to another, he left. Last I heard, he was settled in Buckwater.”

“Huh. He left when I was still a filly, now he just helps different tribes around dere.”

“I see.” Zero frowned. "Well, Miss Wisp, it's only right that I repay your help. Once we reach the hotel, I'll put a call out for my tribe. If you don’t mind waiting on them, we have skilled healers who can treat your illness."

“I don’t know if I’ll have a choice,” Willow admitted.

We explored the rest of Martingale for almost an hour, but came up empty time and again. The amount of sinkholes peppered throughout town only continued to rise, many having pulled buildings apart or left only a few walls and supports as evidence that a structure had been present at all. I began to fear that the local doctor or pharmacy had been above one of the chasms as it opened beneath, taking all the medicine to… wherever sinkholes went. I brought this idea up to the others.

“Yeah, I wouldn’t be surprised,” Willow muttered. As we trotted past a sinkhole, she paused to spit over the edge. “One day I’d like to see what’s really down dere.”

“In Caverns of Calamity, Daring Do falls down a sinkhole to find that it leads to a network of underground caves, filled with glowing crystals and wild thestrals,” I informed her. Zero looked as if he had no clue what I was talking about.

Willow laughed, which brought on a short coughing fit. “Still not gonna get me to read it, Quill.”

I shrugged, smiling. “You’d like it.”

Once we were certain that we had searched all of Martingale and come up empty, we got back on the road. After yesterday’s ordeals, we had silently agreed to forgo hiding anything anymore. Zero no longer attempted to conceal his rifle while I kept my wing exposed and E.F.S. activated. Willow, similarly, didn’t bother to put up her hood, and her shotgun was stored within easy magical reach as she led the way.

Not long into our trip, I took some time to exercise my wing. First, I extended the appendage as far as I could, spreading every individual feather. Slowly, I rotated my whole wing at its base, rolling in a clockwise motion, then reversed it. After that I pulled the wing back in, then repeated the whole procedure. This went on for half an hour, and by the time I finished my back and wing muscles were sore. Hopefully the next tandem flight I took would be somewhat easier if I made these stretches a regular activity.

Our pace noticeably slowed as time wore on. Willow slouched more and more, trembling visibly at times and coughing constantly. When questioned about taking a rest, she brushed our concerns aside with assurances that we needed to keep moving, that any time spent idling in the Valley would only increase the potential hazards from wildlife and the environment.

The fog was as thick as ever, only permitting ten or so feet of hazy vision before terminating in an opaque swirl of gray. Willow’s bulb ahead of us ensured that we wouldn’t stumble into a creek or down a sinkhole as it floated low over the concrete. At some point, we found that the road was becoming heavily populated with motorwagons, chariots, and carriages. First, the vehicles were stopped at reasonable distances apart, but as we cantered along the line they grew closer and closer until they were crumpled and broken from stacking collisions.

All of these crashes culminated at a three-way intersection, where a large passenger wagon was the focal point amidst a twisted pile of wood and steel. Along its sides was green-and-white painted branding for VimVam, and it had been pulling out of the road that intersected into Route Forty when it was struck by… one of the myriad wrecked motorwagons. I wondered if the fog that surrounded us now had played a role in the crash.

At both corners of the intersection were bright, flashy signs that beckoned readers to “Turn here for VimVam Land!” Creepers embraced the signage, mostly obscuring the image of the unicorns I’d seen on the brochure.

“Anything worth seeing that-a-ways?” I asked Willow.

The unicorn didn’t pause to look. “It’s like a jungle, almost, wid massive plants and beaucoup bugs. Folks used to harvest leaves and roots from in dere for potions, but after Brayton Rouge was abandoned and after de Valley flooded, it wasn’t seen as wort’ de trip anymore.”

Zero dissuaded my curiosity. “Few return from paying it a visit.”

“You think the Cogs would want to control it, if they want the biofuel VimVam made?”

“I’m sure they’d love to, but as you know...” he said, indicating our guide pony. “... The Valley’s not the easiest place to navigate. That being said, if there’s even a drop of fuel in there, I’ll find it and destroy it all.”





Another half hour of following the remains of Route Forty brought us to a welcome sight: a roadside sign informing us that the Maritrot Inn & Suites was just ahead. This put a much-needed burst of strength into our step, though Willow’s speed was still considerably sluggish and halted periodically by coughing fits.

We crossed over a fractured and weed-infested parking lot, and as the midday sun filtered down through the layers of mist, we at last caught sight of Zero’s prize. The hotel loomed above us, an edifice of stone that stretched high enough into the fog to vanish like it was soaring into clouds. Though dark stains of moss and grime striped the walls, the structure looked very much intact, at least as far as I could see. I counted two and a half rows of windows before it was obscured, so I couldn’t tell how many total floors the hotel consisted of.

