Chapter 1: What Is Your Name?

''What is your name?''
Does a pony make their name or does a name make the pony?

Repeating over and over, the words had no rhythm, as if they echoed from the vocals of something unnatural, forced out from the heart of something that had no language its own. The words repeated again. I would not answer their call.

The blank room's white walls were glaring, too perfect, and too clean to be real. To be the reality I was forced to call my own. This was a lie. The cameras on the far side of the room hissed and buzzed, staring at me where I was trapped. Both forelegs tied to the wall behind me, my metal digits slack, there was a glowing face etched in the back of my hands flickering in an unwavering cheerful smile.

I saw my reflection in the window pane, the only source of color in the room, it was black. My single blue eye locked with my own gaze. How I had been bound in metal struts in the wall, constricting all movement was beyond me. I couldn't recall ever being here before either. I had a horn on my forehead? One bound to the base of my skull with a metal nut, rusted around the edges.

''Hello?'' I called out to the voice asking me my name; it gave me the old tired response, ''What is your name?'' Again, I couldn't understand that. ''Don't know. I don't know anything. What's going on? Who are you?'' My question was answered by the tired phrase again, 'What is your name?' I abandoned the hope that there was someone on the other side of that inky glass. I wondered how long it would take for me to die.

I strained against the bindings, my strength wasn't enough. The bindings groaned then held, the metal creaking a chuckle of it's victory. I had just enough movement of my head to gaze down and find I had been tacked to the wall by large almost comical surgical tools. They were grounding me into the wall at my back, one of those insects you would see pinned to a board, a butterfly, dead and nailed to a piece of wax paper over cork-board for display. That thought made me think of someone. Someone I remembered on a billboard, one for 'Sparkle Cola' advertisements. Why did I remember that in a time like this?

The message repeated in a dull, monotonous tone; 'What is your name?' I put a beat to it, memorizing the length of the message and time in between that query. Fifteen seconds. I think. Why did the interval seem important? I pulled at the restraints, they still didn't budge.

I traced wires connected to me to a heart-rate monitor, which was unplugged from an outlet housing in the wall. There was an industrial light fixture over my head, flickering slowly. The light was shaking back and forth, towards one direction. To the left? There was a bed there, a bed on a gurney, overturned against the wall, blood was on it. All over it. Thick, heavy pools of red, long dried. Black ichors pulsed on the floor. The more I looked, the more things I had failed to notice became clear to me. The ceiling tiles were crooked and battered, wires hanging down from the gaps. This room's lie was hidden poorly. It was me; I had failed to notice anything.

Shouldn't I be in pain? I looked down; there were tools, large ones sticking into me. There's no way I should even be alive. Also, whoever bolted these restraints into the wall had done so quickly, they didn't seem to be normal fixtures. They were just bolted into the wall. Pressing back, the tools slid against my guts, causing a welled up mixture of red and black to trickle from the wound, Red, which was expected but utter numbness and black ooze wasn't normal. Was I sick? Yes, sick, which is why I was nailed to a wall and bolted in place by who-ever had been taking care of me. Makes perfect sense, to the crazy. I wasn't so sure if I was crazy or not. I couldn't even remember my name, who I was, it was all blank, except for that billboard against the blue sky, the one about a brand of soda. The soda I remembered had a distinctly carroty after-taste.

I grit my teeth, huffing softly. I pushed forward, with my forelegs, which were the closest to the bolts locking me in place. I strained, and felt no give. Nothing, I actually felt nothing. I took a gulp of air reflexively, how long had I been holding my breath? I hadn't been breathing for a while. My heart sank, or maybe it would have, if I was sure I could feel its beat in my chest. That wasn't important. I was alive, moving. Of course I was alive. Just sick, yes, just sick with something. That's why I was in this room...Nailed to a wall?

In frustrating realization I slammed myself back and forth, screaming for that voice to just shut up, to escape this place that I had come to hate with deeply confused loathing. Back and forth I rocked, sending blood and black 'ink' against the wall and spewing forward. The struts snapped like dry timber after a dull whine at the abuse and snapped into the wall as they swung on their hinge. I fell forwards, taking the objects jutting out of me to the floor. I found out why the lighting fixture was leaning when I tumbled towards the gurney and caught myself against it. The room was leaning. The wires going into the nodes on my chest were torn free, leaving a mess of cables snaking on the floor.

On my hooves again, well hooves and ‘hands’; there were hands bolted to the bottom of my fore-legs. A retainer bolt fastened them deep into my leg and a metal strap held them in place. Rustic and functional, the metal digits with simple joints curled up from the floor.

I moved towards the heart-rate monitor, fighting against the lean wasn't too difficult, but walking was hard. It was like my mind couldn't remember and several times I fell to the floor, the tools that had pierced my body hammering against the floor. I'd have to remove those at some point. With tools, so I didn't risk bleeding out. I hooked myself back up to the heart-rate monitor again and plugged it in, curiosity haunting me.

The outlet was dead, and it refused to power on. I don't know why I was so relieved. I tore the wires from my chest, leaving the nodes in place. I didn't know how to remove them either, not without hurting myself. I doubt medical practitioner was my career choice for some reason.

''What is your name?'' Spoke the tinny, melody-dry voice that kept repeating every so often. Gee, if I knew I probably still wouldn't tell you. My thoughts were to strangle whoever the source of that voice was. I might as well check my reflection closely in the blacked out-window on the other-side of the room. I didn't even remember what I looked like.

The face that stared back was that of a stallion with a white pelt and ragged, frayed, and wild red mane. I moved the hair from my face with those heavy jointed fingers and stared into the face. Blue eye, singular. The other side of my face where my eye would have been was wrapped in gauze and heavy bandages. I was covered in staples, holding my wounds shut. I looked like something out of Frankenmare's Monster. Stitched, nipped, and tucked. Whoever worked on me did a decent job in treating whatever injuries I had suffered. I wore no clothing save for the large surgical implements sticking into me and the bandages wound around my chest and midsection.

I raised myself up, standing on my hind hooves and bracing myself against the glass, examining what was stuck in me. It actually doesn't look so bad. The instruments were small, and only large if you considered how long they were. I was still alive because of that, probably. I'd need medical attention to remove them.

''What is your name?'' Again, every fifteen seconds it asked that. It was becoming an irritation upon other things. The cameras whirred and buzzed loudly. ''Oh, once I get out, I'm going to have words for you. It won't be my name though.'' I spat, lowering myself to move to the door. I tried it, the door was locked. Of course it would be locked.

I was able to smash through my restraints; why not just do the same to the door? Because I might tear my stitches, that was why, poor whoever I am! I groaned at that sound logic and tried to figure out a way through the door. I was probably under heavy pain medication to not be able to feel a thing, so I probably wouldn't feel any damage I did to myself by accident.

After a few minutes of shuffling around and finding a good grip, I had the gurney in position in front of the door. I was fighting the list of gravity pulling off to the side, but I held it firmly in place with relative ease. Both of my odd hands were in place at either side of the bed, pulling it back and slamming it into the door several times.

Ker-Thwack! Ker-Thwak! KER-RUNCH! The door shot off its hinges in a shower of splinters and broken wood, slamming into the wall on the other side of the hallway that was now visible beyond the door. Without hesitation, I moved through the open doorway.

It had been barricaded by several gurneys and even a desk, all of which were now against the far-side of the wide hallway with its white tile and flickering lights.If there's anyone here, they've probably heard that. I told myself, looking both directions down the passage. Doors, dozens of doors flanked the hallway on either side. Each had a window looking in, even my room had one. With video feed and other information being displayed, all of them said the same thing, 'Off-Line'.

Mine was displaying something extra, a screen said, 'Mental Evaluation'--Which is why it repeated into the room, ''What is your name?''. That was the most irritating noise ever. If it was torture, it was brilliantly designed torture.

After using my brilliant knowledge of hacking, otherwise known as a bit of hard and jagged debris in my hand, I disabled that aggravating voice forever. But what it had asked still bothered me. I didn't remember my name, and all I could remember was fragmented things, things that didn't matter to me now.

Left or right, both hallways stretched out before me, and each window was dark, with a door just like mine. Heavy wooden doors reinforced with metal plates. I was surprised that I’d gotten out so easily. Some of the doors, like mine were barricaded, not to keep anything from getting in, but to keep whatever they kept inside from getting out.

On the far left side, there was an assorted pile of furniture. Desks, tables, chairs, arranged to look like a gunner’s nest. A choke point. Bullet casings and remains of spent magazines littered the area. I found a few still had rounds in them. I took them, recovering what ammunition I could from them. 5.56 mm. How I recognized it I had little idea, but I knew they were for an assault rifle of some kind.

A battle had taken place here, and for all the damage, there wasn’t a single body for how much blood was smeared against the walls and floor. I was under the suspicion someone had simply hosed the entire corridor past the barricade in blood to let it dry into a coat of sparse and patchy paint. I had no weapon; going in the direction of the carnage was a bad idea. I turned around and went back over the barricade.

I guess ‘Right’ was the right way to go, to spare myself any gruesome details. I followed along the hallway, keeping my eye on every window I passed. One room had its window broken outwards, the reinforced glass peeled in jagged reams. Inside I saw a room identical to my own. They were all procedural. A heart-rate monitor and what I guessed to be a life-support system, industrial lighting, listing to one side due to the floor’s tilt, a hospital bed obscured by a stained sheets and a pony in a lab-coat, laying on his side, facing away from the window.

I should just keep moving, ignore what I’ve seen. I’m certain this place has been attacked. That I could have been tortured by who-ever had done this terrible thing. The drugs were heavy lead in my veins--So heavy that the burden of remembering had been forgotten just to be able to move. But here, I stopped. I had to see if he was alright. I might not be the only survivor of whatever happened.

‘’Hey, hey! Are you alive?’’ I asked, my voice dry and brittle. I couldn’t feel how dry my mouth was. There was no response from the other side, he was still as the barricades and discarded medical equipment I kept seeing everywhere. The pony in that room, if alive, was currently unconscious. I couldn’t make out any rise or fall of his chest either.
I was going to have to enter the room to be sure they were alright, even though all evidence pointed to it just being a body, I hoped it wasn’t. I hoped they were alive, and I hoped they had answers.

The door was locked, but after proving myself with the door to my room, this was no problem. I found a nearby wheelchair that had been discarded, and slammed through the door after two impacts, splintering the wooden and metal door into the room. The hull of the door slammed into the ground with a loud ‘WHAM’ and scattered dust.

I covered my muzzle with my metal prosthetic fingers—they were proving very useful, seeing as I was struggling to use my telekinesis while heavily medicated. I moved into the room and skirted around the hospital gurney, only now realizing why there was a sheet over it. There was a lump beneath the stained cover, in the shape of a body. The air smelled heavy with rot and decay. Most alarming, however, was that holding the sheet against where the head of the patient should be, a large medical blade had been stuck into the head, trapping the cover there in place. The body was also strapped down.

Why they would strap a corpse down escaped me, but the patient could have been secured before expiring. That was a much softer word to use than ‘Face-raped by surgical tools’. The air was thick with rot and decay from this act, it must have been rotting for a few weeks. The lights flickered over head, casting shadows that moved in haunting sways. The generators must be over-taxed or damaged. I didn’t want to stick around for when they might finally fail, this hospital, if I could even call it that would be even more difficult to travel through in darkness.

Ignoring the body on the gurney, more out of respect for the dead than fear, whoever I was, I wasn’t squeamish, I moved to the body lying on its side. The stallion facing away wasn’t moving at all, and when I rolled him over I came face to skull with him—He was almost entirely decayed away, and little remained of him. He had tufts of silvery gray hair stubbornly clinging to his scalp, and his lower jaw was missing. There was too much decay to discern how he died.

I gagged, retching softly; the sight of such grisly death was beginning to overwhelm me. The urge to vomit grew, but nothing would come up, and there weren’t any spasms of my body trying to throw up. I wanted to but couldn’t.

From this ‘mystery’ pony I had discerned a few things—Time had passed, and I wasn’t sure how much. The attack happened, or whatever befell the hospital, then they died. This was the only body I had found. A card dangling on a lanyard around his neck read:

Dr. SteelGraft
Clearance Code: Blue
Surgical Team: S
Senior Surgery Staff

My good deceased friend had been a doctor here, and not just any doctor, but a highly trained one. He had a strange name for a doctor, too. It sounded more like a name a smelter or a steelworker might have or give themselves. I took the lanyard from him, and stripped the body of its long trimmed Doctor’s Coat. It may have smelled, and may have been on a corpse for who knows how long, but I was wearing nothing but old bandages and needed to cover up.

I was only a little smaller than SteelGraft had been, so the coat was loose on me, it felt natural. As natural as a horribly blood-stained hardly white anymore coat could feel. I was beginning to question the morbid state of mind I had, and wonder who exactly I was.

That would come later; first, I had to check for anything else that was useful. Snaking the metallic digits into the coat’s pockets carefully I extracted a few things of use, a few bits, faded with age, a bottle cap, and a recording. I had no way of playing the recording; I’d need something to play it for me. Wait, a note? A slip of paper, torn in the middle and bloodied so only half could be read;

‘Patient No. 39’
----erSquash
Severe trauma to the trunk, life support ---------. Prognosis poor, ---tal evaluation promising.
Shows desire -------------------------------- see it through. Has family--------
--------- lifestyle. ------ Signing approval of ButterSquash ------------ pending expiration of
---------
Complications: Expediting expiration artificially.

Most of the file didn’t make any sense, and why it was bloodied and torn up in a coat’s pocket? The whole piece was dismissible, holding no clues that held anything I needed. The last line, that caught my attention. ‘Expediting expiration artificially’—If that meant what I thought it did, then SteelGraft may have ‘expedited’ the pony on the gurney to an early discharge.

So now the doctors were killing patients? Why? To save on supplies? That straight forward answer socked me in the gut, and I could almost sympathize with the doctor, it must not be easy terminating a patient. But the method of stabbing them in the head with a surgical tool was cruel and for that, there was no pity in my heart.

What if I had been ‘expedited’ myself, but had the fortune to survive somehow? The thought chilled me, and suddenly I felt like not finding anyone alive was the safest choice for me.

A rattling shift from the gurney shook my nerves, the lights flickered again and I backed up until my flanks touched the gurney bed, turning I came to face something that only in my nightmares had happened—A corpse that moved.

‘Buttersquash’, who was possibly the patient in this room, was squirming in his restraints. If he hadn’t been dead for what I assumed were weeks, it wouldn’t have been that bad. I reckoned he’d be somewhat pleasant to deal with in life.

The lights flickered again, and went out for the longest few seconds I had ever experienced up until this point. I heard snapping of cloth and the ping of torn metal. The lights flickered to life and I watched the corpse of this room’s former resident sit up on the bed, coversheet held in place over him by the fat surgical blade pressing in through his skull. A dull rattle of breath echoed from the creature, and a black spray of sick bled through the cover where its mouth would be.

Fear raced through me, wide-eyed I could not look away, but it wasn’t petrifying fear. It was a morbid fear, like it might be the last fight I’d ever get to tousle in. I was equally excited, something inside me got a rush from the danger.

‘Fuck me with an airship’s bowsprit and fly me into Celestia’s burning Sun.’ My mind was certainly filled with a collection of oddly nautical curses, mostly involving airship slang.

The body continued to move, pushing a hoof out towards me, and wearing that sheet, looked like a ‘ghost’ costume a foal would wear on Nightmare Night. Odd, how I remember these unrelated holidays while I’m confused and about to die.

‘Clik’ ‘Whirr’—the sound of a blade revving up, and the sheet was torn asunder by a rotary saw-blade that was...Attached to the body. The sheet fell away in tatters to reveal with heart-stopping terror what I was faced with; a blend of corpse, fear, nightmare, and machinery.

Buttersquash, or as the paper had called him, Patient No. 39 was a pale green stallion earth pony with a blade sticking into his head looking like a faux horn. He had one soft hazel eye that was milled over by the glassy thousand-yard stare of death; the other was dangling from its gaping socket. His torso on the left side was caved and had been reinforced by steel framework surgical attached to his ribcage and spine. His body was marred and decayed, and very little of a soft blonde mane remained. One of his forelimbs had been replaced with an industrial construction saw, weaponized for less than constructive purposes.

I stepped back, my ass pressed against the farthest wall from this monster. The creature gazed at me dumbly, tilting its head down to the lanyard around my neck, then to my face. I saw its facial muscles twitch. It launched itself off the bed with a gurgling roar, the buzz saw spinning to life in efforts to end mine.

Raising my metal prosthetic, I intercepted the buzz saw in a hail of sparks, the metal blade biting into the digits. Without thinking, I brought my other hoof around and struck the beast in the side of the head, knocking it to the floor in a sprawl of decayed flesh and sparking metal.

It recovered quickly, rolling onto its hooves, some of its body parts rotating around in full complete circles until it was facing me again. I was already moving to the door as fast as I could. A saw blade whirled over the top of my head and stuck into the door-frame. It could launch buzz saws...

‘‘A buzz saw wielding zombie robot! Is this really happening?’’ I asked myself, tearing down the hall in the direction I was going before my delightful detour into the room of ‘Buttersquash’. I just had to outrun it.

More buzz saws flew over my back and into walls, turned over furniture and make-shift barricades. I thanked the Goddesses for whoever put these here, because without their cover, I would be ribbons by now.

At the end of this hallway there was a large set of double doors, but also, about sixty yards of wide open area without any cover or discarded equipment I could use in my defense. It was a straight shot all the way there, and the creature chasing me wasn’t far behind.

Another saw blade sunk into an overturned cabinet I was currently ducked behind, piercing the metal and sticking out from the distended and gaping wound mere inches from the tip of my nose. I got an idea, a crazy idea that may result in my utter evisceration, but running down that hall in the open would be a death sentence.

I tried to lift the cabinet with my Telekinesis, unicorns had that, right? The magic of their horns allowed them to lift objects. Except I didn’t know how to, and just thinking about lifting the cabinet provided no result. I opted to grab it instead, gripping the metal frame, which sagged under my heavy and thick prosthetic fingers I up-righted the cabinet and braced my back against it. The sounds of breaking glass and shuffling items inside made me wish I had time to investigate its contents.

‘’Come on, you ugly horse-apple sucking plot bandit! Your mother was a vacuum cleaner and your father was a tungsten resistor!’’ I goaded it, silently hoping it could be spurned into more rage. I noticed the cabinet shake, and a warbling cry on the other side of the cabinet.

I pushed my weight into the heavy metal cabinet and toppled it onto the creature formally known as Buttersquash, the metal doors buckling and landing onto the beast with a solemn and thick ‘WHUD’. ‘’Phew, drop something heavy on it. That’s always a solid solution.’’ I couldn’t help but laugh and then scream as a saw blade pierced the back of the cabinet. ‘’You just don’t quit!’’

Why did I feel a heavy cabinet would be enough to kill it? I had to have a serious introversive conversation with myself when I wasn’t about to die. My hooves flew across the ground beneath me in a flurry of clops and metal twangs, the doorway at the end of the hall seemed to stretch out forever. The buzz saw echoed behind me, spitting sparks into the air like a breath of dragon’s fire.

Faster, I needed to go faster, that cabinet wouldn’t hold that thing for long. The distance closed between me and the door, closer and closer I grew to it, the more and more worried I became that the creature would soon have a clear shot at my ass.

I reached the door, slamming into it, it regrettably did not budge. It was sealed. I was doomed; this was how I was going to die. The massive reinforced double doors was made of heavy metal, riveted and spot welded, bearing oppressively small windows that let scant flickers of light through.