Outside was a circular drive with a number of vehicles parked along it, including a passenger wagon identical to the wrecked one outside of VimVam Land. I wasn’t eager to look inside, still mentally scarred by my first encounter with a bloodsprite. Stepping around it and towards the entrance, we observed that the front doors were hanging wide open, with leaves, dirt, and debris scattered inside and out.

The lobby was a wide, low-ceilinged room with a marble floor. Across the tarnished surface were criss-crossing muddy tracks, consisting of an even mix of hoofprints and pawprints. What was curious was how all were arranged in single-file, and that the paws had to have been the size of my head. The hoofprints were the size of a minotaur's, at least judging from what I recalled of Bertha. I turned to ask Willow what she made of this, only to find her staring at the tracks in horror.

"Chimera," was what she whispered.

The three of us immediately went into alert mode, weapons drawn and ready. Even Willow, despite her weakened state, looked tense and ready for a fight. I did a quick three-sixty to find no red ticks on my E.F.S. compass. After relaying this to the others, Zero shook his head.

“I want to check the rooms anyway, just in case,” he told us.

Willow observed, “Dese tracks could be old, it’s hard to say for sure. I don’t t’ink de chimera’s still here.” She coughed as quietly as she could.

“You two can stay here if you’d like,” Zero said as he began following the tracks to the front desk.

Following him with Riptide at the ready, I spoke, “I’ll come too!” Willow, meanwhile, was all too happy to sit tight in the lobby, parking herself on a worn-out couch.

Moving as a unit, Zero and I passed reception and then a pair of elevators. The interior decor was fancy but not ritzy, a tasteful blend of wall-mounted landscape paintings, marble and tile floors, and ornate rugs. Despite sitting unoccupied for almost two centuries, I could envision the hotel being a comfortable place to live.

The muddy prints were beginning to fade as we reached the end of the first hall, and now we found ourselves at an intersection with lines of rooms on either side. After switching on our personal light sources, we wordlessly coordinated our way over to the nearest door, which hung slightly ajar. Zero took point, his gauss rifle whirring quietly with energy as he crept inside with caution.

Inside the dimly lit room we found no chimera, nor any other hostile creature. The furniture was the standard affair, consisting of a queen-sized bed, a table, and two chairs. There was an empty closet and a small bathroom, all devoid of any sign of occupation. The next several rooms we investigated were nearly identical in furnishing and condition, though one had a few random articles of pre-war clothing scattered across the bed, floor, and an open suitcase.

Looping our way back past the intersection, we uncovered a room that was clearly ravaged by large, razor-sharp claws. The carpet had been shredded, while the bed was knocked apart, the sheets and mattress both askew atop the frame. I noticed that adhered to the sides of the doorframe and scattered along the floor were loose strands of orange fur. Zero grimaced as he looked upon the scene.

“Miss Wisp’s right,” he sighed, eyes fixed on the long and jagged rips in the carpet. “One's been in the area, at least.”

I took Riptide out of my mouth to ask, “Have you ever fought a chimera before?”

The zebra shook his head. “I thought they’d recently gone extinct, to be honest. You would hear about a sighting or even a mauling once in a blue moon, but it was very rare. Last couple of years were totally absent of chimera reports; it's just that they aren't the most dangerous things in the swamps anymore.”

Back in the hall, we followed it until we found another split, this time leading to a kitchen and an indoor pool. The former room was searched first and found to be stripped mostly bare of any useful ingredients or preserved foods. There were two dust-covered cans of Cajun rice and beans partly hidden underneath one of the counters, piles of empty cardboard boxes, and a few glass bottles of VimVam that had broken on the floor ages ago.

Meanwhile, the pool room was vast and echoed every noise. The walls and ceiling were composed primarily out of glass, covered in moisture from the current of fog that gently flowed over and around. The temperature inside was a few degrees warmer, I noticed. The pool was mostly empty, with only a few puddles of dirty water collected at the bottom.

Before moving up to the second floor, we checked in on Willow. The poor unicorn was curled up on the couch, her body shaking and eyes clenched shut. Sweat beaded on her forehead, and as we approached, she was seized by another coughing fit. Aware that she was mere yards away from the front doors, we coaxed her out of the couch and led her into one of the first-floor rooms, where she eagerly burrowed into the bedsheets.

“We’ll have someone along to help you soon,” Zero reassured her.

The next few floors of the hotel were searched at a faster pace than before, all of them empty. Occasionally a few personal items would be left behind, but it seemed as if the hotel had been abandoned in a rush. There were no signs of a chimera having ascended the hotel, which I put down at least partly to the narrowness of the staircases and prevalence of shut doors.

At the end of the top floor, Zero found the roof access door and nodded towards it. “I’ll get in touch with my tribe, should have a good signal from up here.” His choice of words implied that he wanted to make the call privately, so I obliged and started descending the building. As I traversed the darkened stairwell all alone, my mind worked continuously, unable to shake the suspicion that had surrounded Zero since we first met.

What kind of tribe was the zebra a part of that required a hotel to live in, let alone setting up a home in such an inhospitable region of Mulisiana? My idea of the Institute seemed incompatible with his behavior and intentions thus far, but still…

Once back in the lobby, I dragged the couch into the center of the room and turned it to face the front door and windows. Plopping onto it, I retrieved Riptide and laid it on the arm of the couch, within easy reach should a threat approach. Staring into the wall of fog that obscured the parking lot, I wondered where that chimera could be now.

Zero joined me a couple minutes later. He took a chair and positioned it next to my seat, joining me on watch. His battle saddle was undone and he set the weapon down at his hooves.

“My tribe should be here tomorrow,” he told me.

“Got it.”

We sat for quite a while in silence. Zero’s attention gradually drifted over to me, and finally he mentioned something that I suspected he’d been considering since last night.

“Curious outfit you’ve picked out,” he mused.

I shifted in my seat. “It’s not a Cog robe,” I assured him. “I know they wear ones like this, but I’m not associated with them.”

“I know. It’s just not common to see Steel Ranger uniforms this far south of Equestria.”

My brows pinched as I glanced at him, our eyes connecting. I didn’t know whether to reply to what he was implying, but he continued regardless.

“Now, a flightless pegasus wouldn’t be able to make such a journey on her own, so you either found those robes somewhere here in Mulisiana, lost your wing recently, or you arrived here another way.” He leaned back, tilting his head a little as his eyes moved to study the ceiling. “Coincidentally, I heard that Divide had a recent encounter with an airship, one that was shot down and might very well be in Brayton Rouge by now, assuming they’ve made it down the Rift safely.”

Was Zero now trying to dissect me? He’d always regarded me with what could be described generously as curiosity and cynically as suspicion. The robes had been a definite tip-off to him that there was more to my story than he originally expected, something beyond what his careful gaze had deduced just outside of Divide’s walls, when I was wearing…

“Of course, you wore Stable 56 barding when we first met. You could’ve bought it from Divide, but they’re also sold in Buckwater. You and Willow have met Camphor, who’s always had a fondness for that neck of the woods. Now, what could a Steel Ranger want with a backwater village that’s long since run dry of the stimpaks that once made them a trading hub? It sure ain’t the tarberries.”

Does he know?

“Miss Quillwright, did you enter Stable 56?”

My answer was not immediate. I thought through every moment we’d been together so far, and my original suspicion and fear of his association with the Institute resurfaced. I didn’t know why he would hire a unicorn like Willow to find a forgotten old hotel in the middle of a flooded forest, but he acted like he knew something more about Fifty-Six. My own memories of the fourth floor drifted back as I stared vacantly out into the fog.

The locked door, the Ministry of Wartime Technology connection, the death of Vox and Ardent, the low hum that pulsed through that room like the Stable was a living thing. The armored unicorn, my near-death experience and frankly miraculous survival. The Stable allowing me to leave mostly unscathed, while driving my allies out with lethal efficiency. The PipBuck on my leg that had allowed us entrance while preventing the former residents re-entry. Overmare Sprocket’s mention of the Institute’s alumni working in the Stable. All these fragments danced about in my brain, teasing me about connections that I simply couldn’t establish.

“We did.”

Silence followed for what must have been minutes after my admission. My stomach felt like it was twisting itself into knots, fear and anxiety clawing into my thoughts.

When Zero next spoke, it was in a low and almost gentle tone that indicated he knew I was confused and conflicted. “Alright. I appreciate the honesty.”

I looked at the old zebra, my breaths shallow. “What’s behind the door?”

He did not turn to face me, attention fixed towards the hotel entrance. Despite avoiding my gaze, I noticed his ears twitch ever so subtly in recognition when I mentioned the door. Zero’s face was resolute when he answered, “I would tell you if I knew.”

A familiar sense of distrust flooded through me and any good will that Zero had built with me up until now evaporated. He was lying, no doubt about it. Trying to keep my cool, I grit my teeth and fired back, “Who are you, really?”

Zero kept looking forward, only blinking a few times, before he responded, “I’ve been truthful with you, Quillwright.” He sighed quietly. “When my tribe arrives, we’ll try to answer anything you want to know.”