I punched the door in anger, slamming my metal knuckles into the door, and then banged my make-shift hand into the door, trying to push it open with no result. The heart-wrenching sound of peeling metal and the gurgling, phlegm filled roars of rage made me realize I’d soon be meeting SteelGraft soon, in the afterlife.

‘Please insert card.’ – The same mechanical voice that had plagued me in my hospital room rung in my left ear like the soft voice of a sweet, haughty mare. There was a card reader to my left, caked with blood over its lens and flickering. It was small and unobtrusive.

‘’Card? Do I have an ID?’’ I asked myself numbly, before I remembered SteelGraft’s identification card slung around my neck.

‘’Oh sweetheart, I’d kiss you if you had a mouth.’’ I cooed in relief, looking to the card reader. I almost felt guilty about bashing the voice recording outside my room with a rock. I tore the card from my neck and began pressing it to the reader. The machine blared out a negative read and flashed red.

‘Card misread. Please try again or try a different card.’ The voice taunted me, playing hard to get with me, and then volunteering me to play ‘chicken’ with a buzz saw wielding undead monster. Really, I wasn’t into this brand of foreplay. I rubbed at its lens, trying to get some of the blood off before trying again.

‘Bleep’ ‘Card Misread, try again or use a different card.’ I tried spitting on the reader, with what little saliva I could work up and feverishly rubbed to loosen the scab of red film. It wouldn’t read the card, and if it didn’t read it, I was going to die. I morbidly wondered if it’d decapitate me or just split me in half, or if it’d torture me. I resolved to make it earn the right if it came to that by not making myself easy prey.

The creature formerly known as Buttersquash had finally broken free, tearing out from the cabinet and destroying it utterly in its rage-fueled dissatisfaction with the cabinets’ manufacture and use as a bludgeon against the undead. It then turned its attention towards my position, raised its left foreleg and revved the saw to a spinning frenzy of sparks. The blade left the arm with an explosive zap of crackling energy and began to close the distance.

‘Bleep’ ‘Card Misread, try again or use a different card.’ The whore of a card reader mocked me now. Did I say she sounded sweet and haughty? No, it sounded like a whorse. A dirty, filthy overpriced---‘Blip! Card Accepted. Doors Unlocking’---Reasonable, sweet, darling, wonderful card reader. I would kiss it if it had a mouth and wasn’t caked in blood.

I pushed through the doors, which gave and tumbled into the next room, my coat fluttering, my mane mashing into my only uncovered eye, and I think I bit my tongue. I spun around to slam the door shut, the sinking teeth of the metal saw making a dent bulge outwards from the door. I gave a soft sigh of relief, having narrowly escaped certain death.

I turned my back to the door, sitting down, drawing breath into my lungs. I might have been holding my breath again, during that stressful venture through the row of rooms beyond this ‘gate of death’.

I blew the bangs from my eye, reaching up to pin the scarlet strands behind one of my ears and looked about the room. This room was different from all others previous, this room looked like an adjoining ‘security checkpoint’ of some-kind. There were metal detectors standing stoically at the end of the room leading to a foyer of some-kind.

The room I was in wasn’t particularly big, only a dozen feet across, and there were inactive scanners and a set of security turrets flanking either side of the door. A single security terminal sat behind a desk to my right, and moving around it I found a body, the skeleton of what I figured had been a security guard at some point. A picture on the wall behind the desk was that of a town with happy, colorful buildings and hay-thatched roofs. I could make out from it one of the buildings had a medical symbol of a red cross on white, in the foreground of the image. A small hospital, much different from this one, I bet the floors there had been level, at least. In golden, gilded letters mounted in the frame it said;

Stable Heart Hospital
Founded in Ponyville
Director: Doctor Stable

That was quaint; it looked like it was from a long time ago, during simpler times. Where the dead stayed dead and didn’t have buzz saws and metal parts bolted to them. I looked down to the skeleton, it had an old barding, loosened from the form by decay, and looking like it had suffered damage, pierced through by rounds. There were bullet holes on the wall behind where it laid death by bullet perforation.

The barding was too damaged to be of any use to me, but what was in the holster was more my speed, a weapon. It looked like it was a type of revolver, checking it over, it was a .38 caliber revolver with four rounds in its cylinder that I checked. It had a mouth-grip for firing, and in my heavy prosthetic hands, I’d find it difficult to use. It was better than nothing. I took the holster as well, binding it over my left foreleg and slipping the gun back into its home.

The 5.56 ammunition I’d found in the hall wouldn’t work for this firearm, so I would just have to carry the magazine I’d refilled with the ammo until I came across something I could use with it. On the security desk, there was a set of terminals, their screens flickering green with the glow of operation. The logo of Stable-Tec was just above the input for the keyboard, built for hoof-use.

I raised myself so I could reach the controls, brushing the bangs from my eyes once again, I began to interact with the computer, and several lines of words told me that this was a log of all visitors or doctors that came through the security check point. It wasn’t locked, so either it was still logged in under the security user, or they never bothered to lock it. I was lucky, I didn’t know the first thing about hacking a terminal, and the extent of my knowledge had been bashing the mental evaluation machine just outside my hospital room.

‘Security Logs—Administrative Security Member Bullet Sink’
Log # 345
Log # 567
Note to Staff
Activate Turret Defense

So, there were a few logs on the current screen, and the dead security member who had died to gunfire had a most fitting name, ‘Bullet Sink’. Reflecting briefly on the wrongness of such a coincidence, I began checking the logs, starting with ‘Log #345’ and brought it up to view, reading it, it said;

‘ Visitor Log #345’
A young mare and her child came in today, to visit one of the Veterans in the intensive Care Wing. She was pleasant, but was very argumentative when we ordered her to strip off all jewelry, including the wedding ring on her horn. We explained that she couldn't enter with any foreign objects for safety reasons. I was at a loss to explain why. I need to speak with Staff over this; surely a wedding band for the horn isn’t violating our visitor permissions. I just think we’re upsetting patients with how tight security is. I put her ring in the security safe behind the desk. The code to unlock it should still be the same.

Nothing useful, a message as old as this didn’t have any value to me. The promise of whatever might be in that safe was alluring, but I suspected the ring was returned to its owner, unless she and her child perished shortly after this log was filed. I hoped they managed to escape, or that the attack happened while they were not here.

With hesitant strokes on the keyboard, I brought up the next message, Log #567, which seemed a bit more urgent than the calm one I read earlier.

‘Security Log #567’
We had a situation with a visitor earlier today. They tried sneaking something into the Veteran’s Wing, I think it was poison. The individual was detained for questioning, but remains quiet. We believe he was going to try killing one of the veterans in the intensive care unit. I’m glad we were able to catch it; the fallout from such a thing would have been disastrous for the clinic and us. We need to take good care of the ponies that gave limb and livelihood for Equestria.

I pulled back from the screen, my expression grim and my mind filled with impure thoughts of conflicting nature. I now knew I was a Veteran of War, and that wing I’d come from was the Veteran’s ICU wing. I also knew that security was incredibly tight to keep them safe. I pulled out the note I’d found on SteelGraft, looking down to the final line, ‘Expediting expiration artificially’ stood out through the smears of blood and yellow of age.

They hadn’t been good enough to protect patients from the whims of the doctors themselves. I didn’t understand why, other than saving on supplies, they’d ‘expedite’ the inevitable death of patients. And then there was ButterSquash, who was killed and tweaked on for what ends I knew little about. The more I discovered, the less I knew.

The doors to the veteran’s wing jumped as a body impacted it. I turned to see that ButterSquash had finally made it to the door and was now working on getting through it. I imagined the door was protected from tampering, but the nature of that creature would probably help it get through any obstacle to make me dead as the corpse nearby.

Out of a sense of completionist curiosity, I read the last security log, the one titled ‘Note To Staff’, figuring I had more than enough time to read the logs and find a way to block the door before the ‘patient’ managed to get through. The note read;

‘Note To Staff’
From the Desk of Dr. Stable
‘’I would like to remind all security staff that starting today, visits from family are
barred at this time, pending the investigation of the attempt of one individual on
the lives of our Veterans. Families can leave gifts, which will be held, inspected, and delivered upon clearance. Furthermore, only staff of Blue Clearance is permitted. The turrets will target those that try to enter without Identification. Let’s avoid workplace accidents, shall we?’’
Sincerely, Hospital director of Stable Heart Veterans Hospital,
Doctor Stable.

The messages were useless for the most part, except now I knew the turrets wouldn’t shoot me if I had my Identification card on me, if I was trying to enter the Wing, that is. Butter-Squash had no identification, as far as I knew, and maybe a little surprise would be healthy for my life expectancy.

I highlighted the ‘Activate Turret Defense’ and pressed the button, the turrets flanking either side of the door on the roof buzzed to life. I had to hoof it to StableTec, when they made something; it typically lasted through the abuse tossed at it. I just hoped the doors were just as durable.

I felt safer now, but didn’t want to linger much longer. I checked for what valuables I could in the desk’s drawers, a bottle of warm sparkle cola in one drawer, a dozen caps in another, which I ignored, and a small case of .38 ammo with fifteen rounds. Nineteen shots, I’d better make the rounds count. In the drawer, I found a magazine about firearms called; ‘Hoofshod Hotshots’, I stowed that away and closed the drawer.

The other terminal was locked with a password, which I didn’t know. I was ill equipped to even try hacking into it, so I glazed over it. I didn’t see the safe mentioned in the security log anywhere, and a jolt from the nearby security door spurred me to movement, ButterSquash was still trying to get through. I shouldn’t linger.

I moved from where I was around the desk, finally taking in the ambience of the musty, still place I was in. The walls were a muted, calming white, almost like an eggshell blue, but so faint I could hardly tell. It was relaxing, but its effect wasn’t strong, considering the horror waiting just outside the Veteran Wing door, I had plenty on my mind a soothing color couldn’t calm.

Moving under the lowered arch separating the security checkpoint with the waiting room and foyer, I entered a sight of carnage, juxtaposed against the calm, pleasant lighting. There were comfy chairs, sofas, and end tables, all arranged to look like a large living-room. It even had a nice television in the corner, mounted high, playing static and snowfall on its screen. Corpses sat in chairs, long dead, mouths agape and heads tilted back towards the ceiling. Perhaps they were laughing at what was on the television, yes, that’s what I told myself. I glazed over most the room, ignored the end tables covered in scorched books and preceded to the Help desk at the far right from the waiting room.

There was another body of a nurse, with hat sitting upon her head, faded, and tangled in a mass of soft auburn hair that clung into what little of her scalp remained. Not wanting to waste time, I jumped over the desk, looking for a map, a directory, or anything of value I could find. The medical supplies, if there had been any, were all gone now, and all that remained were clipboards, coffee cups that were starkly white, and paperwork on patients.

I did pause to glance at an old newspaper, ‘The Free-Cloud Press’, which had been a popular pegasus tabloid at the time, focusing on famous ponies and their lives. This one was featuring Photo-Finish, and ran the title ‘Photo Finish Finished? Turn to page 47 to find out!’ I didn’t bother with it; I was merely interested in it because it briefly stood out to me.

There it was what I had been looking for, the directory, sitting framed on the wall across the room, on a swivel sign jutting from the wall. I suppose it must have rotated or swung at some point, but had since broken down. I moved over to it, fighting the lean of the floor which wasn’t as extreme here, thankfully.

It waved there listlessly, back and forth. I grabbed it with my digits and swung it around to face me, looking at the map behind the glass. I was on the second floor Patient Ward, near the Veteran’s Wing. A little star with the exclamation ‘You Are Here’ told me so. The elevators were passed the Foyer and to the left, according to the map. There was also a stair well there, and another set of stair wells just passed the Nursery Ward where they treated foals and infants.

I studied it further, in case I needed to know anything, like the location of a storage room, or the staff lounge. I wished I could just tear the map out of the case and take it with me. Well, actually, there was nothing stopping me from doing that. I raised a foreleg and brought it down several times on the swivel sign’s jutting frame until it shattered. I took the fairly large map and rolled it up, then folded it until it was somewhat manageable.

‘’There has to be an easier way to do this.’’ I muttered, half of the map sticking out of my coat pocket. I felt ridiculous; I’d need a saddlebag or tote of some kind to make carrying things easier. At least I had the map; navigation would be a lot easier. I was also grateful I knew how to read a map.

Now to leave this place, or try to, before I end up becoming one of the decorations sitting slack-jawed staring at the tattered ceiling tiles.

‘WHAM!’ And that door probably wasn’t going to hold forever, with how badly Buttersquash wanted to get me. I only hoped the turrets would take care of him if he did manage to get in.

Leaving the Foyer behind me, I entered a smaller adjacent room where the elevators should be, only to find a large pile of collapsed walls and pillars in front of the ruined elevator doors. Of course it wouldn’t be that easy, and getting through this was going to take a lot of effort.

There was nowhere I could go except through the ruined doorway leading into the Nursery Wing, where I would probably find no less than double the dangers I had encountered in the Veteran’s Wing. If I was going to go through there, I might want to be prepared. I checked the sidearm I’d acquired from the fittingly named Security Pony ‘Bullet sink’ and spun its revolving cyclinder open. Yeah, I needed to reload, two shells down and fifteen in the box I had.

I pulled out the small box, emptied the dead cartridges and loaded fresh ones. That was fairly straight forward, the size of the weapon and its bulky ammo made it easy to grip. I referenced the magazine like it was an instruction manual, checking over the glossary for proper gun firing techniques. Glazing over the interviews, gun specs, and other things I didn’t need right now I came across what I was looking for.

It felt like a refresher more than learning something new, I felt like I was familiarizing myself with an old acquaintance. Closing the magazine after folding a couple corners for quick reference later, I felt less prepared than when I had read the magazine. It wanted me to use the mouth-guard for proper firing techniques.

‘’There’s no way I’m holding this in my mouth.’’ I spoke to myself dryly, looking to the mouth-grip dejectedly. Curiosity, one of my flaws leads me to at least try biting down on the guard, to identify the tongue trigger. ‘’Hah Rahm ah surrasta tralk vriff disss?’’ I mumbled in frustration, my numb tongue was hard to keep track of, and I managed to fire off a round into one of the walls, just under a poster for the Ministry of Peace.

The poster of the butter colored mare stared back at me accusingly, and here I was steaming gun hanging from my mouth. I felt guilty for some reason, like I’d just done something horrible. The poster was tattered and worn, but it’s message was clear. The mare stared out with a sincere yet tired smile, below in bold letters it said;

‘Remember The Equitarian Oath’

I had no idea what it was, but it must have been important, oaths always were. The mare with the pink mane and lovely yellow pelt made me feel guilty for nearly putting a round in the poster itself. At the same time I felt like she would have forgiven me.

Okay, I was crazy, certifiable. I was getting emotional over an old poster of some mare I’d never met and probably would never meet. For all I knew, she was dead and the world had ended and the outside was populated by giant, violent leeches and dangerous oversized dust mites in little pirate hats that sailed the skies in dirigibles. I had a very active imagination.

‘’Did you hear that?’’ A gruff voice from the Nursery Ward, beyond the door, a voice, the voice of a pony, oh Praise Celestia’s Sun and the stars above.

‘’Yes, a gunshot, how could I not hear that?’’ Another voice, further inside the Nursery. This voice belonged to a mare, and had a thick, rough beat to it. Two ponies, what luck I had to found two ponies in this personal hell.

I pulled the gun from my mouth and holstered it, eagerly plodding through the door to the source of the voices. The drywall to my left exploded off the wall in a shower of gunfire before I could even open my mouth in greeting, and I threw myself to the ground as a door sailed overhead, torn asunder by the blast of a high powered shotgun.

‘’We got a live one!’’ Shouted the stallion, ‘’Not for long though!’’ He sounded far too happy about finding me a target for his murder fantasy for my liking.

My ears rung like a bell, tolling in loud peals of ringing over the dry riverbed of my sanity. I rolled over, gazing up through the gaping doorway to my left where the stallion who nearly beheaded me with his shotgun stood.

A green earth stallion with the scent of a thousand asses wearing cobbled together armor that was protective only in the loosest term applicable. He was wearing a short barreled gun on a saddle-mount, his mad, beady eyes piercing the floating haze of dirt and fluttering papers at me, licking his yellow, jagged teeth dripping with saliva as if he were a venomous viper.

‘’It doesn’t seem to be one of those flesh-eaters, does it?’’ Called the voice of the mare down the hall, a wispy, thin pale-yellow unicorn mare wearing similar armor to the stallion peering down at me. Her flavor of mane-style was a greased up black mohawk, as if she had stuck her head into the service pool under the dry dock of a dirigible and slicked her mane up with the black sludge left over from a fluid change. Her way of speech didn’t match her appearance.

Rolling over, I coughed dryly, peeling a piece of discarded paper off my face that had become stuck there after I had thrown myself down. Reaching for my piece, I was swiftly reminded of my situation with a double barreled load of love pressing against my forehead, just under my horn, the metal of the barrel scratching against the nut affixing the horn to my head.

‘’Oh, sorry pretty boy, no heroics, and maybe I won’t shove this shotty under your tail and pump it into your unmentionables.’’ He spat, a spray of vile saliva spraying over my face. I obliged begrudgingly and moved my prosthetic hand from my holster.

‘’There’s a good boy! I keep my promises, I’ll make this quick for yah!’’ He kicked a lever and I heard the gun click and expend a double set of shells, still smoking and a new set rotate into place. ‘’It might not hurt as bad...’’ His eyes drifted to my chest, eyeing the medical instruments sticking out and with malicious glee he began stomping his hoof up and down.

It should have hurt, I should have been in agony, but whatever I had been pumped full of had kept me from feeling anything but the pressure and odd twisting sensation—Then it hit something else and pain lanced up my spine. I grit my teeth and red began oozing past my lips, but I didn’t scream, for as alien this pain was I wouldn’t give this sadistic fuck that pleasure.

He was stomping on me for what felt like an eternity where I was the dough in some sick pizza parlor of his horribly misguided childhood dream of joining the circus. The thoughts in my mind were consumed with the deep desire and urge to strangle him with his own intestinal tract and dangle him from the ceiling like a piñata.

The mare approached, watching it with contained amusement, pushing a discarded wheelchair over as she trudged passed it. The lighting flickered overhead, leaving only the scant traces of light filtering in through windows in one of the adjoining rooms.

“You take too much pleasure in this.” She rolled her eyes, cocking the lever on her rifle to drop a few rounds onto the ground, spent. “Just end it swiftly, spare the theatrics, Curbstomp.” Surely, she wanted him to kill me swiftly only to end the torture this brute was putting me through, a bemusing thought. It seemed the stallion stomping on me was named Curbstomp--What an odd name for a pony, perhaps it reflected the nature of their attitudes. Maybe the yellow mare was named ‘Yeast Infection’.

Curbstomp did what his name implied, stomping a final time over the surgical tools and cracking a few more of my ribs and embedding them inside further, a sick gurgle expelled from my lips. ‘’Fine. Can’t blame a guy for havin’ fun, bitch.’’ He began swiveling the gun back to center on my forehead.

The mare looked displeased by such words, her upper lip curling and flying out liberally as she exhaled hard. ‘’We must subscribe to different venues for our fun. Killing first and asking questions later hasn't earned you anything but a foul reputation.’’

‘’It earns me plenty of what I want. I just want his shit and a trophy off his corpse, like that damn horn!’’ He wanted to wrench my horn off after he killed me.