I scoffed. “Your ‘tribe’, right. You’re with the Institute, aren’t you?” My eyes flicked to the gauss rifle. “Where else would you get something like that?”

“It was stolen from the Institute, yes, but they’re not our allies.”

Uh-huh. I could see it now: a horizon of glowing synthetic eyes slicing through the fog, marching upon the hotel to claim it for… something. Admittedly, Zero's interest in the building was the one thing I couldn't square with my paranoia. Was there something of value here that I couldn't see, like a Stable hidden underneath? Wouldn't the Institute have the means to locate it, given their immense magical and technological means? Assuming Zero really was a member of some kind of tribe, what was the purpose of venturing so far out into the Sunken Valley to claim this place? I considered what Willow had said before we left Divide.

“So are you hiding from them?”

Zero gave one nod. “From them and the Cogs. Both are at a disadvantage here.”

Hiding from the Chosen of Gaia, that I could believe; power armor would sink like a boulder in quicksand.

“What do any of them want with your tribe?”

“Much of our tribe consists of society’s outcasts, as well as defectors from the aforementioned factions. We call ourselves the New Hayvenites. We want to establish a safe community, and this hotel is the first major step for us; it could become our New Havyen.”

This was my own chance to go for the proverbial throat. “You’re ex-Institute.”

This elicited a short, terse smile of confirmation from Zero. “I am,” he stated.

Though I had been suspecting it for some time, it still got my heart racing to know I was finally confronting someone who had a connection to this mysterious group that I’d heard of so much but ultimately knew so little about. I swallowed as a rush of questions congregated in my mind, all desperately racing to escape first.

“Is it true? Synths, ponies being replaced by the Institute, all that?”

Zero nodded. “Yes. Not as commonly as people fear, though.”

“How can you create a machine so convincing?”

“They’re almost entirely organic, that’s how. It’s… a very complicated process that took many, many years for them to get down to a science.”

“How long have they been creating synths? And why?”

Holding up a hoof, Zero replied, “Listen, Quillwright… I know you have a lot of questions. They’ll be answered in due time, just not right now.”

I gestured around at the empty lobby. "Why not? We don't have anything better to do." Furrowing my brow, I added, "And I'd really prefer to know why you've been so evasive."

"Look, there's someone else in the tribe who can explain everything far better than I could. You'll get your answers, just save them until tomorrow, alright?"

Though I was frustrated, I grit my teeth and conceded. The quiet following our revelatory conversation was several layers of uncomfortable as we stared out the front windows as if it was business as usual. Since Zero didn’t reach for his PipBuck, I took it upon myself to switch on some music. The radio signal was faint but intact enough to carry a tune, which serenaded us for the rest of the night.







“Up and at ‘em, Quillwright. They’re here.”

I jerked awake as I heard Zero’s voice. Alarmed that I’d fallen asleep while on watch, I instinctively grabbed for Riptide. Now armed and standing, I finally had the chance to survey the surroundings and take in exactly who the zebra was referring to: a single young mare who had materialized out of the sunlit fog and was approaching the front doors. Zero let her in; noticing he had left his rifle on the floor and looked relaxed, I put Riptide back on the couch. The newcomer trotted with a bounce in her step more spirited than anyone I’d seen in Mulisiana, trailing wisps of fog as she entered the hotel.

The mare was an unfamiliar crossbreed of some kind, possessing white legs and a fluffy light brown coat, with the black stripes of a zebra swirling up from her hooves and around her whole body. Her ears clued me in to the other half of her parentage, however: tall and rigid, white inside with black ear tips -- the same variety I had seen sported by donkeys. Her blonde mane was done up in a braided mohawk, and heavy saddlebags were worn over her back along with a wooden quarterstaff, secured through the straps. One end of it was tipped with metal, over top of wires that snaked out and down the shaft.

“Hey, Zee,” she addressed Zero, who nodded and turned his attention to the outside. The mare’s bright and wide brown eyes then took me in quickly and she broke out into a grin. “Hi!” she chirped, meeting me halfway. and extending an eager hoof towards me. “My name’s Mikaella, but Mika is fine too.”

“Uh, hey,” I replied, a little surprised at how forward she was. “I’m Quillwright, Quill for short.”

“Oh, like the writing kind?”

“Yep.” When Mikaella’s brows rose in a clear request for me to elaborate, I explained, “When I was a filly I used to turn any feathers I shed into quills. My parents thought it was funny, and the name stuck.”

Mikaella’s short spell of confusion brightened up quickly as she nodded. “Ah, I see! I never would’ve guessed, hehee-haw!” As the giggle-snort escaped her, amusement turned to embarrassment just as fast. She scrunched up her face, cheeks flushing slightly. “Ignore that, please and thanks.”