I felt a rush of anger directed at this wretched pony, I hadn’t even gotten one word out to them and he was just going to murder me? Any reservation I ever had against enacting violence upon these one faded in a shade of boiling red. I grabbed one of the surgical tools from my chest and ripped it out, sinking it into Curbstomp’s shoulder and pushing the shotgun away from me and into the floor—The double shell burst put a hole into the already weakened floor and kicked up debris.

Curbstomp screamed, blood oozing from where the long set of sharpened forceps had been jammed, and I consumed a bit of pleasure from his pained cry. For as much as I ‘enjoyed’ being his floormat, I preferred making him feel something jamming into his body.

Before the mare could react I’d already pushed myself up, spun around the stallion named Curbstomp and had my .38 special drawn and pressed against the side of his head in an awkward manner, holding it in my prosthetic digits—The mouth-grip wasn’t designed for Hoof...Hand things.

The mare reacted as well as I thought she would, with aggression, her rifle moving to center on my head. I primed the revolver and the hammer cocked back. ‘’One move and I’ll turn his head into a centerpiece.’’ I growled to her.

‘’Oh please, won't you allow me the pleasure?’’ Countered the mare unexpectedly, ‘’More for me since I won’t have to split my earnings with a waste of life like him.’’ I had to agree with her, this earth stallion didn't have very many redeeming qualities to speak of.

‘’Don’t fuck with me, Gangrene! I ain’t wantin’ to be skullfucked by maggots!’’ Curbstomp so eloquently put it; death would certainly be a lot of worm-corpse fuckery. He was terrified of the prospect, which made my position feel all more powerful. I didn’t feel ready to just end his life, but neither of them knew my reservations on that matter.

Gangrene? That was her name? Fitting, it seemed I wasn't too far off in my guess, both were nasty infections. ‘Gangrene’ as the mare was called, looked me up and down, licking her lips with a type of predatory hunger I’d attribute to vicious forest fauna. Her eyes caught the identification card around my neck, and she took in the coat I was wearing. I could almost hear the gears turning in her head. ‘‘You’re one of the doctors?’’ She asked, my thin disguise was more than enough to fool her, ‘’I must say, you’re pretty well preserved for a corpse.’’ Her warm brown eyes rolled up and down over what she could see behind the smelly wall of stallion I was taking cover behind, as if appreciating a work of art.

‘’I’ll make sure to give you the same compliment after I skull-bugger your brainpan with some .38 love, then.’’ My silver tongued retort seemed to take her off-guard, and her eyes widened. ‘’I have a medical degree in bullet perforation, I could show you my credentials but I left them in my office.’’

Then, she laughed, tilting her rifle down, ‘’Tough as hard-tack and funny. Guess you ghouls survive so long for a reason. A gentle hoof ain't one of them.’’ She visibly relaxed, wearing a smile that bordered on unsettling and charming. Was that respect? Respect between a predator and what she felt was an equally dangerous predator.

I didn't lower my guard, pressing the barrel firmly to the base of Curbstomp’s skull, he whinnied out his displeasure and begged in plaintiff little cries. ‘’Can we be civil, or will I have to begin creating my own patients? And swiftly discharging them to the morgue.’’ I was grim, Curbstomp didn't like how serious I sounded. His body was as stiff as death.

’We kin be civil! Honest!’’ Curbstomp sputtered, his eyes brimming with tears, ‘’Right, Gangrene?’’

The yellow mare contemplated Curbstomp’s worth mulling it over and tapping the butt of her rifle against her flank a few times. She hummed a gravely tune and came up with her answer, ‘’Actually, I have an idea that just might be worth your time. We’ll leave your hospital and you in peace if you can help us get the drugs and goods we’re after. Your life and Curbstomp’s gun as an added bonus for your time, he won’t mind too much, permitting neither of us shoot him for being a moron.’’

‘’But I’m using the gun!’’ Curbstomp stammered inimically. He shifted and gave Gangrene a wholly disapproving look, ‘’Just shoot him already! Come on, your gun was pointin’ at him and everything, you fucking traitor!’’

‘’A coward like you has no use for that shotty if you refuse to use it smartly. I do not trust you to not blast our new business partner when his is back turned. He worked here, and that means he knows how to get the goods.’’ Gangrene seemed reasonable; I almost felt some sense of relief that she was comparably sane, if not business savvy for someone dressed for anything but success.

I began to lose interest in killing Curbstomp, partly out of pity, and partly because I wanted to not be so close to him any longer. He reeked, and his pelt was as repulsive as the thought of licking the floor in the ward hall we stood in. ‘’Deal. Take off your gun, Curbstomp. Maybe if you behave, I won’t make use of my doctorate on you with it.’’

Begrudgingly, Curbstomp stripped out of his battle-saddle and stood there, feeling naked. I removed the revolver from the base of his skull and he seemed relieved, but his eyes cast longingly at his weapon’s harness. ‘’There, fuckin’ ghoul. You kin have it, just ‘slong as you make with the goods like Gangrene says.’’

I hesitated to holster my weapon, my eyes trained on the pale yellow unicorn with the sharp eyes. There was a near mystifying strength in her, one that screamed that she was all about business. I thought I could trust her while she believed I knew things she wanted to know.

‘’So, you’re after the storage room, I take it?’’ I asked pointedly.

‘’If that’s the place that hasn’t been cleaned out, then yes,’’ The unicorn mare replied, scratching her ass with the duct taped edge stock of her lever action rifle, ‘’I just don’t want to run into none of those feral ghouls. They take an ass-load of ammo to kill. And there worst kinds of them here.’’

I figured what she was talking about was one of the things I left back in the Veteran’s Ward; there were more of those things. It was like it was my birthday, except instead of presents, every box was filled with a nightmare made material. I didn’t know what ghouls were, not exactly, but that dead thing that moved was probably it.

The two would-be tormentors had called me one too. Perish the thought that I was anything like Buttersquash, I didn’t launch killer buzz saws or murder doctors like SteelGraft. I pressed my lips together tightly and reached over, dragging the harness and shotgun towards me. I slung it over my back, having no idea how to actually put it on.

The lights flickered again; the panels covering the lighting fixtures were cracked and filled with a layer of dust and dead insects. Several had gone out forever, and some were stubbornly holding onto their light. I trotted into the room that Curbstomp had tried to behead me from and found a counter, clearing the left over wrappers and trash from atop it to roll out my map. The room was a delivery room, and had a skeleton on the metal table, padded with a torn and decayed foam cover. If you counted the infant skeleton resting in pieces over its mother’s spine there were two bodies.

Behind me, Gangrene was helping the injured stallion pull the medical instrument from his shoulder, and a scream of pain delighted my ears, I hoped that it hurt as much as possible. ‘’Oh, don’t be such a pansy, baldy. You’ll live.’’ Gangrene cooed to him viciously. I was beginning to like her, so far she was the only thing that hadn’t tried killing me yet. That and she was making Curbstomp feel pain. I still felt uneasy around them, but while I was needed, I had security.

The scream had traveled far in the halls, as did all the gunfire earlier. The yellow mare had spoken of other hostiles, and I hoped they’d not be attracted to us, though a darker part of me fancied the idea of introducing them to the horrors of the Veteran’s Ward.

Light filtering in through a dirty cracked window allowed me to make out what I needed on the map, the route we’d have to take to get to the store room and a route to leave this hellhole once my part of the bargain was over.

‘’Hey, that’s a neat map.’’ Gangrene had slipped into the room and was close beside me, looking it over, her brow knitted tightly together, she couldn’t make out where she was on it, or which floor to even look at, ‘’Any idea where we are?’’ Genuine as she was, I grimaced, her proximity wasn’t welcome, and the contact against my side was unpleasant.

A short flicker of something dashed through my mind, a word on the tip of my tongued devoured and swallowed before I could speak, disjointedly I spoke, ‘’You never learned how to read a map?’’

The mare shook her head silently.

I pointed to the room we were in with a heavy digit that reflected the light with dull sheen. I then traced down the hall to the end of the ward, and right along another passage and back along another hallway to where the storage room was, plainly written as ‘Storage Room’. ‘’We’re here and we need to go there.’’ I stated with certainty.

The pale yellow unicorn nodded numbly, unable to read the map, so she simply believed me. ‘’Right, and when we get there, you can let us in and we get our goods, right? No funny business?’’ Her ear flicked, catching my attention. I briefly considered she was keeping the worst company, she felt ill-matched standing next to the green earth stallion given her personality.

‘’As little as possible,’’ I assured quickly, brushing the bangs from my eyes, it was hard to see through tufts of hair dangling over my brow all the time. ‘’You checked this area for ‘supplies’ already, I take it?’’ Trying to sound as educated as possible to pull off my appearance as a doctor here, I was certain I could almost pull off the necessary amounts of patient murder.

‘’We just got here, ran into a few ghouls...You showing up has been the highlight so far.’’ A hot snort went directly against my ear, she was unbearably close to me, and a few drops of machine grease fell onto my map as she leaned over me. ‘’Also, lovecorpse, watch your ass, I’ll be watching you. Keeping that moron in line is hard enough without trusting somepony I just met,’’ she purred, venomous, seductive, and terrifying all in one single sentence.

I was repulsed by her advances, but I didn’t show it. I rolled up the map and stowed it away, ‘’Just keep your gun aimed elsewhere.’’ I muttered, moving towards the doorway.

‘’What do I call you?’’ She asked suddenly. She cut off my path to the doorway by moving her rifle in front of me horizontally like a gate, held in the grasp of her telekinetic field. She began herding me back towards her, trying to rake me in with her rifle.

I moved back to her, not wanting to resist. I couldn’t deny the fact she was interesting, and was deeper than the simple idiot that had used my chest as a single hoof trampoline. ‘’I want to know your name first.’’ I demanded.

She liked that, I thought, by the way she smiled, a wide, unpleasant and unsettling curve. ‘’Well, you heard moron and I say our names, but a proper introduction is in order. I’m Gangrene, Viper Gang member, the moron outside is Curbstomp.’’ She leered, that smile never breaking, ‘’And you are--?’’

Looking down to the Identification card around my neck, and at the name on the shaped plastic, I held it before my eyes, ‘’Doctor SteelGraft.’’ I recited begrudgingly, giving a soft snort. I didn’t like that name, but it was all I could use. I could have used the unfortunately named security Officer’s name, Bullet Sink, but I didn’t want to follow in that aptly named stallion’s hoofsteps.

‘’The name seems to fit, sort of. What are you a doctor of?’’ Her voice was pointed, like a direct and probing drill into my personal life. I was feeling more and more exposed.

‘’Uhm, the Perforatorial field. It’s not an exact science. We treat...Holes.’’ I was certain that was a doctory thing to...Doctor. I had no idea about a single thing about the field of medical aide, but I wasn’t about to reveal that information. I wanted to get this over with. Gangrene seemed to be intensely interested in me for some reason. I hoped it was platonic, because she wasn’t my type. Or maybe she was, I felt fairly new to these advances, though my interactions with her felt wholly natural.

‘’Oh, that field seems big. I mean, there are a lot of holes that could be doctored,’’ she purred.

My level of comfort dropped like a rock sinking in a lake and I suddenly wished to be back in the Veteran Wing, hugging Buttersquash for the end he’d grant me. Instead, I smoothly replied, ‘’I specialize in holes made by bullets. And making those holes.’’ I hoped that would put an immediate end to this conversation.

The mare pulled her rifle up and trailed it back to her, ‘’Good, that skill will certainly come in handy. I’m glad you know how to use that revolver. Just don’t get yourself killed. And sorry about Curbstomp, he’s a moron, but you won’t have to deal with him long.’’ There was truth to that, I hoped.

‘’Guys, you fuckin’ done makin out in there, we got movement out here!’’ The green wall of meat wailed from the hallway, backing up into the room to join us. His ass wasn’t a pleasant thing to have blocking a doorway.

Down the hall I saw what appeared to be bodies with fleshy clumps hanging from tattered forms, trailing strands of rotten viscera. One was wearing a nurse hat, lop-sided on its head. Beady little eyes that were the pits of despair, gaping and hollow, milky white and dry stared at us. They recalled a pack of rats, the flickering lighting down the ruptured, tilting hall casting them in an unnaturally unnecessary addition to the horror they created in me. Thankfully, there were no buzz saws to be had on any of these wretches from what I saw.

Without hesitation, Gangrene leveled her rifle and unloaded a round, cocking the lever to fire again, and unloading successive shots as quickly as possible into the approaching horde. With another hoof, she pushed Curbstomp towards the door, ‘’Get the fuck out there and slow them down! We can’t stay in this deathtrap!’’

The moment Curbstomp was out the door, sputtering his utter disapproval of such a plan, he was blindsided from the left by a rotten husk and taken to the ground. He cried out, trying to push the ghoul off of him. I drew my revolver and sent a few rounds into the creature’s side to no avail. The stallion screamed as the ghoul began to tear a chunk out of his foreleg.

The ghouls rushed in, the smell of blood having been a dinner-bell to them, and tried to get an opening at Curbstomp, who could do nothing but scream in abject terror. They were trying to eat him, and he was trying to avoid that grisly fate. The pale-yellow unicorn continued to unload her rifle into the group, teeth exposed in a fierce snarl.

‘’Ahhh! Help me, Ah f-fuck help me!’’ The mad stallion cried, crossing his legs over his body defensively, one ghoul sought out the side of his face and bit down, tearing a strip from his cheek and jowl, chunks were missing out of him, and some of the ‘meat’ was passing through the mouths of the ghouls and dropping from their torn open bellies.

I grabbed the shotgun from the saddle-mount and tore it off, taking aim over the group and leveling them with a fierce roar of buckshot, splintering one ghoul above the head, its tongue flailing at the air in a spray of sickly juice and skull matter, it slumped over motionless.

‘’We need to go, come on!’’ The unicorn tugged on my coat with a hoof, ‘’Once they’re done with him, we’re next!’’

‘’But he’s still alive!’’ I argued, firing another shotgun blast into the group, felling two of the ghouls that had began piling upon the unfortunate victim. I felt pity, regret, and suddenly, rage. I didn’t know who I was, but I knew for certain I wouldn’t let someone die in such a horrible way. Even if they had wronged me like that screaming, flailing smelly bastard had.

‘’He’s already dead! There’s no way we can save him! Let’s just get out of here!’’ Gangrene screamed at me between shots with her rifle, taking out a new advancing ghoul that had come tearing down the hall towards our ‘haven’.

I threw the empty shotgun down, and possessed by thoughts not my own, I selected the heavy metal table of the delivery room as a weapon, tore it from its mountings and spun, releasing it towards the doorway with as much force as I could. The staples darting along my body strained and several tore. The table broke through the frame of the doorway and leveled the group like the flat edge of a massive hammer.

Not breaking stride, not even thinking, I grabbed hold of Curbstomb’s bleeding form and skid him behind me into the delivery room to Gangrene. The floor had begun to sag, the heavy table having bounced where the earth stallion’s shotgun had weakened a section of the floor.

Gangrene was gaping; having just seen what she thought was merely a hard ass doctor throw a metal table like an unorthodox bludgeon. She shook her head swiftly, ‘’Fine, you take care of those fucks. I’ll take care of this wounded asshole! You better not die.’’

No, I wasn't going to die. I was going to take out all my aggression on these horrid creatures, the still twitching husks began to get up and lurch after me. I readied myself, drawing my .38 from its home again and struggling to load it with a new set of shells. ‘What is your name?’ ‘What is your name?’ Echoed in my mind numbingly without answer, I didn't care who I was. I leveled my weapon and fired.

Oh, here we go! This is simply magical--Please refer to this below for the character tracker;
Chapter 1 Progress

Chapter 2: Fast-Friendship

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"Fast-Friendship"
Safety in numbers greater than one.

Everything I learned had turned my mind into a quagmire of ills, awoken to a world lacking altruism or any basic form of kindness that I could find. The closest I could ascribe as kindness was an act delivered to the mortally wounded green stallion in the form of a bullet from his companion Gangrene.

The ghouls had been a challenge, but they weren’t anywhere near as difficult as I expected them to be. Each one was felled with a few hoof strikes or a few rounds to the skull from my .38 revolver. Coated in filth and sick that decorated my once white pelt, my bandages were equally soaked, loose and heavy with bodily fluids. Having been referred to as a ghoul by the mare I had begrudgingly agreed to help, I felt it imperative to have no association with these flesh eating bastards. I was better than these things, I was still a pony. I was still a pony, alive and thinking.

Gangrene, a pale yellow grungy mare I had the displeasure of meeting under these circumstances, was taking choice parts of the armor from the freshly dead stallion in order to repair her own barding. Her armor looked like a puzzle of license plates from carriages, strips of cans riveted together, hunks of tire rubber, and a stop sign that had been beaten and reshaped to cover her left flank completely. The parts she was taking from Curbstomp filled in the rest of her armor, she took the heavily reinforced hoofball shoulder pads that had brutal and bloody railroad spikes jutting from the right shoulder.

After she was done, she began picking through his personal goods, electing what she would take or find useful. I hadn’t spoken since she killed the stallion while I had been finishing the last of the ghouls. "Look," she said in a soft manner, "you did more for him than I would have. There was nothing you could have done, we didn’t have enough supply to treat him. He was already dead."

The irony was that we were in a hospital, where healing should have been a focus, instead we had biters to deal with. I really didn’t like Curbstomp, he’d tried killing me the second he caught sight of me, but I felt guilty. Not that I couldn’t save him, but because I was glad he was dead. A strange sense of strength had filled me when he had died and to some extent with every ghoul that perished.

Discovering myself wasn’t very fun when I found things I didn’t like, and death was definitely not on the list of things I enjoyed. Or, was it more appropriate to say I shouldn’t enjoy that? It felt natural to get a rush or a thrill when someone that had wronged me expired. Dismissing these darker thought, I considered what I liked in the world outside of Necro-Net. This list was unsurprisingly short since I had only been awake for a few hours at most. The list was as followed;

Number 1.) Being alive.
Number 2.) Not being eaten, cut to bits and/or shot.
Number 3.) Inflicting bodily harm on vile, murderous abominations.

In summary, most of what I enjoyed was related with the first thing on my list, which was ‘Being alive’, which involved not allowing the mentioned things in Number Two to happen, and doing copious amounts of Number Three. It seemed fairly straight forward, and I’d have to update that list each time I found something I liked, it was a welcome distraction in this setting. There was no way everything could be as horrible as this hospital. I was sure of this.

I sat at the counter in the delivery room, in contemplation of things that came to pass, pretending to read the map while the pale unicorn finished her task of pilfering what items the green stallion had owned...before he’d been partially chewed and granted a coup de grace. He probably had very little, his battle saddle and shotgun were now mine, on loan from Gangrene.

"Alright, that’s all he had," the mare muttered, "you want his saddlebag?" Her offer was tempting, but its repulsive smell made me want to roll around in a bath of bleach for hours. I held out my foreleg, metal fingers flexing for it without turning my eyes in her direction. Looking at the greasy, sweaty sack would likely make me turn down the offer when I had no alternative.

"Shouldn’t we bury him or something?" It was like speaking a foreign language, kindness to the dead stallion that would have made me the likeness of his cutie mark, a bright and cheerful image of a crushed skull under hoof. A foalish suggestion, but he wasn’t like the bodies laying around the hospital like Nightmare Night decorations. Curbstomp had been alive just minutes ago, screaming, kicking, crying, and flailing around in desperation to survive.

"Bury him where? We’re in a building. It won’t do him any good. I’m not dragging his body out of here. Unless you feel like doing it, then he’s just going to rot here." She pointed a hoof to the ghouls I had dismembered not fifteen minutes ago, "Do you want to bury those too? Don’t be so sentimental, Doc. Now, do you want his saddle bag?" She was levitating the offered bag towards me while backing up at the same time, "Nothing could smell worse than his ugly ass. Except this rut sack." Didn’t she mean rucksack?

She was right on both accounts-- it was not practical to drag along a body and that sack looked like it had been loved too much by the filthy stallion. I was being sentimental to the dead. There was no way I’d be sentimental about this rucksack though. I was getting rid of it the first chance I got.

"Sure," with no alternatives, I needed something to carry supply; the pockets of my now soaked blood red doctor’s coat weren’t big enough to carry everything. With some effort and help from Gangrene, I was sporting the battle saddle over my coat as a harness and the saddlebag was on the side adjacent the shotgun’s mount. It was a cumbersome arrangement, but I bore it with little difficulty.

Now I had a saddle bag, it weighed a thousand pounds of disgusting and I could still smell that stench of ass all over it, unwashed and greasy as it’s owner had been. I didn’t think anything could smell worse. The only thing that could compare was what Curbstomp’s body would smell like once it began rotting. I folded my map away and stowed all my belongings into the saddlebag. The bag made a squelching sound, as if I’d just stuck my whole hoof into a jar of sour mayonnaise. I felt so dirty.

"Have you ever used a battle saddle?" The mare asked, tugging a strap around my flank and under my short red tail to hook it into the appropriate buckle. She wrinkled her nose and backed away at the fierce musk that stabbed her senses until her eyes watered, "You just stay down wind of me..."

"No, but it shouldn’t be too hard, right?" I patted the harness and withdrew my fingers which shimmered with a layer of grease blood. I offered a weak, wholly unreassuring smile. "I’ll get the hang of these lever things eventually. And I’m burning this saddle bag once I get a new one."

"Well I was under the assumption you were just mounting the saddle bags, you’re a unicorn, why not use your magic?" Her words were a chalk board grinding with a rake on my mind. I cringed visibly, laughing. If she thought I could use magic, why had she helped me put on the battle saddle in the first place? Oh, right, because I had no idea how to put a battle saddle on.

"I’m under heavy medication at the moment, my horn’s not working until it wears off." Whatever it was, it was long lasting and quite possibly a steroid of some kind judging by the strength I possessed. That made sense to me, it was plausible!

Gangrene slicked up her mane and straightened it to stand perfectly upright, "I hope you can direct me to some of that, it sounds like some strong medicine. It’s like Stampede, Buck, and Med-X in one package, given with how you handled those ghouls." She stamped a hoof, laughing softly; she seemed to be relaxed despite losing her companion just recently. This set me on edge. Or maybe it was the fact her mohawk reminded me of a buzz saw?

I had no idea what any of those drugs were, I was probably the worst fake doctor ever to practice malpractice semi-professionally. Party clowns were possibly more qualified. No, they were definitely more qualified to be doctors than I was. I laughed, the thought of a clown doctor was absurd enough to make my mood brighten.

"We need to get going, SteelGraft." Gangrene asserted, tapping a hoof to the outside of the doorway as she strolled out, taking a left turn down the hall. I skirted around the fresh corpse in the middle of the room, hopped over the still remains of the slain ghouls, and followed her dutifully.

The Nursery Ward was more open than the previous ward I had seen, and even had windows facing outside in the rooms we passed, letting light from outside trickle in to alleviate the darkness when the lights flickered or failed. The windows were too caked with dirt to see very many details outside. The buildings outside were all black silhouettes against the dim light filtered through a cloudy sky.

We were following the pitch of the building’s floor down, which was a steady slope at roughly a twenty-five degree angle. It wasn’t all that extreme. A bedpan disturbed by my hooves rolled down the hall and clanged off one of Gangrene’s dirty back hooves. She jumped and shot a glare over her shoulder at me and stomped on the bedpan to make it still.

"You trying to attract more ghouls?" She hissed between her teeth, "Not that I don’t doubt we’d handle them, it’s best to avoid trouble when I’m in front!" This completely sane advice was accepted with a blank and silent nod. She turned back to the hallway, trying to move in an alert and cautious manner. She was quiet, despite her armor rustling, and was far more silent than me. I may as well been following her playing an array of ten instruments in comparison to her.

She was better at sneaking and careful movements. I may be able to move quickly to avoid a buzz saw or other threats, but delicacy wasn’t built for metal hooves on a hard surfaced environment. "You know, I’m going to guess that we attracted everything on this floor with the loudness earlier and everything we need to worry about is pretty dead." I just wanted to stop trying to sneak, it wasn’t working for me. "You could let me lead if you don’t want to be at the front."

"Is that your professional opinion?" The mare asked, casting a glance over her shoulder towards me. She stopped and stepped to the side, giving me more than enough room to pass her, "Go on, you know the way."

I passed her and shrugged, now leading the way down the ward hall, "Yes, I prescribe about 20% less sneaking and 50 CCs of less caution and bed rest for a week." The beds in the rooms we traveled by were less than stellar for bed rest, so I was suggesting we find a place where the beds weren’t occupied by skeletons.

Gangrene agreed, taking in a breath that sounded more like an inward sigh, "Yeah. You’re probably right. I just don’t want to end up like that moron." She relented, giving a shrug. "What I wouldn’t give for a week of sleep, I’d love to just laze around. This gets too much for me."

We continued along the ward hall, coming up on the nursery where they kept newborns, the walls were covered in patches of ice, so were the floors. Our breath came out as hot steam curling in plumes of cold white smoke between our lips--It was freezing here. Gangrene learned how slippery the floors were the hard way, she lost traction and slipped, knocking over a small medical table covered in tools. She latched onto me for balance, nervously chuckling.

"Wow, good thing you’re sturdy---" She had barely finished that final word in time, swiftly I gracefully joined her in a jumble on the floor and began sliding down the hall at a lazy speed. Bracing a rear hoof against an open doorway and discarded table I managed to stop us.

She didn’t laugh, so I did, a snort moving into a chuckle. The mare held back a laugh behind her lips, cheeks distended with the hot, rich air of laughter or a stream of hot curses. A soft jab in her side from a mechanical digit caused it to explode out into a forced giggle. She snorted and glared at me.

"That wasn’t funny, I don’t like being tickled." She whinnied plaintively, trying to untangle herself from me. Succeeding in unspooling her limbs from the snarl we had become, she looked around the hallway, noticing the ice build up. "It’s like a refrigerator in here. A working one at that." Was a working refrigerator all that surprising? Well, in this place, perhaps it would be.

The muscles under Gangrene’s pelt flicked, and she was beginning to shiver. Her breath came out in rolling, stuttered huffs. Her lips were starting to turn blue, and I thought briefly that her greasy black mohawk would begin trailing icicles. "I hate the cold..." She rasped huskily.

My fate was to get stuck to the floor, the blood soaked into my pelt and fabric of the bandages meshing into the patch of ice and forming a bond. My wrappings and the flesh beneath it clung stubbornly, stretched, and another staple snapped from the sutures holding my midsection’s wounds together and became a projectile that bounced off a nearby wall. I grit my teeth, hissing, "Shit! Gangrene, I’m stuck."

The look she gave me was as if she’d been struck with a trout that then insulted her ancestry. "What do you mean stuck?" She returned my statement with a question, one with a very obvious answer.

I wanted to be sarcastic, but I had no jokes prepared for when I got frozen to the floor. I rolled my single eye and searched for an explanation that didn’t involve insulting her intelligence. "I’m soaked in blood and it froze! I can’t get up without tearing my stitches." I hoped she’d understand and find some method of peeling me free; instead, she stared at me like I was speaking a language she did not understand, her brow arching on one side.

"Well, what am I supposed to do? You can just...I don’t know, tear a piece of the floor up?" She was shivering harder now, blinking a few times, "Why is it so cold here?" She dourly nickered, looking around for the source. She became still, her eyes reflecting a source of light that glowed. She returned her gaze to me, "It’s best you see this." She seemed eager.

"I’m preoccupied..." I tried squirming, the patented spitting and rubbing that I used on the card reader earlier only got me more hopelessly stuck. I pressed my nose to the floor, grumbling, only to realize soon after my mane was now frozen to the floor as well. This was the worst day ever. The first day I can remember, and I was going to spend it frozen to the floor covered in gore from a vast horde of ghouls I had slain. I had to have been incredibly cruel to puppies in a previous life to deserve this karmic retribution.

"Wait," Gangrene began, a smile cresting over her lips, "I’ve got an idea. We just need something warm." In this frigid part of the clinic, I ventured to say nothing was warm. Everything was likely to be frozen. Even the junk laying around was suspended in a gelid growth of frost build up.

"Where are we going to get something warm before---" I stopped speaking, my single eye rolling up to follow the pale yellow punk unicorn position herself over me, flagging her tail and flicking the short, frayed grease-trap to the side.

"What are you---"

Did I recall being horrible to puppies in a previous life? Well, to deserve what had just happened to me, I must have beaten foals /with/ puppies. Only the ultimate acts of evil could warrant the hot, steaming, completely unnecessary shower I had just received. I stood next to the unicorn mare who seemed quite proud of herself. What fluids I was dripping was still steaming with heat in the icy air.

We were peering into the ice-caked window of the infant’s nursery room. The nursery had a large viewing window, nearly the length of the rest of the hall, with thick layers of ice build-up. After a bit of scraping, we’d managed to get a decent look inside, and wished we hadn’t. There were large tanks, some toppled, snaking tubes filled with super-chilled fluid, and mechanical monitors mounted on each individual little chamber bearing a single foal in rows. The vital monitor on each infant read null, but every corpse was perfectly preserved. This was the source of the extreme temperature drop. A broken stasis chamber made to protect a generation from the fall. They’d been in stasis too long and the system failed, deep freezing them.

"So they ice-boxed the entire nursery. You doctors here sure know how to make a place look inviting, and your bedside manner was pretty good, all things considered." Gangrene was far too amused about the current subject at hoof. We were looking into a freezer room filled with rows of pony infants, all still and stiff, and I somehow smelled worse than when I first donned Curbstomp’s saddlebag.

"I didn’t do this," with an assertive growl I turned away from the haunting image of the countless tiny bodies, a brief flicker of regret and a hot flash of memory dashing across my mind. The room spun away for a brief second, I heard the laughter of foals, and a mare’s breath against my cheek, "I’m pregnant." she said to me, voice beaming with pride.

The world returned to me and I stumbled, my guts wrenching and doing curls in my belly. I reached over to steady myself against the wall, putting a slash of ‘claw’ marks on the layer of ice as my foreleg trailed down. I looked to the rows upon rows of restful infants. That was my memory. I was going to be a father? Was I a father? My pupil shrank and my heart fell into my bowels. I hoped it was just a nightmare, that my little lapse from reality was a side-effect of whatever drugs I had been on. "Popsifoals..." I grunted softly, laughing under my breath. "This is ridiculous, isn’t it? They almost look alive." Those babies could spring to life any moment and I wouldn’t be too surprised.

"Whoa, easy there SteelGraft!" Gangrene had moved to support me, wrapping her telekinetic grip against my side making sure I didn’t fall over, "You fall over and get stuck, we might have to wait awhile until I need to take a leak." She was shivering, more violently now. She was miserable, her teeth chattering. "Let’s get out of here before we join those kids and become part of the decor, huh?" She moved passed, brushing her side along mine and swatting me with a flick of her tail. "Come on, before your dick gets stuck to the floor."

The sincerity of my ‘ally’ was called into question, seeing as she had shot her own friend she had brought in with her. I had reason to believe I was just a resource for the time while I was useful. Empowered with the craving of a less freezing environment, I followed; distancing myself from the newest horrible nightmare made material.

Maybe if I closed my eye I could avoid seeing so much horrible, heartbreaking, saddening things? If I found more bandages I briefly considered binding my exposed eye shut. Yes, I would be blind, and with it, my life expectancy would plummet but perish the thought I might actually be briefly happy before an inevitable pit trap robbed me of what little sensations remained.

Following the remains of the ice patched hallway, walls covered in posters preserved under formations of ice and doorways completely iced over we approached the end of the building. There was a fractured wall with large chunks missing exposing a sheer drop into a chasm with sharp rubble mangled into gnarled teeth. The elevator shaft was a doorway into the vacant, tattered remains of the city outside, towering, leaning tombstones of old multi story buildings scraped the dark, oppressive skyline of smog and green haze. A subway train had run up from the ground, which was what probably had cleaved the building’s outer wall. There was no getting down to the first floor from this stairwell; it had collapsed into the long dead burnt black landscaping below.

What the buck happened? It wasn’t just the hospital that was wrecked, but the entire city was in ruins. It was like a massive explosion had scorched everything, leaving only charred remains of buildings to stand solemnly against a perpetually dim layer of smog. The forty foot drop into jagged spools of rebar and building parts was a bitter spice of vertigo to my growing discomfort.

"What happened to the city?" I had already asked the question before I could stop myself, my need to know was overwhelming.

The city looked like a war-zone, whichever city it was supposed to be was now just an oversized smoldering graveyard. Graveyards had a habit of getting overgrown with weeds and plant life when abandoned, but this was devoid even of that form of life. The sidewalks were jagged and twisted paths leading to ravines and ditches, the streets alongside them fared no better. Power poles lay along the ground half broken and scorched with power cables still like dead snakes. Places of business that lined the streets were gutted pits, vacant of goods or good company, blackened in the wake of devastation. Golden hues cast of in broken light filtered through the clouds to cast a radiant shine over the ravaged ruins of a place where I knew ponies and their friends walked together.

I spun to face Gangrene, my single eye locked to her pair. She looked at me with a mixture of disbelief and carefree smugness. She couldn’t relate to how I felt. "You’ve never left this hospital?" Her voice was toneless; she didn’t seem to take it as a genuine question and more like a statement of abject stupidity. "Everyone knows what happened, and you should especially know. You lived through it."

"I’ve never been outside my hospital ward. I’m also known to take long, unnecessary naps." I lied, I had to keep up the charade, at least until we parted ways. My eye rolled back to the cityscape, my head turning to join it. "I’ve never seen anything other than walls. And my memory isn’t very good." Peppering truth throughout a lie tended to give it some credit of believability, at least in my court it did.

"Cooped up in this place? And you’re not feral?" She cooed, moving to join me and proceeding along the floor, taking glances at the crumbled, ruined sections of wall where a slip meant embracing a forty foot drop to a jagged metal ruin. There were already corpses dotting the area outside, some which were impaled on protruding rebar and mangled pipes. "A long time ago, during the war, something terrible happened. I don’t know many details myself, all I know is that the zebra used something on us, something that nearly wiped all of Equestria barren."

Following close behind, I was caught between listening intently and staring toward the inner wall to distract myself from the pitted ruins outside. There was a cheerful but faded mural of foals and adults caught in blissful glee, the paint was chipped and torn, and where the heads of ponies should be, chunks of wall was missing, bullet holes evident at several points of impact. I glazed over this, finding little interest in the act of vandalism.

Gangrene spoke about the state of the world briefly, stopping mid-sentence to turn her attention to where bullet holes darted over the mural opposite to the gaping hole in the outward wall. Places where the wall was intact against the outside had their section of the mural protected from gunfire. It was the little things that stood out to her. I didn’t notice, being half blind, and would have just kept going if the yellow mare hadn’t stopped me.

Gangrene gripped my tail and tugged, "Wait," she gestured to the sections of wall torn with gunfire, then back to the outside world. "I think we’re in a shooting gallery." She indicated each missing section of wall, three in all, about twenty feet wide divided from each other by a support pillar extending to the ceiling above. There were bullet holes marring the mural where sections of the wall on the opposite side was missing.

I stopped to glance where she pointed then looked over my shoulder at her, "I doubt they’re sitting out there just waiting for a head to appear. Nopony would wait around. That sounds boring." Surely there was no way a sniper would sit out there for hours or days, crosshairs glued to the building, waiting for the opportune moment to shoot an unsuspecting scavenger or ghoul for what pittance belongings they had.

The dingy yellow mare shook her head with a snort, "Never underestimate what someone with bullets to spare and nothing but time will do." She hefted a small piece of debris and tossed it down the hall, striking the wall at the other end. Her telekinetic throw was rather impressive, the wall at the far end was a good seventy feet or so away. She did this several times, baffling me with this wanton means of attracting hostile attention. A wanton mare doing wanton things.

"What are you doing?" I inquired, my mouth hanging agape, "What if you attract the attention of something back there?" Her need for caution earlier had been abandoned for this.

‘Thwak,’ another piece of debris scarred a mark on the wall far down to the end of the hall from where we stood, "That’s what I’m counting on." She was smiling from ear to ear, concerning me that she may be less stable than I had earlier believed. She licked her lips again, whistling sharply, screaming out insults that bordered on obscene and flagrant. ‘Get your popsicfoals!’ was among the taunts she used in efforts to lure her prey.

Really? The sad tomb of the preserved foals being used as ‘bait’ to attract ghouls seemed pointless. I doubted the ghouls could even understand a single word she said, it was all just noise. Honestly though, why did I think the idea of a ghoul getting it’s cold tongue stuck to the icy glass outside the nursery room was funny? I must not have been the good pony I previously thought I was.

On cue, there was some rustling on the business end of the hall, which is the end we needed to be at to conduct our business; a pair of ghouls appeared, sniffing about for the source of the noise. These creatures appeared to have been patients. One was trailing an IV tube and the other had a small heart rate monitor clattering along behind it, some wires still connected to its chest cavity that looked like it had been opened like a cabinet, organs there splayed out in a bouquet of sickly functioning parts, the lungs and heart visible and seen to function. The lighting flickered, along the hall sporadically, making me think of landing lights along a landing platform.

Drawing iron, I prepared to deliver them to Tartarus before they could make good their nature only to be halted by Gangrene’s rifle butt pressing against my chest. "Wait." She rasped, watching them as they began their awkward, fumbling charge towards us. A few times I thought they’d trip and fall out one of the holes in the wall given their lack of coordination.

The ghouls had conquered half the distance before the one trailing the heart-rate monitor was felled and a thunderous crack echoed in the distance of the city. The body rag dolled, the top half of its skull broken off like a badly cracked egg. It tumbled out of the opening in the wall and dangling by its entrails and wires off the rebar jutting out of the ruined maw of the wall.

The second ghoul only made it to the next gap before the sharp-eyed sniper placed a round in the bade of its skull, the force of the round tearing the head from its oozing stump and sent tumbling the rest of the way to our hooves. I prodded at it with my finger a few times; its eyes still followed me. That was fascinating, until it tried to bite me, latching onto my digit. I shook my forehoof violently and swatted it to the floor several times before letting it loose out the hole on my left. It exploded in a visceral spray of grey matter echoing gunfire—that sniper was incredibly sharp.

"That’s why we waited; we have a sniper, a talented one. I’m guessing a Griffon." She wore a smug grin from ear to ear, the piercing in her lower lip shining in the flickering lights overhead. I had just noticed it, she had piercings. I overlooked so many things, which would have spelled my end if it wasn’t for the mare that looked at me with silent and justified smugness.