“Didn’t have too much trouble reaching us, I take it?” I heard Zero’s voice from behind Mikaella. She moved to my side and turned to watch as Zero entered with something that gave me a genuine fright.

What was once a synthetic chassis identical to the model hanging in Magnolia Grove was now walking on its own, limbs rigidly imitating the gait of a living pony. I was horrified by how it was decorated; leathery radigator hide was bound around the legs, while a matted gray pelt cloak was fastened over its body. A gator skull was affixed to the head, eye sockets illuminated by an ethereal blue glow. It was vaguely facing Zero’s direction when an otherworldly voice crackled out of its voicebox. “Nothing worth a bullet.”

Mikaella took immediate notice of my reaction and placed a reassuring hoof on my withers. “Hey, don’t worry, Quill! Haywire’s with us.”

Two ex-Institute members of the tribe and counting… and who came up with that name?

“Is it… reprogrammed?” I stuttered with no small amount of effort, still shocked by its appearance and, in turn, everyone else’s nonchalance.

The machine, hearing my question, rotated its head to look at me. The servos in the neck whirred and clicked as they came to a halt, and the ghostly, flickering radigator eyesockets somehow felt like they were assessing me. “We are here by request. This vessel is no longer under control of its former puppeteers.” That voice sent a chill down my spine.

“Haywire’s a spirit we summoned and bound to a synthetic body,” Zero clarified. “You aren’t in danger from it, at least not physically.”

“Our name is Corbeau,” the machine corrected, somehow managing to sound irritated even through the crude vox module. “You creatures truly have no consideration for Our titles. We do not find nicknames endearing.”

"Well, if someone hadn't played coy about their real name for so long, they wouldn't have needed a nickname now, would they?" Zero said pointedly.

Haywire looked at me. “See? See what kind of disrespect We have to suffer through here, Pegasus? Alas. We shall now retrieve the others.” The synth adjusted the shotgun and rifle attached to either side of its frame, and then with a series of whirs and clunks, it did an about-face and dramatically flourished its cloak, cantering into the fog. It brushed past a motley group of Zero’s tribe, who were just now unhooking themselves from wagons or setting down barrels or heavy saddlebags that needed to be hauled into the hotel. Zero went to give them a helping hoof, while Mikaella turned to me.

“So I heard you have a sick unicorn?”

Before we reached her room, I explained that Willow was a half-ghoul and that her current illness wasn't radiation-based. Mikaella nodded in understanding and allowed me to knock before we entered. Not receiving a reply, I called out close to the door, “Willow, it’s Quill and someone here to help.” I heard a faint groan on the other side, so we stepped in. Making my way through the dim room, I cracked open the blinds to let in some light, though not enough to hurt Willow’s eyes. There was an acrid smell that lingered in the air, now visually identifiable.

It appeared that at some point during the night Willow had needed to suddenly vomit, and while she had attempted to aim for the floor, the far edge of the bed had been stained. As we neared the unicorn, she slowly turned herself over to face us. Her normally-disarrayed mane was somehow now even messier, slick with sweat from her brow. Her voice, clearly shot, croaked, "Hey Quill, I'm still feeling miserable, yeah." Her eyes tried to focus on Mikaella next, causing her to squint in bewilderment. “Gardes don, Zero’s gotten a lot prettier!"

Mikaella's ears wiggled in amusement, and she didn't show any sign of revulsion at the sight of radiation scarring. "I'm Mika, not Zero. You're Willow Wisp?" She received a glacial nod in reply as she slid off her saddlebags. "That's a lovely name!"

"You've got a lovely mane too," Willow grinned deliriously. Is she flirting on purpose?

Mikaella giggled at that and grabbed some items from her bags, including a handmade washcloth and some bottled water. "I'm here to help you, can you tell me what you've been feeling lately? Nausea, chills, itching, soreness, coughing, vertigo, that sorta stuff?"

“Uh…” Willow coughed. “All of de above, except itching and… what was de last one? Ver…?”

Before I could both pronounce and define vertigo, Mikaella explained, “Are you feeling dizzy, like the room is spinning?”

“Ugh, yeah.”

“Poor thing.” Taking the cloth, Mikaella wet it and wiped Willow’s chin clean of some specks of bile, then folded the cloth in half and placed it across the unicorn’s forehead. “Just take it easy, don’t strain your throat by speaking.”

“Mmm.”

Mikaella’s face was grim when she turned to inform me, “The high temperature, the nausea and chills, coughing and throwing up; that's most likely swamp fever she got from a bite.”

I thought back across our trip through the Valley. “But she wasn’t stung by any bloodsprites…?”

“It’s caught from smaller bugs. I think her fall into the quicksand lowered her internal temperature enough for the sickness to finally get a hoof-hold.”

Okay, so the small bugs can be just as scary as the giant ones. “It’s treatable, right?”

The zonkey rubbed the back of one forehoof. “It is, but I don’t know the cure; I’m still learning medicine from Xura, my mentor. She or one of the healers that’ll be here soon would know. All I can do right now is ease the pain.” Mikaella picked out three pill bottles from her saddlebag and gave Willow a selection. “Those should help you feel better.”

“T’ank you,” Willow rasped.

Mikaella smiled and gave a quick, short bow. “My pleasure! I’ll check on you again later.”

“Don’t take too long, cher.” That was definitely on purpose. Mikaella reacted with a soft laugh and shake of her head. Despite the dim lighting, I thought I saw her blushing.

Returning to the hallway, I was about to see what Zero was up to when Mikaella stopped me. “Hey, Quillwright, wanna help me pick out my room?” Her eyes twinkled as she gestured to the stairs. “Somewhere with a nice view.” She then paused, her features grimacing a bit as she realized, “Well, a nice elevated view of the fog, hehe!”

Shrugging, I agreed. There wasn’t much else for me to do right now, so an opportunity to ask the zonkey some questions piqued my interest. Mikaella, however, beat me to the punch as we entered the stairwell.

“Is Willow Wisp a friend of yours?” she asked.

Despite sharing a few contentious moments, I confidently answered in the affirmative.

“So are you just helping her, way out here in the Valley?”

“I hired her to take me to Brayton Rouge, actually.”

“Oh, I see! She knows her way around the area?”

“She really does; I’d be lost without her help. Or, more likely, I'd be gator food.”

Mikaella raised her brows. “I know how that feels… being lost, that is. I spent most of my life cooped up, and out here in the real world I still get turned around so easily. There’s just so much… everything!” She considered her next words for a moment as she opened the door leading to the second floor. As she looked to roll the thought around in her head, her ears tilted from side to side. “So many places to go. The world’s supposed to be so massive, and I’ve barely seen any of it!”

“There’s not much of it left worth seeing,” I stated, coming off more pessimistic than I had intended. Seeing Mikaella’s ears droop a bit in disappointment, I tried to bring the topic back around to her. “Where did you grow up so confined?”

“You didn’t see this?” As we meandered down the hallway, Mikaella turned her body so I could see her left flank. Indeed, I hadn’t noticed a distinctive brand that was seared into her hide, resembling a stylized flowing wave. My blank stare prompted her to smile tersely. “Probably a good thing that it’s not familiar to you. I used to belong to Mirage.”

I recalled that Bertha had mentioned Mirage before, a location on the west coast of the region. “Mirage. That’s a city, right?”

We had stopped in the hallway. Choosing a door at random, Mikaella had begun to open it when she gave me a curious look in response to my question. “Okay, so you definitely aren’t from around here.” I shook my head. “It’s a city inside the Neigh Orleans ruins, mhm. It was a cruise ship during the war, got washed ashore, and then became a pleasure city. It’s almost as big as Divide!”

It was then that the first night spent in Divide came back to me, and I remembered how I’d first heard of Mirage. “Willow Wisp’s brother is indentured there.”

Mikaella stopped halfway under the threshold. She glanced back at me with surprise in her eyes, which quickly morphed into pity. “Oh. Oh, that poor colt…”

Once again I had brought down the zonkey’s bright mood. “... You should probably talk to Willow about it when she’s feeling better.”

“I will.”

The room Mikaella had decided to investigate was identical to all the other rooms I’d peeked into. There was a single window that, in another time, would’ve overlooked the parking lot. The furnishings were simple, including a bed, desk, chair, and a narrow closet. The walls were an unremarkable off-white color, while a single painting hung across from the bed, depicting an idyllic coastline and a lighthouse. Mikaella threw open the window blinds to fill the space with hazy outdoor light. “Wow, I love it!” she approved.

I couldn’t see what had raised her spirits back up so quickly, but now knowing that she’d been property at one time, the ownership of a room must have been exciting. Mikaella hung her saddlebags inside the closet, propped her quarterstaff against the wall, and then leapt onto the bed, bouncing as the mattress squeaked beneath her and a cloud of dust was launched into the air. As she settled into the soft sheets, she sighed in delight.

“Seems… clean?” I offered. In truth it was quite dusty, but that seemed a small price to pay in exchange for no visible blood, mold, or insects.

“Clean and full of free space!” Mikaella sat up, looking around at the walls. Struck with inspiration, she pulled a small, battered metal sign out of her bags, an advertisement for VimVam featuring the ornate logo superimposed over a sparkling bottle of their cider. The sign was placed against each wall, on the side of the closet, propped up atop the desk, and on the inside of the front door. Anywhere she put it, Mikaella couldn’t seem to decide where it would look best.