I gave her a cheeky smile, chuckling softly, "Okay, I was wrong. You’re sharp. Your wits have saved mine." I wiped the remaining gunk on my digits on her coat, much to her stark chagrin. The messy smear took on the attributes of a smiley face, because that’s what I had drawn on her flank. The artistic flourish of the jagged smile was my attempt to replicate the glowing faceplate on the back of my gauntlets. I did reasonably well in my own rights, considering I sucked at drawing.

She pulled away, delivering a swift kick to my side, "No touching! You have to pay for that." The jarring kick had little force but was quick as the swift bite of a viper.

Stumbling, I shot her a laugh, snorting as my side impacting the wall and I sagged, "So you’re a prostitute now? Ha-ha!" The mirth at this moment was stress relieving, and her expression framed in lines of grease, lower lip extended in displeasure, weighed down by a small ball bearing piercing made my remark worth the kick I received.

"I’m the mare that will use you as a bullet shield if you don’t stop laughing," She cooed viciously, narrowing her eyes at me with a very stern gaze. Then she smiled, "And that’s a promise."

For a brief moment I saw a flicker of the world around me, and she was somepony else with a pink bouncy mane and a wide, happy smile. I blinked and I was soon looking at the same faded yellow mare I had been looking at moments ago, the smile diminished. She waved a hoof in front of my eyes, "Equestria to Doctor SteelGraft, come in SteelGraft."

I blinked a second time and raised my eyebrow, "Why are you...?"

"You blanked out there for a second. Did you even hear what I said?" She seemed unhappy about the idea of having to repeat herself. She turned her head to spit when I shook my head, giving a huff, "I said I know how we can get past the sniper."

That was great! A way to get through the shooting gallery! "That’s great," I exclaimed and made my thoughts physical words, "How do we get through? What’s the plan?"

She leaned in close and told me the plan. It wasn’t surprising that I did not like this plan in the least bit, because it meant going back up the icy and dangerous hallway of frigid doom and retrieving the heavy metal table I had thrown not but an hour ago. It still had ghoul gore all over it, and it also brought me to be near where Curbstomp’s body was. The smell was still lingering despite the fact the body was...gone.

Did ghouls rise from the dead? Well, I doubted that since he had been shot in the head, but I did recall the only corpses I’d found were almost all skeletons and none were fresh. Those were old, his was new. But why would it just vanish? In some Necro-Net games, defeated opponents would just vanish. But this was real and that place wasn’t. Skeletons lingered for Luna’s sake.

My interest piqued, I abstained from it to keep on the task at hoof. I lifted the heavy metal table complete with its own pedestal and turned to venture down the incline back to my companion. The trip was taking a long time and the cumbersome table took the dimensions of a bobsled in my mind. I slammed it down and began pushing, picking up speed in the frigid section of the hallway and riding it down the rest of the way, failing to stop it before it took out the rest of the wall at the bottom. The solid wall buckled but did not break but was far less solid than it had been. I laughed, patting the foul tattered foam top.

"That wasn’t too hard," I was pleased with myself, Gangrene however was unimpressed. She picked herself up after diving for cover away from my joy ride."Hey, I got it here, didn’t I?"

She rolled her eyes, "and nearly jumped it out the hospital on a joyride. And nearly killing me? Stallions and their unending stupidity..." She bitterly remarked on the gender, shooting me a dangerous glare. "I’d expect more common sense from a doctor."

"I don’t have any sense at all." I joked, of course I still couldn’t feel anything, but she didn’t know that. Tapping one of my digits to my face I still felt nothing. I probed my nose scientifically.

"At least you’re honest..." She shook her head."Are you going to eat that?" Gangrene purred at me, watching me go nearly one knuckle deep into my own nostril. She looked mildly amused, "Because ghouls don’t eat..." She tried to finish her phrase, "Nose candy."

My digit left my nose with such speed I may have rivaled a Wonderbolt in flight, flinging the contents of my nose against a wall, more viscous black fluid and red, stringy saliva. "No, it was purely...scientific..." I squished the remaining leavings between my digits and wiped it on some exposed foam on the table.

"Perforatorial studies?" She assumed, waving a foreleg dismissively and drawing her rifle from her back holster and holding it close in her telekinetic field. She appraised the table for a few moments and kicked it with her hoof, then raised her rifle, cocked the lever and shot the table. The table didn’t even budge, the top shuddered and the foam top bore a new hole. To me it didn’t look like it’d be good cover, but I wasn’t keen on the seeing of detail.

"I don’t think this is very good cover," I asserted, not wanting to put my life on the line using something that couldn’t stop a round from her Varmint Rifle.

She tried to push the table over, but lacked the strength to upend the entire thing. She grunted, then glanced to me with a growl, "you mind?"

"Not really..." I smiled and used a single hoof to push the table over, the metal crashing the the floor with a cantankerous thud. It was easy for me, like it weighed nothing. "This thing’s not that heavy. Lifting isn’t your thing, is it?"

"If I had power hooves bolted to my forelegs I’d be strong like you, but that’s a bit uncommon, even around Detrot." She spoke off hoofedly, placing the rifle into its sling across her back and straightening her mohawk like some form of ritual. She even levitated a broken piece of mirror out of her saddle bag to aid in the erection of her mane. How anyone could be that vain in this situation? "I’d use my Telekinesis, but I’m tired. So you do the heavy lifting."

So Detrot was the name of this city, according to what Gangrene had just said. What I knew of cities before the fall was limited, I could scarcely remember my time in Necro-Net and all details of my past were hazy at best. Half blind in life and in memory was not the combination of a hero, but a senile stallion. I’d inquire about the city’s name further later; all I could gather was that the city was now dangerous beyond reason.

After her preening, Gangrene finally got around to inspecting the penetration of the table; it had gone through the foam top and had gotten lodged or deflected inside the metal pedestal cabinet build in at the bottom. She pointed a hoof down the hall I had dubbed ‘The Gunnery Run’, "we’re going to use that as cover to get to the end," she explained. "Also, for being a doctor of holes, your diagnosis was very shallow."

"Notice that the hole was not in a pony." I returned fire, and succeeded in garnering a giggle from my companion.

"Gotcha," she replied, patting the table, "I’m sure you know what we have to do here."

"Hug it like I was a fetishist for chest high cover?" I was very attached to my life at this moment, so this table was quickly going to be added to the list of things I enjoyed. Actually, cover in general was going to be added to the things I enjoyed. Number four, cover of the chest-high variety.

I was going to have to drag the table across an uneven and deadly hall with three gaping sections of wall missing facing the outside. A forty foot drop to a jagged mess of rebar and a sniper positioned somewhere in the ruins using this ‘gallery’ for target practice. Piece of cake...or maybe pie. I was actually more fond of muffins. Screw it, they were all equally delicious.

We began to travel past the first opening in the wall, and my body strained to keep the steady momentum. The table jarred and skid along, pushing debris and rubble out of the way like the scoop on a coal run locomotive. I only cleared half the gap before I had to stop, I couldn’t get the table to budge. Either I was caught on something or I was running out of steam. Our broadside was exposed, and sitting still as a target warranted the impact of a bullet to strike the table. ‘Plink!’ The shot echoed not a second after, off into the distance of the ruined cityscape.

"What’s the damn hold up?" Gangrene hissed, hunkered next to me for cover. I could read her expression; it said ‘move your ass.’ She prodded me with a hoof, gritting her teeth, "you run on batteries or something?" I recalled a saying, "a mare’s best friend ran on batteries," but that had been an insult and the friend that ran on batteries was a replacement for a stallion’s place in the bedroom. It didn’t apply to this situation.

Another impact struck the table, this one rebounding inside and spiraling through the right corner to sink into the wall. It narrowly missed one of the faded caricatures of an adult pony beaming a smile at me from the wall. I began to push again and this time the table began to move, clearing the first gap and giving us a moment to rest behind the first support pillar. "Heckling me won’t help me push the table any faster," I muttered, resting my back against the table which was holding up surprisingly well.

We rested there for a few minutes. Gangrene was preparing her rifle and checking how much ammunition she had left. I was staring at the mural, the blissful expressions of foals and their parents playing in a park sent cascades of emotions drowning out my senses into the greener pastures of long forgotten memories. I couldn’t distinguish memories from the simulation of Necro-Net and what could have possibly been my own memories. Rolling hills and green trees topped with a pleasant and edgeless sky, bordered only by the bullet-holes and chipped paint mutilating the happy scene.

"Mind telling me a little about yourself?" I asked bleakly, the thoughts hopscotching through my mind had made me ultimately questioning if waking up had been a good thing.

I needed a distraction, one that would make me focus on something else other than potentially losing my life to a sniper. "A mare that takes charge is common, but I’m not used to seeing one so battle hardened. You’re also more educated than your late companion." I put on an air of calm and pushed my own feelings aside to seem less afraid. "A gang seems to be the last place I’d expect to see a mare like you." She had the makings of a military mare in my opinion.

"Now’s not the time to flirt, Dead-head." Gangrene grunted, snapping the bolt action slide on her rifle back and checking it’s mechanisms before reloading, "flirt after the job’s done." She didn’t seem displeased, focused on making sure her weapon was ready. She pulled some black grease from her hair, oiled parts of her gun then fixed her mohawk. "Do you think you can push the table the rest of the way?" The concern in her voice was almost as heavy as the table.

‘Don’t tango with a viper even if it has legs,’ the saying goes, and this mare was everything but my type. Still, at least she was fun for a vicious ruffian."I can try," doing my best to sound convincing, I cradled my head against the table’s underside. I wanted this to be over. I wanted to find out why I was awake. There was a reason for everything that had happened so far. I just didn’t know where to start looking--Maybe this mare would have answers for me? I sighed and rolled my attention to the tattered pillar behind the table.

The poster that stubbornly clung to the pillar behind the table was a recruitment poster for the Steel Rangers that promised glory and honor, but most of it was so faded that I couldn’t read it. That and I was looking at it upside down. Some full body armor like the one in that tattered poster would be useful. Also, why was a military recruitment poster in a hospital in the first place? I guess I didn’t want to go out there and be shot at again. I was just stalling now.

"We should invest in better body armor," I deadpanned, "I think several hundred pound medical tables will be in short supply outside the hospital."

"Only if you’re buying! Now quit stalling and get pushing." The bossy mare growled to me. That statement was accurate.

Complying with her request, the table moved under my force. This time it was a straight shot to the next pillar for proper cover, I hadn’t caught any snags along the ground and we had picked up a stowaway. One of the ghoul bodies from earlier, sans head, was now stuck against the table. It was the headless figurehead on our ‘airship’ and we were sailing on the wake of a cloud of refuse. The S.S. FML! It was an acronym for ‘Steam Ship Fuck My Life’. Several more bullets had sung out from the distance and stung the table--One shot had penetrated and struck Gangrene, pounding over the thick reinforced hoofball padding that guarded her shoulder.

"Fuck me! This table ain’t gonna last is it?" She rubbed the armor where her shoulder was and felt lucky that a thick and ugly bruise was all she’d have to deal with. "I’m downright Celestia blessed it just grazed..."

There was a growing trickle of red and black pouring down from where I propped myself--I wasn’t as lucky. I’d been hit, the same bullet had clipped me in the side to hit Gangrene. I covered the wound in my side and turned so she couldn’t see. "Yeah, we’re lucky..." I rasped, unable to feel the pain I’d just keep going until I couldn’t anymore. Celestia please at least let me be able to get her the rest of the way across. "I hope that whatever we find in the storage room is worth this."

We waited for ten minutes to gather composure. My bleeding hadn’t stopped, but it was slow, I was a can of water with a tiny hole poked in it. Applying pressure wasn’t working, it was still seeping through. Gangrene was too busy levitating her rifle out to take pot shots at the sniper to notice my condition. She took the ghoul body we had picked up and push a piece of it’s body out into the open to attract a shot then estimate where her target was to fire at them.

"How close are you coming to hitting them?" My question was met with a derisive snort from Gangrene. I shuffled my weight and pressed both hands against the table and dug my fingers in, "I think you’d get a better shot if we were out there."

The punk mare took a few more shots with her rifle before she leaned back, levitating her rifle back around the opening. "I’m running low on ammo and I can only guess where he is. I don’t feel like sticking my head into the noose to get a clear shot either. " She held out her rifle and examined it, cocking the lever with her magic, "I’ve got three rounds left. I really want to nail this guy."

"You’re assuming it’s a guy?" I deadpanned, leaning to pick up a tin can and throw it out into the opening. It clattered to the ground and rolled lazily out the massive opening and clattered to the ruins below. "Doesn’t that sniper shoot anything we toss or poke out there?" They were showoffs, either to us or to whoever could be with them.

"I don’t think they’d waste a bullet on a tin can." She affirmed, rolling her eyes, "And of course it’s a guy. No way would a female griffon be sitting out there pot shotting us for no reason! Ladies have class, you know." She was speaking from personal experience, clearly.

"Of...course," I pretended to agree, but wasn’t convinced on the sniper’s gender, nor did it matter to me. "Well I’ve got an idea..." I pulled out the magazine I had found earlier, one I had filled full of 5.56 ammo from the Veteran’s Wing. I pulled out a few of the bullets and held them out, "Varmint Rifles use 5.56mm ammunition, right?"

Blowing a limp part of her greasy mane from her eyes Gangrene took a look at the magazine and the ammunition. She levitated it over and began pulling the rounds out. "Yeah, this is great--I have to say, you may have saved our plots. Well, depending on your idea. You could have killed us too, so I’m not holding my breath."

Now it was my turn to make her feel uncomfortable--my plan would put us both in danger. My assumption was that the sniper was either running low on ammunition or was just toying with us. Which meant if we showed the ability to take them out, they’d be frightened off.

"Well, some men really do put on a show when they’re spineless." Gangrene agreed with my plan, which was astonishing to me. "Still, spotting their position from behind cover will be tough. You sure you can draw the fire so I can take the shot?"

That was the plan. I was going to use the table for cover and poke out my prosthetic hand topped with a nurse's cap we’d found among the remains of the dead ghouls from earlier. If the sniper took the shot, Gangrene would catch their position and lay down fire to scare them off. At the very least they’d need to change positions before trying to shoot at us again. In theory, we’d be alive and I’d only have a minor wound if I was unlucky. I felt I had a knack for being unlucky.

We set the plan in motion and I pushed the table out into the open of the third gap. Everything was going great, the sniper was taking shots at us, the table was deflecting it, and Gangrene was trying to carefully spot the sniper. Using the nurse’s hat and my prosthetic, I extended it out as if I were trying to ‘peek’ where the sniper was.

The sniper took the bait and the hat was blasted off my digits, Gangrene saw the flash of muzzle fire somewhere in the distance. She aimed her rifle and got up quickly to fire then lost her balance as things began to go terribly wrong. The floor around us sagged and began to buckle, the table began to tilt and lose itself out the open gap. The table couldn’t be stopped and we lost cover, a portion of the floor had also caved into the jagged mess below.

I had managed to grab something for cover, the corpse of the ghoul that had been the figurehead to our ‘table vessel’ and held tight to it, granting us as much cover as the frail tattered remains allowed.

Things went from bad to worse. The sniper wasn’t low on ammo, they were just waiting for us to slip up. This was their last window of opportunity to kill us, with ten feet of empty space on either side to mark as a kill zone. Round after round was unleashed in our direction, the corpse being riddled with bullets. Moving an inch would make this body worthless as cover, the rounds were sinking through anyway and slamming into me. Gangrene was taking cover behind me, her eye catching the flash of gunfire as it went off rapidly. She was trying to recover her footing, clambering to get to her hooves and duck behind me.

We were going to die. This was it. I was the only thing between the mare behind me and the sniper fire, I doubted I was very good cover. I couldn’t feel the impact of the rounds on my body but I could see the air around me filling with a spray of red and black ‘ink’.

‘Dead where you stood’ was probably applicable to my current state--I was dead but my body hadn’t fallen. The wound in my side was nothing compared to the damage I imagined I was suffering from the impacts. "Take the shot!" I belted out loudly, if my final act was going to be this, then Gangrene had to at least take the shot we had set up for! "The plan hasn’t changed! Take the damn shot!" A bullet whizzed past my ear and lodged into the wall.

The mare must have been considering fleeing, her eyes darting to the safety of cover just a single leap away. My words reached her like a slap to the face, she flinched then sprung to action with muscles tensed. She moved her rifle over my shoulder adjusted the sights and fired. The shot rang out. She fired again and again in the direction she had seen the muzzle flash. ‘KRAK!’ ‘KRAK!’ ’KRAK!’ She fired so many times I’d lost count, she had reloaded once by now. My ears were ringing with the scream of a million bells, a deafening roar that consumed all focus.

When the gunfire ended, the ringing in my ears remained. There was no more exchange between the sniper and us, then Gangrene pointed at the hazy sky, "Look! He’s flying away! I was right, bucking griffon pansy!" She laughed and howled with victory, firing a final shot towards our assailant before they had slipped completely out of sight.

I tossed the mutilated remains of the ghoul’s torso out into the ruins to join the table and followed the cheerful mare, unhindered by my injuries. I left a dancing mixture of red and black trailing behind me in thin lines. We had gotten this far, the end of another hall. "I wonder if traveling down a hallway will always be this fun." I mused aloud, feeling no different from when I had started my adventure despite the fact I’d been shot. I was likely going to be in a lot of pain once the drugs wore off. Which might be any minute now. Any minute.

"Not bad for a pretty boy ghoul, doc," Gangrene congratulated me, "How are you holding up?" Just when I didn’t think she cared! She gave me a lookover, drawing in closer "You’re made of stern stuff, that was a hefty sum of ballistic abuse. It doesn’t look too bad." She took note of four bullet wounds, one in my foreleg, one in my shoulder, and two off center in my chest. "And the uh, medical tools in you...are a nice touch?" She was a comedian now too.

I was happy that she cared, which was stupid. I just met her and I hardly knew her. She was just using me to get what she wanted. "I manage," I offered up cryptically and trotted down the hallway, "the supply room might have supplies to patch me up. Lets go."

Another hallway, this one painted muted gray, through a set of doors that were labeled ‘Maintenance’ in bold stenciled letters. There was no shortage of debris and medical trash, wrappers, and other refuse. A single floor buffer sat discarded among sagging moldy boxes at the far end. A maintenance elevator on the center wall flanked a reinforced door with a card reader with a sign that read ‘Storage’. A broken security camera fizzled and sparked from it’s mounting on the wall, hanging in disrepair.

‘Please insert card,’ the familiar prompt, this time without a buzz saw wielding zombie to race against. I pressed my card against the reader, ‘Card Accepted. Welcome Dr. SteelGraft.’ The door shuddered and opened inward.

"Well, some part of this had to be easy." I walked into the storage room, followed by Gangrene. The lights flickered on in a shudder, one of the lighting filaments blew out once power came on, leaving the room dim.

A musky, dry, dusty storage room lined with shelves, cabinets, and lockers. The walls were a soft beige and the ceiling tiles overhead were jumbled in disarray revealing ventilation ducts. A terminal sat on a desk against one of the nearby walls behind the corpse of a rotting pony in a lab coat, long since dead with a piece of paper planted over their horn. Gangrene moved for the medical boxes mounted on the wall and began to ransack them.

I moved towards the body, scooting the chair it rested in back. It’s hooves slid off the desk and it slumped over. Propping the body, it was eased back into the chair. I took the paper off it’s horn. It was a note, written hastily in black ink on wrinkled white paper. I read it to myself silently;

Tattered Note:

"If you find this, then you’ve made it this far. I expected as much from you. Take the lock box I have left with this body, you’ll know what to do with it."