“Well, I can figure it out later!” She left the sign on the desk, and then turned to me with a smile. “Hey, since I answered you… where are you from?” She quickly added, “Also, I like your clothes; I’ve never seen ones like those before!”

Smoothing out the front of my robes and ruffling my wing slightly, I answered, “Thanks. I’m a Steel Ranger Scribe from Equestria.” I was more comfortable sharing my story now, and my conscience seemed totally fine trusting a half-zebra with it. “I came here in an airship with a team to find a Stable. We were attacked, and that’s when this happened.” My ruined wing stump was extended. “I was left behind, and now I’m hoping to catch up with them in Brayton Rouge. Willow Wisp has been my guide through Mulisiana so far.”

Mikaella’s eyes were wide and her ears perked up as she listened. Even after the brief summary of my plight, she had a multitude of queries that I addressed, providing more specifics about the people and places I’d met and visited, the scrapes I’d been in, and about my allies. She was also enthralled by my descriptions of Equestria, prodding as far as she could about the cities and creatures that existed in the north. She had no prior knowledge of the Steel Rangers, though she quickly connected them to the Chosen of Gaia as soon as power armor was mentioned.

I likely would have been answering questions for the rest of the day had our discussion not been brought to a halt by the arrival of Zero and numerous tribals. He seemed to have been giving them a tour of the hotel, and as he peeked in he saw some of Mikaella’s belongings placed around the room. “Claim yourself a room already, Mika?” Zero asked.

“I did, it’s perfect.”

Zero smiled in amusement. “Excellent. Listen, could you help us get some folks’ stuff carried in and upstairs?”

Mikaella eagerly trotted from the room, while the tribals continued on down the hall. With nothing else to do, I volunteered to assist Mikaella, but Zero halted me at the door.

“Quillwright, before that…” He reached into one of his jacket pockets and pulled out a necklace, which he held out to me. It was woven around a small black stone just like the one he was wearing, cut in a slightly different shape. “You need to put this on.”

If he was expecting me to object, he was correct. “Why?”

“It’s a ward. The Institute has scrying stones hidden all over Mulisiana, and this necklace will make you practically invisible to their sight.”

I stared at the necklace, which didn't seem suspicious at all. “What interest would the Institute have in me?”

Zero gave one humorless chuckle. “Honestly, Quill, consider it. You set a single hoof inside Stable 56, you’re immediately going to become a pony of interest to them.”

I squinted. “But not enough to be snatched up?”

“Firstly, you wouldn’t have any memory of it if you were. Secondly, the Institute is incredibly cautious; they don’t take any action that could be even remotely seen as unnecessary or as a risk to their organization.” He set his jaw. “And those reasons aside, I ask that you wear it if you want to rest in the hotel with our tribe tonight.”

Reluctantly, I accepted the scrying ward and secured it around my neck. Just like the voodoo necklace, I couldn’t feel any energy emanating from the stone. It probably never works that way, but who knows. Zero thanked me for complying, and with that we followed after Mikaella.

The carts that the New Hayvenites parked in front of the hotel were loaded with crates, luggage, barrels and sacks of all manner of items, from food to weapons to clothing. Close to thirty tribals had arrived with Mika, and they ranged far and wide in age and species. An elderly griffon shorter than Teensy, a pair of young donkey twins, and a zebra ghoul were among them, all of whom thanked me as I helped them haul their personal effects indoors. The older and the less-able tribals were housed in spare first-floor rooms, while those who were physically fit were content to travel to the floors above to find their own accommodations.

A few of the new arrivals took up work in the kitchens right away to cook us an early dinner, which came together primarily in the form of steaming pots of jambalaya, a recipe I'd learned when working with Bertha. Food was ready by the time we had gotten everyone moved inside. Tables were pulled together to form rows within the dining room, and I found myself seated across from Zero as we ate.

The jambalaya consisted of rice, vegetables, and what tasted like diced gator meat. Like many other local dishes I’d tried, it was quite spicy, though not nearly close to the heat level of Bertha’s gumbo. As the flavors settled in my mouth, I concluded that it was my favorite Mulisianan specialty yet.

“I left Willow Wisp a bowl,” Mikaella informed us as she dropped wearily into a seat next to me, her own serving clutched in her hooves. After taking a couple bites, her ears flattened and she growled in clear frustration. “Ugh, I wish I knew how to cure her properly!”

“One thing at a time, Mika,” Zero admonished. “You’re still learning stick-fighting from Xura, aren’t you? Once you’re adept with your staff, you can focus on learning alchemy and botany.”