This was a cliche if I ever did see one. There was no way this note was addressed to me, or to anyone alive for that matter. Someone had placed this here for someone to find, it’s relevance was probably as old as the other notes and files I found. Color me jaded, but I didn’t expect to find a box on the corpse.

There was something on the body, sitting in it’s lap. A black box with silver banding with no discernable way to open it. It wasn’t like anything I’d seen so far. It was pristine, not a single scratch on it’s obsidian black surface. My blood and black ooze just slid off. Maybe this was relevant. The note was wrong about me knowing what to do with this strange box.

"How’s the ransacking going?" I asked while examining the body of the departed doctor, taking his ID Card and leaving the few caps I found in his pockets.

"It’s got plenty of supply. But I think I should take a look at you now." The mare cleared a spot to work on me and waved me over. "Now get over here, you’re bleeding on your...Everything." She arranged the supplies she was going to use on a flat surface nearby.

I stowed the box away in the grotesque saddlebag and sat down for her to work on patching me up. "This is nice, I was expecting you to tell me to handle it myself."

"Yeah, I don’t think telling a drugged doctor even one that specializes in holes to patch himself up is a good idea," she clicked her tongue to the roof of her mouth and leaned in, working on helping me out of the battle saddle and my coat.

Half an hour worth of sitting to deal with these wounds was possibly the most boring thing I’ve dealt with in my adventure. Boring was good though. I made small talk while Gangrene pulled each slug out of each wound, she even took the time to yank the medical tools out of my chest and strip the wire nodes off my pelt. She produced a bottle of Wild Pegasus Whiskey from her saddle bag, downed some, then sprayed it out between her lips over my wounds. "Gotta say, these medical tools sticking out of your chest aren’t painting you to be the best doctor," she chuckled as she wiped her lips on her foreleg.

"They hell are you doing?!" I recoiled back, but Gangrene held me still in her telekinetic grip. Relaxing, I sighed, "you got me. I’m a horrible painter." That earned a laugh from the mare.

"Your wounds are sterile now," she explained in passing. Gauze was packed over the injuries and bound in place with bandages. "And while we’re at it, lets change the rest of your dressings." That didn’t sound like a bad idea, I nodded simply and she went to work. The bandages I had been wearing since waking up were now bloodied and ruined, a fresh set would do me good.

“You know what you’re doing," noticing that she didn’t seem to be a slouch at handling injuries, I had to bring it up.

“I was a medic before I joined the Vipers," she answered while unwinding my old bandages to replaced them with a new set, "I picked up a few tricks from the Vipers too." Double checking my staples, she threaded a needle with some thin wire and set to work making sure my old wounds were closed. "Yeah, no idea why you just don’t use a healing potion or something. These wounds will take forever to heal naturally."

“You seemed like the medic type." I affirmed.

“What makes you say that?" She replied, snapping the wire and tying off a newly tightened stitch on my torso sutures.

"Because you care. When you shot Curbstomp you were low on ammo, weren’t you? There could have been more ghouls, something you’d need that bullet for. You didn’t let him suffer." That was kindness, even if it was death, it was better to not suffer. That made sense to me now that I thought about it.

The mare looked away, straightening her mane with her magic, “It wasn’t easy. As smelly, rude, and obnoxious he was, he was still kinda decent. Cruel, rough, but he’d never hit a mare. Took bullets a few times for me too..." Her voice was filled with hints of pain, she shook her head and wiped her eye with a hoof. "It was my fault he died, but you gotta be hard to live out here, you know?"

I nodded slowly, "Shame I’m not a mare...I still wouldn’t consider him decent. Colorful, maybe?" I wondered if I should tell her his body went missing. Telling her that might be confusing or unbelievable. I’d let her discover that herself.

A small vial of red liquid with a cork stopper was presented to me. "Drink this," Gangrene ordered simply. The cork popped off and the vial tipped to my lips. I drank as ordered and Gangrene pulled the vial away once it was half empty. She sprinkled the other half against my wounds. After a few moments she cursed under her breath. "Nothing’s happening! Is this potion bad? Can they even go bad?" She tried two other potions, cursing louder after each one failed to do anything for me. "Even potions work on ghouls!"

She came to the conclusion that either all the potions and healing supplies in this storage room had gone bad, or that they just wouldn't work on me. She took her shoulder pads off and used some potion on her bruise, the wound vanished and left no trace behind. "No, not duds. It’s you, SteelGraft. There’s something wrong with you."

In denial about whatever condition I had I attributed this effect to the drugs. Gangrene retracted her previous statement about wanting some of the drugs I was on and made it abundantly clear a drug like that was absolutely useless. Numbly, I agreed and tuned out whatever else she had to say about it. She changed the rest of my bandages, excluding the wrappings around my eye, they were still sort of clean, and went back to pillaging the storage room.

Thirsty for clues I returned to the maneframe terminal on the desk and quickly assessed it. No password required, just like the computer in the security check point, the user was still logged in. Their name had been ‘Mortician Muse’, and the information flashed across the screen in green hues.

Gangrene was emptying all the cabinets and shelves and anything she found useful. Frustrated to find two of the lockers locked she kicked them once before moving onto the next. stealing glances back to her, I saw that she’d found a few new lab coats and a set of surgeons scrubs in one of them.

The maneframe yielded it’s secrets plain as day, like a casual conversation topic between trusted friends. What was on the screen was alarming, a list of over five hundred patients on a roster, and next to each one there was a status. The first fourteen patients on the list were ‘Active’, most were ‘In-Stasis’, and some were listed as ‘deceased’. I stopped at ‘Patient 39’ and saw ‘Active’ next to them. That was ButterSquash’s patient number. I brought up the information on that patient.

Patient 39:

Name: ButterSquash

Bloodtype: AB +

Condition: Active

Medical Records: Suffered major trunk trauma, prognosis poor.

Allergic to milk.

Six year veteran of the Equestrian Military. Medical discharge.

Searching the other records, most were similar. All were veterans with poor chances of survival, all were critically injured and sacrificed their livelihood for the war, all of them were...like me. Things weren’t adding up. What was my patient number? With my luck I might have been one of the first fourteen on this list, their information had been purged from this terminal.

"Find anything interesting?" Gangrene croakede behind me. I nearly hit my horn on the ceiling with how high I jumped. She laughed, "You spook easy..."

Swallowing my nerves I shook my head, "Just patient records. I’m going to check the memos next."

"Ah, tell me if it tells us where anything else might be stashed," she rubbed her hooves together greedily.

The memos displayed by the terminal were the usual for a computer in a storage room. They had logs of everything put in the storage room, taken out, and little comments about the status of incoming shipments for the Nursery and the Veteran’s Wing.

Stable-Tec Delivery 23:

The ‘Stay-Safe’ stasis and shielding system for the nursery arrived. We’re working on installing it next week. At least this means the nursery will be protected in case any contaminates ever make it into the hospital. We can’t risk a repeat of the last incident.

Ignoring anything I felt, the next log was opened. Gangrene made an obscene joke about ‘Popsicfoals’ again and I snorted dismissively. The next log was interesting...

Missing Supplies:

To: Vanilla Manner

From: Mortician Muse

Some of my private things are vanishing from the storage room. I’m beginning to suspect it’s Bullet Sink confiscating my belongings again. He must be hiding my stuff in the contraband safe at the Veteran’s Wing security checkpoint. He’s just trying to get me fired! Who cares if I take Party Time Mintals? I can’t afford to lose my job, so could you get my things out of the safe and dispose of them before he shows Dr. Stable? I found the code to the safe, 840352. Thank you Darling!

"Well, there’s the code to a safe..." I muttered, casting a glance to the corpse that had been sitting at this terminal. I imagined they were Mortician Muse. I looked to the ID I had picked up off the stallion’s body and matched the name. ‘Mortician Muse’ was the name paired with a photo of him, a handsome blue unicorn with a russet mane that looked well kept and soft orange eyes. "He was cute..."

"Do you know where that safe is?" Gangrene inquired, pushing against me and laying both her hooves on my shoulders. "It has to have good crap in it, right? It’s locked!" Yes, locked things must have good things in them, that’s why they’re locked.

"It’s near where we first met, through the double doors near the security checkpoint. I don’t know exactly where the safe is, but you really don’t want to go there." I advised her, mostly because there was a zombie with a buzz saw lurking just outside the security door.

"What do you mean ‘I don’t want to go there’? Of course I do! There could be some really good stuff in there! Even better than the stuff we found here. Contraband makes me think big caps." Her face drifted closer to mine until we were almost nose to nose. She was so excitable when it came to talking about her income. My understanding failed at ‘caps’.

"Buh…?" I so eloquently phrased my question, eyebrow raised. Smooth, whoever I am, smooth. I stammered and managed to convey my thoughts clearly. "First of all, this is very uncomfortable…Second, I get your point. Third, what do you mean ‘caps’?"

Retracting her hooves she gestured in a wide arc, "Caps, moolah, cash. It’s money. I’m getting supplies to trade for caps to buy other things. You been cooped up here for what, over a hundred years? Probably more. I’m not a historian and I don’t keep calendars. You’re really behind the times."

A century since the war at least? A hundred years in Necro-Net to wake up to this. Maybe I was glad I didn’t remember a thing, I’d probably be too depressed to do anything if I could remember the past. "Back in my day we used bits, had green lawns, trees, and fewer zombies per square mile on average. Also, I’m pretty sure I was awesome."

"Alright, gramps, I get it. So why don’t I want to get these goods?" She sat back on her haunches and tapped her hoof expectantly.

"A zombie." I stated simply.

"Just a single ghoul? Easy as Sugar bombs to deal with that." She gave me a smug smile, "That’s the best you can come up with? I think you just want to get the goods for yourself."

If one of my eyes twitched, I couldn’t feel it. The audacity of this mare’s claim was unfounded. "That’s not the case. I don’t want to go back there. It’s a really dangerous ghoul, stuck behind the Security Door." This mare wasn’t getting the picture, she was keeping most of the supplies from this storage room. She was greedy and I couldn’t care less about these supplies.

Gangrene knickered dismissively and trotted through the door, "well I guess I will see you around, Dead-Head."

"What do you mean ‘see you around’?" I watched her, stunned.

"The arrangement was you help me get to the storage room and I wouldn’t shoot you. That arrangement’s done. I’ll see you around pretty boy." She winked at me and her flank vanished around the doorframe. "Enjoy the shotgun and saddlebag. You earned them."

That was that. It was just business. I had hoped she would stick around for a while longer, at least until we got to a town. Amassing all my worldly possessions was quick; shotgun, revolver, battle saddle, coat, hospital map, gun magazine, recording from SteelGraft, and doctor’s coat. Gangrene had left the spare lab coats and a few odds and ends I put into my saddle bag. Two spare doctor’s coats and a small personal medkit that Gangrene had left for me in an obvious location.

I gave the terminal a final look to see if anything else was important There were the final operations this terminal had been used to log, the oldest of them was a note about the state of the hospital’s generator failing and another about the security system having errors.

Security Flaws:

From: Jello Meringue

To: General Staff

There’s nothing wrong with how our security is functioning now that it’s in place. The problem is its sensitivity. The turrets targeted a security staff member for drawing his weapon. That’s not supposed to happen. Could we get somepony to take a look at that? Thanks in advance!

Well, that was useless. At least it gave me some closure on how Bullet Sink had died. More than likely, when the attack happened, he had been torn to shreds by the turrets for drawing his weapon. "What a morosely named pony. It’s like naming someone ‘Dies Horribly.’ "

Time for me to shove off and set sail. Everything was in order, I doubted I needed the hospital map any longer, but I kept it as a souvenir. The door to the storage room slid shut behind me and locked, the card reader even told me to have a nice day.

I pressed the elevator button several times, watching the floor number where the elevator was flash as it moved to my level. It still worked? "Looks like smooth sailing from here on out. Things are coming up daisies!" The elevator dinged and opened, the remains of several skeletons tumbled out at my hooves. "Of course..." I muttered softly, wading through the remains into the elevator.

Pressing the button for level one, the doors began to close. Then I heard a scream, a piercing, terrified scream that penetrated the whole building to reach me. Was that Gangrene? There was no one else in the hospital I knew of other than her. What do I do, just leave and forget I heard that or run out of this elevator and be a big damned hero and die horrifically to ButterSquash? Maybe my name was actually ‘Bloody Bits’.

I slammed my foreleg into the elevator door before it closed and peeled it open, threading myself through the door and bolting for the Veteran's Wing. What had taken me an hour to travel due to dangers I had to circumvent my hooves devoured in a loose grab of seconds. Past the ‘Gunnery Run’ where the sniper had tried killing us, up the incline, skidding up the frigid section of the hall and tripping into the divot where the floor was weak just before the double doors. I slammed headfirst through them, sailing into the foyer past the elevator room. I tumbled end over end and skid face first to a stop.

Yes, your hero has arrived, a projectile of flailing confusion whose face has become one with a floor. I could almost hear the booming applause and whistles of an approving audience to my valiant actions. That was probably the ringing in my ears.

The roaring sound of turret fire filled my mind with worry. On my hooves again I rounded the foyer, expecting to be face to face with my worst enemy, the zombie robot ButterSquash. What I found was surprising to say the least.

Gangrene was ducked behind the security desk, nursing a bullet wound in her side. The desk had been ripped apart and the painting on the wall had been shredded revealing where the safe had been hidden. The mare had her rifle drawn and had been firing upon the turret to no effect.

"What the hell happened?" I shouted over the turret fire. The turrets ignored me, even when I cautiously entered the security checkpoint. I grit my teeth, inspired by the knowledge I had of the security system, I plucked my ID from around my neck and waved it. "Off, shut off! SteelGraft, uh..." I looked at the ID and read off more of the ID, "Clearance Code Blue, Team S!"

The turrets both stopped and faced stock forward again, both barrels smoking. That was a relief, it actually worked. A flurry of curses shot from behind the desk produced by the rancid breath of the injured Gangrene.

An exchange of glances was shared before she went to treating her own injuries, downing several potions after she removed two metal slugs from herself. She hissed out and tightened her bandages around her side. "This really hurts...nng...good thing you decided to show up. No sign of your ghoul friend, but why didn’t you tell me about the Celestia damned security system?!"

"It slipped my mind. I didn’t think the turrets would just start shooting you!" I felt guilty, I’d been the one who activated the turrets in the first place.

"What did you think they’d do, play pattycake with me?" She was upset, working on patching herself up as quickly as possibly, grumbling all the while. "Look, thanks for showing up. You didn’t have to, our arrangement was over."

"Eh, I was starting to miss you. Besides, leaving a friend to battle a dangerous zombie or....play pattycake with turrets isn’t very nice." I humored her and moved around the desk, plopping down next to her. I held out an ID card, the one that had belonged to Mortician Muse.

She took the card and looked at it and hung it around her neck, "Friends, huh? What’s this," she asked, "an ID card for the hospital?"

"Yeah, in case you run into any more security while you’re poking around. Staff was supposed to keep ID on them at all time." I rolled my shoulders and got back to my hooves, examining the heavy safe. A dial combination lock and lever to open it. "What was inside?"

"No clue, I was too busy having a diet of bullets to open it up." She was shaking, downing a little bit of her whiskey to handle her pain and nerves. "Can’t afford to waste Med-X, but I’d love some pain killers right now..." Standing up, she moved me aside and licked her lips, entering the combination into the wall safe. "It’s pay day, this had better be..." She opened the safe and her eyes narrowed, "It’s empty." She muttered darkly. "It’s fucking empty!"

I peered over her shoulder, the safe wasn’t completely empty, it had a single piece of paper inside, a neatly folded and old journal page. "Well, there’s a paper in there..."

Raking the inside with a hoof she came back with the single sheet of yellowed and aged paper. She didn’t bother reading it and tossed it at me, "You can have it, it doesn’t look like a treasure map." She fumed as she trotted to the foyer, moved a skeleton off one of the couches and tossed herself down in it’s place.

The piece of paper was carefully unfurled and smoothed out on the bullet ridden desk. Looking back to Gangrene I laughed, it must have sucked for her greed to have gotten her into such a bind. "You sure I can have this?"

Gangrene whinnied, gesturing with her hoof and tongue rudely before rolling over on the couch. "Use it as plot paper for all I care. It’s nothing valuable to me...I’m going to rest a bit. Watch my back, will you?"

"Sure." We were friends after all. Loose friends. What I knew about her, I liked. Even her characteristic greed, it made her seem like a pirate. "Rest up, I’m just going to read this and deactivate the turrets." As much as I wanted to keep the turrets on in case ButterSquash made it through the door, it seemed the monster had given up. I’d feel guilty if someone else got hurt because they were left on. The door was intact, so he hadn’t made it through.

The journal was actually more of a poem, followed by a short excerpt from a journal belonging to a poet identified as ‘Nevermore’. That name seemed familiar, as if I knew it from somewhere. They must have been a published writer in my time.

Nature of War:
Empires strong and kingdoms long, families sweet and cities neat, war outlasts them all. Hate doesn't die, foul feelings linger, these things outlast time. Know this sad fact that will never change, that suffering doesn't end with death. Those remaining will continue slaying, friendships shattered to calls of retribution. Getting even equals no sides and only makes losers of us all.

I find it funny, truly I do, that this war has taken so much and gained us so little. The joy I found in years past were far happier than enduring what I’ve witnessed. I thought of cutting my losses and fleeing, but perhaps it’s better that I stay with the crew. Even if I am a liability, he wanted me to stay. So I said yes. I could never bring myself to say no to him.

Nevermore.

That wasn’t a bad poem, it was brooding, depressing, and bleak. It was like everything else. It was as if whatever higher power allowed this to happen thought to themselves, ‘How can I make everything not nice, ever?’ and then acted on it. All the colors of awful chewed up and vomited onto a canvas of everything good or clean. I thought of Gangrene and felt better, "Not everything is gloomy skies."

I waited half an hour, reading my copy of ‘Hoofshod Hotshots’ to pass the time and improve my knowledge on guns. Some didn’t stick and I had to reread the same article ‘Aiming and You’ several times. I double checked the security door to make sure ButterSquash was no longer around before I powered down the turrets.

I left the security checkpoint to loom over the yellow mare on the couch, shaking her gently to rouse her. "Come on, it’s been half an hour. We shouldn’t stick around here." Half an hour to recover was enough, right? Magic healing potions and bandages would make a bullet wound seem like an itch.

She threw a pillow at me hard, grumbling and sitting up, "What’s the rush? It’s not like there is anything here but skeletons and couches. That heavy metal ghoul you described is nowhere to be seen and we’ve both been shot to hell. I need a bit more time for the potions to fix me." She had a point. I wasn’t feeling tired, but she could use the rest. I wondered what time it was outside.

I took a seat next to her and leaned back, causing an explosion of dust to leave the couch’s padding. I let my single eye close, "Yeah, I think you’re right. Mind if I stick with you awhile?"

"You don’t even need to ask..." Gangrene whinnied, yawning with her hoof over muzzle. "I owe you a few favors, considering. We’ll head out for Greensvale Heights tomorrow. I got to trade for goods and you probably need to get your bearings."

Greenvale Heights sounded pleasant. Not every place was in ruins, I guessed. "Sounds good to me...Get some rest. I’ll keep an eye out." Literally, I only had one eye, after all. She snorted out a laugh and rolled over to stretch out.