Mikaella propped her head up with one hoof while she stared intently into her half-eaten dinner. “I’m good enough with it. You didn’t see me take out those synths in the Trash Heap, I was as good as Xura!”

“I saw enough of your wounds to know you aren’t on her level yet.” Seeing the zonkey’s mood darken at his words, Zero shook his head and elaborated, “You can’t rush these things, Mikaella. If you’d have missed a strike or sprained an ankle and fallen, you would’ve been killed without hesitation.”

“But I didn’t and I wasn’t!”

Based on the tone each was using, this was clearly not the first time this argument had arisen between them. I was stuck uncomfortably staring into my empty bowl to stay out of the fight, though I chanced a brief glance at the two, who were glaring at each other.

“That’s not an excuse,” Zero stated. “That staff of yours is not worth taking any risks over.”

That upset Mikaella greatly. “ ‘That staff’ is the first real thing I’ve been able to actually create and own in my life!”

Sighing, Zero rubbed his temples. "I know, Mika. But you’re a New Hayvenite, and that means I’m responsible for keeping you safe.”

“I’m not a filly, Zee. I can look after myself," Mikaella huffed. "You'll have to accept that sooner or later." She stood from the table, taking her bowl. "I'll be in my room."

Once the zonkey had departed, Zero gave an exhausted groan. “I’m sorry you had to suffer through that, Quillwright.” I didn’t know how to respond, so I pursed my lips and idly flicked through screens on the PipBuck until Zero moved to another table.

I listened as he and the other New Hayvenites discussed the hotel and their future plans for it. The first order of business was properly furnishing and restructuring some of the rooms, primarily to establish a dedicated clinic. Next up would be outer defenses, though what materials should be used for a surrounding wall couldn't be agreed on. Third was the matter of where and how crops would be planted. The hotel pool was proposed as a plot for tarberries, and the method required to destroy the concrete parking lot in order to plant rows of corn, soybeans, and wheat was debated. I also heard VimVam Land mentioned in those same talks; it seemed the tribe was interested in harvesting many of the plants native to the park for their own use.

Zero described the VimVam filling station in Martingale and plans were arranged to soon visit it and destroy its cache of biofuel. Lastly, there were also questions and proposals on how to reduce or remove the fog surrounding the hotel. I heard mention of both fans from Divide and wards as potential solutions, though a consensus couldn’t be reached as half of the tribe had yet to arrive.

Mikaella had shut herself inside her room, leaving only to check on Willow Wisp. Soon, I too retired into an empty hotel room to record what I’d learned of the Institute and catch up on some Daring Do. The light though my window faded and as evening set in, I switched on the PipBuck lamp to read by. Soft radio music was the only sound in my domain for some time, until Zero knocked at the door. Answering it, I was asked to come downstairs.

As we descended the stairs, I became aware of the murmuring of voices below, louder than dinner had been. Entering the lobby, it was clear that the rest of the New Hayvenites had finally arrived. What must have been close to sixty creatures were spread throughout the room, though a dense and particularly vocal group was congregating around where I had moved the couch yesterday. Close to them stood Haywire, who was splattered with blood and bits of insect, including a tattered goremoth wing that had been pasted to its flank with ichor. The machine entity was thoroughly cleaning itself with a magical aura the same color as the glow from its eye sockets.

Catching glimpses through the crowd, I saw that there was a pony or donkey that had been laid out on the couch, their body splashed with dark blood. Numerous healers were attending to the victim, including a lithe zebra mare who was calling for fresh bandages. Mikaella hovered very close to her, observing and offering help. I didn’t realize I had stopped following Zero to gawk at the scene until he called my name and snapped me out of my trance.

We trotted across the lobby and into a small conference room. Several creatures were present and speaking inside, but wrapped up their conversations as Zero and I entered. One remained, however: a pony mare with a soft pink coat and a mane that was a swirl of violet, rose, and gold, interspersed with silver streaks. Her age must have been close to Zero’s.

“Ah, you must be Quillwright.” She spoke with a gentle and matronly tone, one that matched her maturing features. Once we were closer, I took in more of her appearance. She was clad in silky black robes, radigator tooth earrings hung from her ears, and numerous decorated necklaces rested against her chest, including a scrying ward and a red jewel that looked very reminiscent of the one in my voodoo necklace. Yet one detail above all rooted me to the spot: a pair of wings were folded at her sides, with feathers the same shade as the one worn around Zero’s neck.

“I am,” I responded, barely able to pull my eyes away from her wings. “And you are…?”

“It’s good to meet you, dear." The pegasus mare’s face broke into an easy smile. "My name is Cadance. I’m the former Director of the Institute.”