An hour passed, Gangrene peacefully asleep. The soft sounds of the facility full of nuanced repetitions, feeding a sense of unease. Rattling pipes and hissing ventilation ducts. I kept watch on the security door, anticipating Patient 39’s eventual return. I draped a spare doctor’s coat to drape over the mare while she slept. The lights kept flickering, hurtling us into the pitch black darkness before coming back on. "This is a bad place to be sleeping..." I told myself.

With some time to myself, I reflected on everything that happened today. What I knew and what I didn’t. The world was torn apart in the war, according to my Necro-Net hallucinations before waking up. This was connected with the box I’d found in the storage room. Furthermore, I was a veteran of the war Equestria faced before the fall that caused all this. Over a century had passed since I was ‘asleep’. Why me? Why did I have to wake up?

An eruption of noise echoed the fall of all things simple once again, my thoughts on the world cut short by the security door spiraling end over end and cleaving the couch we sat on in half, missing both me and Gangrene. Patient 39, the thing of nightmares, had crashed through the door and hurled it, screeching out an ear-splitting squeal of anger and loathing. Gangrene was awake within moments.

"What the fuck is that?!" Gangrene shot up, eyes tracing up and down the nightmare made material that Patient 39 was. She wrinkled her nose and her eyes widened with horror, "Oh fuck, it’s...it’s one of those monsters!" She had some idea on what it was.

Her elegance with words was so impressive, I was beside myself in awe with how she spoke so freely. Sarcasm withstanding, I honestly still had no idea what that thing was. "Yes! One of those monsters. This is why we shouldn’t have COME HERE!" I said loudly as ButterSquash began to lurch after us. "And we’re leaving, now!"

Gangrene didn't argue, she was up and close behind when the first buzz saw sank into the couch where we had been sitting. That fucking thing was smart. It must have been waiting for me to turn off the turrets, that or I was giving the monster too much credit. The only thing I knew for certain was we had to get away...

Refer to Chapter 2 Progress Review

New Companion: Gangrene
A mare with the snapping personality of a Viper. She has training as a medic and is a crack shot with a rifle. Your teammates healing is improved by 25% while she’s in your party and she has a chance to notice environmental hazards.

It is rather unfortunate you still have no idea what you’re doing.

Chapter 3: Feeling Welcome

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"Feeling Welcome"

Neighborly redefined as ‘not shooting on sight.’

‘’My ideas are limited only to the audacious and simple things I can understand.’’ Truer words have never been said. Had you told me I would be riding a couch down a frozen hall to escape a buzz saw wielding zombie pony with a penchant for murder a century and a half ago I would have called you crazy. If you said that to me right this second, I would be screaming while riding a couch down that frozen hallway I mentioned.

‘’This was the best idea you could come up with?!’’ Gangrene hadn’t liked my idea initially, and she wasn’t warming up to it either. Her mane was pasted to her face, her eyes still wide with chilled fright. Her weight was pressed back against the steel security door we were using to deflect the incoming saw blades growling through the air like rabies filled frisbees.

At some point the roving mad creature formerly known as ButterSquash had made a mad lunge for us and was now being trailed behind us. We were running out of hallway and the couch could not be slowed even if I dug into the walls rushing past us.

‘’A stowaway, huh? I know how to handle those!’’ Indeed, taking care of uninvited guests was something I inherently knew in some abstract form. Creativite solutions of the audacious extremes flew in my mind and acting quickly the couch was spun in the hallway by using the security door as a rudder against the ice slickened hall. The metal and meat kill thrall was ground into the wall and left behind when we crashed the couch out into the open air.

Memories of flight, wind whipping in my face, hair pinned back and pulled from my eyes. The screams of a terrified pony assaulting my ears, this was all very familiar. ‘’You’re crazy! You’re crazy! How was this a good idea?!’’ My companion was not liking this, but I was ecstatic. We were flying! Well, falling actually, towards the jagged ruins below. I grabbed Gangrene and leapt for the only safe spot I could see, the back end of a subway train sticking up like a landing pad.

The back door broke and fell free with a rusted squeal under our combined weight and we rode down the ramp of the snaking subway train through door after door. We went from flying to sledding through the innards of a metal snake, passing an audience of charred skeletons! The rattling applause of their destruction peppered us as we collided with some of them.

The glass at the front of the subway train cracked due to the impact of several rifle shots produced by the fast acting Gangrene, spreading a spider’s web of weakness so that it shattered when we struck it. We tumbled to a jumbled mess of limbs and broken glass with me ending up face first in a flowing river of sick. Not my best landing. The mare laying over me groaned, pressing my face into the river of thick, muddy refuse as she got up. I sincerely hoped that had been accidental.

‘’You crazy dead son of a whorse!’’ She began, rolling away from me and dragging herself to the shore on the side of the flowing...Sewer. We were in the bottom of the ravine, weren’t we? She cursed as she nursed her new injuries, gritting her teeth, ‘’How do you even come up with a plan like that?!’’

I was free of the gelatinous pool of flowing sick and grease, wiping my face off with a discarded piece of newspaper that proclaimed ‘The End is Neigh!’ on the front page and had an attention grabbing ad that accused the reader of being a wimp. ‘Wimpy Fetlocks? Get in shape with Dr. Trimm’s patented shaping shears!’ The picture of a wimpy colt with limp, long fetlocks was the before picture while the after showed a massive muscle bound stallion flexing screaming; ‘YEAAAAAHAAA.’ with sculpted and chiseled fetlocks. I kept it, putting it in my saddle bag. The ad was pretty funny. ‘’That was purely improvisation. I like to play things by ‘fear’ and let the terror in my mind produce results.’’

The mare opted to ignore me, feigning disinterest to begin treating her wounds again. She was already running low on supplies she had intended to sell for caps. When I made the point that she was still alive, she scoffed. ‘’Yeah, I guess I should be grateful. I ended up using your share of the take, so now I really do owe you.’’

I rolled my eye and spat until the taste had left my mouth, swishing some water around in it that Gangrene had offered me. ‘’No matter what we do, I keep getting covered in piss. This had better not become habit.’’

While treating her wounds the mare knickered, ‘’Yeah, well there’s worse things to be covered in, trust me.’’ She failed to elaborate further, so I assumed she meant grease or something more rancid than sewer water. I was almost as disgusting as my saddlebag now.

A half broken sign hung from the jutting wreckage to the subway-- ‘Heartstrings Express’, with a harp, defaced and dented. The sewer line was under the tracks, mangled and twisted together overhead. There was no way to continue along either direction, everything was blocked off by collapsed slabs of concrete. Fortunately, the way it all had collapsed made an impromptu ramp up to the streets level above. The sound of running raw sewage through pipes gurgled like sick song birds.

Using this time to look around, I found that the amount of bare surfaces in the sewer did not match how much graffiti was everywhere, some messages like ‘Die Die Die’ were prevalent and repeating while crude paintings of sex, violence, and drug paraphernalia took up much of the surface space. I located a rusted toolbox with a Rebreather of Dash and a syringe of an unidentifiable substance. Metal scrap and a wrench as well. There was nothing of any use in the nearby toppled trashcan, just wrappers of candies, confections, pre war foodstuffs, and old newspapers.

By the time I was done scouring the area for goods, Gangrene was back on her hooves again, slicking up her mohawk that had flopped over with a small tub of mechanic’s lubricant she had in her saddle bag. ‘’Alright, I’m not spending the night in this sewer. Lets go up top and crash in one of the store fronts.’’

With the spoil of the sewer in our saddle bags and covering me, we scaled the ramp to the gloomy, dark sky conquered by clouds. Very scant light breached the cloud cover, the sun was setting soon. We were now on that jumbled, torn street I saw from the hospital’s second floor. Looking back, I could almost making out the form of ButterSquash wailing at us from one of the gaping wounds in the building.

Trepidation filled every step down the road, passing the vacant black pits of the shops down the streets, flanked on either side by the tombs of business. A quaint cafe, its picture window shattered still had its counter attended by the cashier pony’s skeleton. The record store next door had its records melted and warped by heat, a broken radio inside was struggling to play music over coughing static. There was a few tattered and battered sidewalk kiosks along the way, a hay-burger stand near a newspaper stand with a magazine kiosk, a section of get well cards, and destroyed souvenirs included. A row of torn teddy ursas covered a shelf, I imagined they had been stocked since the hospital was so close by. A small broken refrigerator held a few bottles of sparkle cola and even some alcohol. The motif of the yellow pegasus, though faded with age was so familiar. Hadn’t there been billboards with the same likeness in Necro-Net?

‘’Here’s good...’’ Gangrene took the warm beer from the vendor fridge and slipped into the news stand booth, drinking down frothy mouthfuls of brown ‘Daft Draft.’

I put the sparkle cola into my saddle bag for safe keeping and hopped through the open front and took a seat behind that cash register. There was already a cot set up back here that Gangrene claimed as her own. She was using one of the spare teddy ursa as a pillow and looking through pictures of a magazine called ‘Stud Buds’ with a handsome stud on the cover posing with another stallion.

‘’It gets cold tonight, think you could go get a trashcan and set a fire?’’ The mare was looking tired, her mane was even drooping and she didn’t even have the energy to straighten it. Eyes that normally held a cold calculating intent now held a docile glaze of need.

Ever weak for the ‘pleading foal’ eyes, there was no arguing. I hopped back out of the newspaper stand and approached the first trash bin I saw on the nearby street corner. I reached inside to check it’s contents--Beady eyes met my own and the biggest cockroach I’d ever seen leaped out at my face. Latching on, it began to bite, screeching and buzzing in anger.

A firm tug dislodged the foul creature and it landed on his back, legs furiously skimming the air until it managed to flip itself upright. I grabbed the trash can nearby and brought it down until the insect became a fine visceral paste of chitin and twitching legs. ‘’That’s almost like an abstract art piece,’’ I commented rationally. I did mention before I was a terrible painter, my classification of a squashed bug as art was a misnomer.

Once I returned to the newsstand the trashcan was situated in the center in front. I balled up newspapers and added them to the trash can as a source of fuel until most of them were gone. I kept what magazines I wanted out of the bunch, another issue of ‘Hoofshod Hotshots’ and a copy of ‘Pugilist Ponies’ were added to my saddle bag for quick reference. Gangrene was keeping two issues of the ‘Stud Buds’ for herself and a copy of a comic issue, still in plastic sleeve ‘Mare-Do-Well #7’. The rest were duplicates that the yellow mare insisted we sell for caps or fire fuel.

Now was for the fun part, starting the fire! I had no idea how to start a fire...I just knew you rubbed two sticks together really fast. Or you could spin a stick down into some kindling until it heated up! Or there was always magic. I had forgotten about magic.

Thinking hard and staring at the trash can had no effect, and all the magic words I knew like ‘hocus pokus’ and ‘abrekedab-huh’ did nothing. Meditation didn’t help and calling the trashcan names did not incite it to erupt in flame.

‘’What are you trying to do?’’ Gangrene sat up from what she was doing, which given her tired, flustered appearance may have involved getting familiar with her own hooves. ‘’I’m trying to sleep and you’re shouting out stupid words. You’re supposed to light a fire.’’

‘’That’s what I’m trying to do. I think my horn’s busted...’’ I tweaked the nut bracing the horn to my forehead, it sparked once and went out, sending a sensation of needles along the inside of my body I would call wholly unpleasant. I bit my tongue in the panic and sick tasting ichor filled my mouth.

That was it for the mare, she growled in annoyance and slid herself out from the booth to start the fire. She poured some alcohol into the trashcan and pulled out a set of flint and steel, striking the pieces together a few times to create sparks. The fire was growing to a gentle blaze in seconds. ‘’Was that so hard? You can fly a couch but you can’t set a fire?’’

‘’I wasn’t a coltscout!’’ I justified. ‘’I guess I’ll take arsonist off my list of potential career choices then.’’ The fire was already getting low, the flames were no longer licking over the rim. Paper burned too quickly.

‘Krunch!’--the sound of me breaking apart one of the magazine stands. I had to feed the hungry fire so it wouldn’t go out anytime soon. I shifted the blazing trashcan so it was close enough to the stand that the heat would reach us and clambered back over the counter. Gangrene was rolled over attending to her...needs.

Now I considered myself a patient stallion and nowhere near prudish, but knowing what she was doing I couldn’t just sit back and watch it happen. ‘’You’ll grow fetlocks if you do that too much...’’ I chirped playfully, ‘’You mind leaving leisure loving for later? Or at least for when I’m not around?’’

That mare didn’t pause for even a moment, not even when she retorted with the bold suggestion that I should slip out and keep first watch. She was tired and needed to ‘work out a kink’ to get some good sleep. There were many ways to relieve stress, who was I to judge? Winding my way out from behind the counter I tool the sidewalk as my be and rolled my eye skyward, against the velvety black blanket or dark clouds. There wasn’t a single star in the sky.

I pulled out the obsidian box from my saddle bag. ‘’What the hell am I supposed to do with you?’’ I asked the box and got silence as its reply. It was gifted with an ominous sleek surface that spoke whispers of mystery in my ear. I pressed the box to my ear and shook it--Silence, not even a rattle.

The next morning arrived on swift winds, I had not slept at all and sat staring at the sky the entire night. I never once felt tired. Occasionally static would fill my vision and I’d be looking at a blue sky with clouds taking shapes of things like ships and pegasus in flight. A turtle was amongst the shapes I saw. Something wasn’t feeling right, it was like I was trying to remember something important just on the cusp of my understanding.

Pointing up I spoke to no one in particular, ‘’Hey, that looks like a flying turtle...’’ I was alarmed to see my leg was stark white and normal, without an augmentation. Then I heard a giggle and a deep red foreleg crossed with mine.

‘’That one looks like a bird!’’ The giggle turned to a mirthful exclamation.

I rolled on my side and propped myself up, leg locked with the red pegasus stallion at my side. He was wearing a deep smile, his amber eyes locked to mine. ‘’I’m so glad to get away from town once in awhile.’’ He said with a smile, leaning in to press a kiss onto the side of my muzzle. My heart leapt in my chest and began to thunder in my ears. His breath smelled like candy.

‘’I am too. It’s nice to just get away from it all.’’ I stated with a grin creasing my lips wide. The joy I felt was so immense I thought my heart would leap from my chest. I had no control over any of my actions, this was not interactive but more like a play.

We were on a grassy hill under a peaceful sky--then were were on a battlefield. two worlds were impacting one another and the sky darkened with static. Unease crescendoed into a rolling wave and the air was filled with ash. The stallion I was with looked at me, scratches and wounds all over him, his red fur showing through gaping holes in his flight suit. ‘’You promised me! You promised! You can’t do this!’’

He began shaking me, screaming at me to ‘snap out of it’--Then he began to turn yellow and grew a horn. The world shattered like glass.

‘’Snap out of it you crazy bastard!’’ She cracked me in the face with her hoof, growling.

My head rolled on my shoulders and she dropped me. Rubbing my jaw I looked up to her, ‘’What was that for?’’

‘’That was for trying to kiss me. You and your freaky dream talking woke me up.’’ Her mohawk was still more of a moflop, covering her face in grease smudges, the bags under her eyes were mostly gone but her attitude had not improved. The rumble of a stomach pierced the veil of anger cast on her face and she winced, licking her lips.‘’I’m going to check that hayburger stand for food...’’

I think I would have rather gargled more raw sewage than ever kiss Gangrene because as the saying goes, ‘Don’t kiss a snake, forked tongue to fangs they’re bad kissers.’ Where was I getting these sayings? They were beginning to make less sense as time went on.

The hayburger stand had a simple menu that included hayburgers, hay fries, and stuffed cucumbers on buns. It was a shame nothing could be ordered with the stand in complete disrepair. Searching the stand had proved fruitful, just not with fruit. Ketchup packets and a few bags of long expired potato crisps. With the beer and sparkle cola we had found at the newsstand we had a meager meal, mostly for her since I didn’t feel hungry. Munching on the chips noisily, she slurred between mouthfuls of beer, ‘’Mfff, you know these chips aren’t all that bad.’’

I tried one, figuring that it wouldn’t hurt--They were stale and brittle, but not wholly unpleasant. ‘’They’re palatable. Better than sewer water.’’ I popped the top off a sparkle cola, despite not being thirsty I wanted something sweet to wash the salt out of my mouth. Warm but good, carrotty!

Once she had her fill Gangrene maintained her weapon, slicking up her mane with residual grease, snorting softly she swallowed, leaving the trash where it lay. Down the street her hoof falls echoed, glancing over her shoulder she clicked her tongue to the roof of her mouth and whistled, ‘’You coming?’’

The city engulfed us in it’s charred, raptured bosom, devoid of life or calls of flora or fauna. Every city block was as wrecked as the last, everything meshed into a blur of brown and grey. It was a long trek to get to Greenvale Heights near the outer city.

Idle conversation to pass the time gifted me with information that would ‘save my damn life’ in a ‘jam’ and general knowledge. What I had learned was that caps were currency, dangers were everywhere, and the region of Detrot we were in was called ‘Dead Zone’. It was the epicenter of the city, hardly anyone went due to the high mortality rate, which meant that a majority of the supplies were unmolested. This city was dangerous before the fall and now it was even worse, according to Gangrene. The further you got into the city's black heart the more dangers you would find. Those included things like ButterSquash, ghouls with cybernetic augmentations. They were called Deadmares for good reason, dead and nightmare combined into a memetic soundbite.

What could possess anyone to travel deep into the city if things like Patient 39 were roaming around? Supplies and wealth wasn’t near enough of a draw for me to consider traveling anywhere near Tomb Town ever again. The ID card around my neck was a lead weight, tying me to a name of somepony that may have had a hoof in creating those things. A new name would suit me if my real one could not be found. Maybe something like Trevor? Giggles? No, I was more sarcastic. I would figure something out.

After a few hours of walking the city began to breathe with a cross breeze and the buildings appeared less like tombstones or husks and more like trashy buildings. A majority of them had at least three walls and the floors were level. Further from the epicenter of where the mega-spell hit, the better the city was looking--Except the air was thick with smoke and smelled like death. And better was a relative term that only described the architecture. The psychology of the area was suffering from the mad whims of the most twisted festival I’d ever seen up to this point.

A large line of signs warning of dangers decorated the buildings along the next section of road we took. An entire block of dire warnings, broken barricades and marked quarantine barriers. Bodies were nailed to boards and hanging from dead trees in various states of decay. Some were twitching or writhing ghouls that were tied to hold up signs that said ‘The dead walk’, their jaws snapped and their groans called balefully from their torment. ‘Tomb Town--Danger. Do Not Enter’ said one sign decorated by a set of skulls bound together by rope threading eye sockets of pony skulls. Blood and gore painted the entire block in the most sadistically creative ways I’d ever seen. The most creative I had to admit was the vending machine for sparkle cola that had been turning into a makeshift iron maiden using railroad spikes and gruesome ingenuity.

‘’Who could be this brutal?’’ I asked, examining a hanging cage with a corpse in it. It was just a little filly! ‘’They put a little girl in this one...’’

‘’More than half the population of Detrot can be this brutal. This contribution is from the Survivors of Tomb Town. Most turned to becoming raiders after feral ghouls breached their town’s defensive wall. Their hatred of ghouls is legendary around the Dead Zone.’’ The mare mentioned it before she laughed, ‘’It’s ironic since a lot of them are ghouls themselves.’’

‘’Self hating ghouls? I guess I can relate. I don’t care for the ferals myself...’’ Still, I had respect for the dead. The Tomb Town residents didn't even have that. The corpse turned, gnashing its teeth and tried to get at me through the bars. ‘’Turbulence to Tartarus!’’ I spat out a curse and stumbled over myself to greet the road with my ass, ‘’They didn’t bother killing them at least!?’’

‘’They’d make shitty signs if they didn’t move. Not everyone can read yaknow...’’ She pointed this out, waving a hoof in the air matter of factly. She pulled out a pack of cigarettes. ‘Mareburros’, a popular brand from what I could remember. She lit her cancer stick on one of the burning bodies that had been lashed to a stake in front of and old pet store. ‘’We’re now leaving the Dead Zone. If you look close you can still see the pile of puke Curbstomp left when we came past here.’’

Yeah, there was indeed puke in large quantities...Mixed with the gore and other ‘decorations’. ‘’Remind me to fire the landscapers if I ever meet them. Out of a cannon into the sun. And what are raiders?’’

‘’Curbstomp on a bad day. Forever.’’ Gangrene explained curtly, following the winding trails through the disgusting interactive decor. We passed under a sign that spanned the entire street, the original name of this area had been covered in blood and replaced with ‘Deb Zone’ spelled out using bodies. Somehow they’d managed to misspell ‘Dead’ so they made up for this by having the rotting entrails descend like streamers and ribbons that swept back and forth in the breeze.

Ducking under these colorful streamers I continued the conversation, ‘’What about other ponies?’’ I asked curiously, ‘’Are they as homicidal as these ghouls?’’

The mare lifted the entrails up using her magic and trotted under, laughing at my question with misplaced mirth. ‘’Not all ponies are as neighborly or nice as I am. I won’t just shoot anyone on sight unless I desperately need supplies.’’ She explained Raiders to me in length, making me sincerely regret ever doubting the depth of cruelty a sentient mind could produce.

Raiders were bad, dangerous ponies that had lost their morals and kindness to survive the horrors of the wastes and according to Gangrene should not be pitied or given any mercy. She elaborated, further explaining that they were almost all guaranteed to be worse than Curbstomp. That was all I needed to know.

Behind us the warning signs vanished along with the smell of rot, burning flesh, and death. The memories of everything I saw remained. Out of sight but not out of mind. Lingering foul thoughts burdened a mind already rife with fragmentation and dissociation.

‘’From here on out we don’t need to worry about Deadmares or mutants. Now we just have to worry about Raiders, radiation, traps, environmental hazards, starvation...I’ll let you pick up where I left off.’’ Gangrene had a dour sense of humor that was as jaded as a jade statue the size of her own ego. That was at least twenty pounds of jaded. Smoke curled from her nostrils like a sleeping volcano, ever ready to explode into flaming fury.

‘’I’ll pass on that,’’ I replied crisply, swiftly adding, ‘’How much further until we get to Greenvale?’’

Gangrene drew in another breath and flicked her ashes off into a gutter, rolling her eyes and counting under her breath. ‘’About ten more blocks? Maybe eleven. Maybe another hour. Hope we don’t run into any raiders...’’

‘’I suppose we won’t have to worry about the Vipers?’’ According to Gangrene they did rob travelers and small groups when low on supplies.

‘’Nah, we hardly have shit to take. I’ve had to use most of the supply keeping myself alive during our little adventure. Can’t say it’s all bad, got some jam I can sell and spread.’’ She was optimistic at least, flicking her tail back and forth and brushing her side against mine. ‘’It’s not a financial loss when I consider the fact I came across you, pretty boy. You’re a rare breed indeed!’’

A tremor flashed through me, even if I couldn’t feel the contact the proximity was disconcerting. I leaned into her despite myself and put on a masked smile, ‘’I’m the great and endangered perforatorial doctor zombie.’’ I needed to lighten up, I was getting too tense. ‘’I think this is mutually beneficial.’’

The mare wrapped a foreleg over my shoulder giving a soft purr against my ear, ‘’You don’t know the half of it, love corpse. you’re my golden gala ticket. Nothing’s going to stop me now! The caps will just roll in after a few jobs!’’

I coughed softly, scanning for a distraction. The ruins we passed, a few corner shops and old motels sat dilapidated and ruined. A large billboard hung off the side of a leaning multi story building that was obviously at one point a mini-mall. A few scattered pockets of residential hovels lined the inner streets and an old dead orchard sat alongside a colorful daycare with playground, swings and merry-go-round creaking in the wind. Portions of the picket fence stood defiantly against time, its gate open and swaying in a gesture of waving.

‘’This is pretty sad.’’ I spoke softly, pointing to the day care. ‘’I wonder what happened to the kids...’’

‘’Dead like everything else.’’ Gangrene spoke solemnly, ‘’she pointed to a small field of planks sticking up from the ground. Parts of the picket fence had been dismantled into grave markers, ‘’At least someone buried them.’’

That’s all I needed. One small act of kindness. Even though plants refused to grow in the scorched and poisoned soil at least those children rested respectfully. ‘’Give me a second.’’ I pulled away from Gangrene and took a moment to straighten any grave markers that were leaning or had fallen over.

Gunfire rattled the sky and the air was filled with curses and threats. ‘‘Imma gonna skin your eyeballs and fuck your eye sockets!’’ and ‘’Give up and we’ll kill you quick!’’ were among those colorful threats and ultimatums. Four blocks away from Greenvale Heights we had come across a caravan under siege by raiders. A small group of caravan guards defended a set of wagons and their passengers from an attack from a baker’s dozen of well armed raiders. Slipping into a small store for cover we had yet to be spotted by either side. The store had once been a place where they sold quills and sofas, an abundance of both was still here arranged in showcase fashion in the once well-decorated interior.

‘’Great, we’ll have to wait or go around this shit...’’ Gangrene whinnied in a dull voice barren of compassion. She tossed a skeleton out from behind the counter and went straight for the register, emptying it of its pre-war currency. ‘’Jackpot.’’ How could she be looting at a time like this?

‘’Aren’t we going to help them?’’ Maybe that was naive to ask, but I felt it was the right thing to do. I was happy that the fourth thing on my list was in abundance--Chest high walls for cover! I watched the skirmish unfold through the windows of the establishment.

‘’There are about a dozen raiders and four...’’ A scream echoed the death of one of the caravan guards, so I corrected her. ‘’Okay, three caravan guards now, two wimpy merchants, and a few passengers. It sucks but adding us to the body count won’t save them.’’ She placed a hoof on my shoulder and looked me dead in the eye, ‘’It sucks, but this happens. We can wait and maybe if there aren’t many raiders left we can kill them and stop them from taking prisoners...’’ She licked her dry lips, ‘’And suppose you did get out there. Killing a pony is much different from killing a ghoul.’’

True. Everything she said was true. I didn’t know if I had it in me to kill another pony. I’d certainly feel guilty! Ending a life wasn’t a decision to take lightly. ‘’You’re right,’’ I relented and relaxed against the cover. I curled my forelegs around my haunches and dipped my head, my crimson mess of hair dipping over my brow. ‘’Why don’t they just run?’’

‘’They have to feed their families somehow. Lose the goods then you lose the bread and butter. It’s why I don’t rob caravans. Too much to carry and I’d be hurting too many ponies.’’ Her expression was grim and unhappy, she scowled softly. ‘’I feel you. I want to put a few rounds in their skulls myself but...They have guns too. Just sit tight and wait’’

Sit tight until and wait. Sit tight and wait until everyone is dead. Sit tight and...Sit and...fidget and squirm like a little worm. Cowards never die but they truly never live! Dying really wasn’t that bad when the alternative was to wait until the bad ponies could fill another graveyard. I grit my teeth so loudly that it nearly drove the gunfire from my ears. One of the passengers in the second wagon began to sing a lullaby to calm their crying foal. Just sit...And wait. Sit and wait. Maybe the raider will just decorate their building with them like Tomb Town decorated the entrance of the Dead Zone? Maybe they’d kill them quick and mercifully? How many others would suffer because the raiders made off with everything?

Dust rained down from the building’s roof, unsettled when stray rounds struck our location now and again. Gangrene had ducked behind her counter clutching to a tattered teddy ursa muttering to herself over and over again. ‘’There is nothing I can do. There is nothing I can do.’’

Fuck this. I would rather die than let this happen. I would rather die than live knowing I didn’t do something when I could have tried. An eruption, a scream of loathing and hate tore out over the gunfire and I did the only course of action at my disposal. Overhead lifting a a red lounge couch off a display stand, I turned, roaring out with vigor and rage. ‘’This is what I think about sitting around! Fuck this COUCH!’’ The couch caught air and splintered through the remaining glass on the front display of the building we were in and crashed into a pair of raiders, smearing them into the road underhoof.

Gangrene stared in disbelief, the teddy ursa falling from her clutches. ‘’They know we’re here now!’’ She said, moving to the back exit, growling. ‘’I am not dying for charity work. Go play hero if you want!’’

‘’So much for being a team.’’ I remarked, moving through the gaping window and straight towards the raiders who were now getting reorganized. I was going to take them out during their confusion--I went straight for the first raider I saw, this one had been fortunate enough to not be hit by the couch. However that fortune became misfortune when my metal knuckles slobber-knocked him so hard he tumbled head over ass leaving a bloody smears and crumpling into a stunned heap.

There were only two caravan guards left standing and five of the baker’s dozen raiders were now dealt with. Three by me and two downed by the caravan guards earlier. I’d be more happy that they were alive if I didn’t have to immediately duck behind a set of large blue barrels when they began to fire at me. ‘’Hey! What the buck! I’m on your side!’’

My poor choice in cover resulted in me coming face to face with a dingy brown stallion with two lazy eyes, both looking opposite directions. He leveled his battle saddle against my forehead and snorted, licking his teeth. ‘’I hope you taste as good as you look!’’ He knickered tauntingly. He moved to bite his firing bit--A shot rang out and I was covered in gore. The stallion’s eyes both faced forward together and he dropped, a bullet had passed through his ears.

‘’Fuck yeah!’’ Cried Gangrene from the rooftop of the store we had been huddled in earlier.

‘’I thought you left!’’ Wiping my face clean of gore a warmth filled me that I couldn’t explain. The sweet coppery taste of blood made me shiver with delight. ‘’...And this guy’s brains got in my mouth...Ew. EW!’’ I began to spit and hack, I was not a brain eating zombie damnit!

‘’Forget what I said! I call dibs on their shit!’’ Another shot rang out and a raider tumbled out of a window on a second story building just above me. If the shot hadn’t killed him the way his head was twisted backwards and facing me had probably ensured his death.

There was something strange about these raiders. They all had muffin boxes worked into their armor one way or another. The mare with the broken neck had a muffin box taped to her bandolier with duct tape. ‘Wartime Ration Cakes’ with a pastel blue pegasus mare on the front and the slogan ‘I can’t believe they’re sort of not muffins.’ Okay so they were hardcore muffin enthusiasts. What did they call themselves the Murder Muffins or something?

Gangrene was having a hay day with her rifle, popping shots off at raiders until they were too wary of her to leave their cover. ‘’CLICK CLICK!’’ She cupped a hoof to the side of her mouth and called out, ‘’Oh no! I have to reload now!’’ When a raider peeked around their cover with their weapon drawn the yellow mare popped them between the eyes, ‘’Sucker!’’

The bodies near me had weapons on them. The brown stallion had a shotgun in piss poor condition held together by nails, gum, and duct tape. The mare had a rifle that I didn’t know how to use and a bandolier with large metal apples on it. ‘’Grenades!’’ Of course they made them look like food. My temptation to paint them red in the most deadly practical joke rose. I pulled the bandolier off her corpse and put it one over my own battle saddle. ‘’I’m starting to look dangerous.’’

Now that Gangrene was covering me I had some time to take in my surroundings. I was hidden behind a set of big blue barrels acrossed the street from my friend’s position on the ‘Quills and Sofas’ franchise store. Or was it ‘Sofas and Quills’? That wasn’t important. Behind me was the caravan of two wagons, one bearing passengers and one bearing goods. Two caravaners lay dead in the street from gunshot wounds. Forward from where I was, a motel flanked me on my immediate left and a street passing it was filling with boxes and make-shift defenses in efforts to block the caravan from getting through. There were half a dozen or so raiders left to neutralize.

It was now or never. I took a deep breath and left the relative safety of one of my favorite things in the world, cover, and entered the crossfire to charge the pinned enemy only to watch them leave their cover and begin fleeing back from my advances. ‘’...Running away? I...I guess we won! Yeah that’s right! You run away and never look back! Losers!’’

Before I could celebrate they halted their retreat, one of the raider unicorns moved a few pieces of sheet metal off the road and began pulling large weapons out of the massive pothole to pass to the surviving raiders. Once several of those weapons were pointing at me I recognized them as rocket launchers. ‘’Oh...well...fuck me...with the sun...without lube...’’

Three ponies armed with rocket launchers. Why did the world suck so much? The raiders fanned out and chose locations to fire from which meant Gangrene couldn’t hit all of them and I couldn’t clear the distance before they managed to open fire. The unicorn raider that had pulled the explosive-spewing tubes out of hiding had his mad red eyes settled on the caravan directly behind me. Avoiding his aim would doom the innocent passengers to eat the rocket in my place. The raider mocked me, ‘’Think you’re so smart? You die just the same! Hahaha!’’ His voice was irritating like a rake mating with a chalkboard.

‘’Gangrene, shoot that one!’’ No sooner had I pointed at him did another one of the raiders fire on Gangrene’s position with their own rocket launcher. A whole portion of the store was leveled into a smoking mess of rubble. Gangrene was not among the debris! She must have been buried. Luna’s blessed stars please still be alive! Any reservation about killing I had vanished for this particular raider. ‘’If it’s the last thing I do I will make Tartarus seem like mercy to you.’’ My cold words held such venom that I felt maybe Gangrene had rubbed off on me. In all honesty I just wanted to look cool before I died.

The caravaners hadn’t opened fire on their positions, over my shoulder I saw the both of them hooking themselves into the passenger wagon and began backing themselves out of the street. The armored carriage had protected those inside this long but it was unlikely it could survive a direct hit from a rocket launcher.

The two intrepid earth pony stallions died in an explosion of meat and heat, splattering the carriage with their remains and terrifying those inside. One of the raiders had gotten to the top of the motel with their ordinance and had removed the carriages source of locomotion. ‘’Now you meat puppets stay tight or we’ll just kill you all now!’’ A guffaw from the raider approaching me set my hair to stand on end.

‘’Killin’ you has entertainment value but for you to actually be worth something you all need to at least be alive.’’ Snorted the snide stallion licking his black foul lips. ‘’Doesn’t mean any of you have to be comfortable none either!’’ He promised any further resistance would be met with death. Eventually. ‘’Kill the whole lot if any of them step a filthy hoof out of that carriage...’’ He ordered the other raiders with a sneer.

This unicorn raider stood out. For one he was actually wearing some form of actual combat armor, tatter, cracked, and customized with a few skulls. He had conjunctivitis in both eyes which were swollen and red with matching dark rings around his eyes. A muddy green pelt, slightly crooked horn, and sickly orange tangle of mane and tail. His cutie mark was a pile of pony blown into chunky salsa.

He eyed me with a feral hunger, laughing. ‘’Too afraid to even move now? Where’s that bravado from earlier? That fire in your belly?’’ His tone was mocking and shrill, head tilting back in a cruel laugh. ‘’You and that fucking mare put up a better fight than those caravan guards...How about you work for me?’’

‘’How about I shove that rocket launcher up your ass?’’ My counter offer was steep but I figured with a little wiggling I could easily fit at least half.

He tutted me waving his large weapon back and forth in the air slowly, ‘’Oh my, such foul manners! No appreciation for business etiquette.’’ He stopped a short distance of thirty feet away from me, centering the aim of his rocket launcher on me once again. ‘’Well they can’t say Mr. Salsa ain’t at least a little generous...Sure you won’t reconsider?’’

‘’I’d rather not...’’ Gangrene had been right, these guys had been too much for us. Now I and the wagon full of crying passengers were at their mercy. I’d probably gotten my only friend killed. ‘’This day can’t get much worse for me. Do me a favor and kill me before that actually happens.’’ Snarky to the bitter end, I may as well die delivering a performance worthy of the hero I had tried to be.

The raider leader who identified himself as Mr. Salsa nodded slowly as a cruel smile split his lips into a window showing his poor dental hygiene. ‘’It would be a pleasure!’’ He steadied his aim, put on a maniacal grin, and pulled trigger---Click! Nothing, no bang and no rocket. He’d forgotten to load the launcher or take the safety off.

This miscalculation was all I needed to close the distance between me and this bastard. All I needed to do was get too close to their leader to risk firing upon me and hope they wouldn’t fire on the passenger wagon and harm their ‘earnings’. I Pulled a grenade from my bandolier and tugged the pin with my teeth. My concerns became the forefront of worry when the ground to my right burst and I was sent tumbling into one of the walls outside the motel. They didn’t give a shit about friendly fire! My impact left a smear of red and black trailing with me as I slid down. The effects of the explosion so close to me had rattled my senses into a mess of blurry images and distant echoing sounds. It took a few moments for these feelings to pass.

The smoke cleared to reveal Mr. Salsa had escaped any serious harm by casting a shield spell. Life just wasn’t fair. ‘’Ah, that one was a close one. Fucking moron nearly hit me too!’’ He brushed off his armor with a few flourishes of his telekinetic power and raised his launcher towards me again, this time he disengaged the safety that had jammed. ‘’No more interruptions! I want to feel your juice on my face!’’

This is what I get for being an idiot. I got my friend killed and I couldn’t save anyone. I was no hero. I had no idea how to fight. Brute strength could only do so much. This was a folly of hubris. The idea of juicing on his face seemed repulsive and...inappropriate.

Was that the grenade I dropped? Why was it hovering just next to him held aloft in a force of magic? It must have been Gangrene! She had to be alive! I laughed softly, the fire in my kiln was soaked with cold air and filled me with moxy. ‘’How about you get blown first?’’ I spat the grenade pin out on the ground. He didn’t have a second to consider the meaning. The grenade tapped him on the side of the horn with a soft metallic ring before it exploded.

I indulged to see his form combust into a red mist the likeness of his own cutie mark. My bones cracked into place and injuries I sustained from the rocket strike earlier began to recover on their own. Were those healing potions I took yesterday finally kicking in? About damn time. There were two raiders still left armed with those launchers and their confusion wouldn’t last for long.

So I took Chunky Salsa’s rocket launcher off the fine red paste that was his body and leveled it at my first target--A unicorn mare who seemed to be caught between understanding what had just happened and choosing me or the carriage as her target. I had no idea how to fire this damn thing so I judged the distance and hurled the loaded rocket launcher at her. The brutal impact shattered her horn and crushed her skull. Her body rag dolled on the sidewalk and twitched, heaving a few times before falling still.

‘’One left...’’ I rasped gravely to myself, spinning to face the motel. They had yet to fire on either of us and I assumed he was considering his chances of being able to kill me. ‘’I know you’re there! I have an important fact to bring to your attention. All your friends are dead. Those hostages won’t keep you safe from me. If they die your death will become a session of stress relief that you will survive just long enough to regret!’’ Was I bluffing? I certainly hoped so. Even I was unsure of the depth of my malice.

‘Clank!’ An ammunition box tumbled out of one of the windows, breaking open as it hit the ground. Several metal apples rolled out. ‘’Oh...’’ That was quaint. I leapt over a trashcan to take cover. The air sizzled with shrapnel and dirt that obliterated the trashcan. The earth stallion raider did not emerge or continue attacking. A flurry of hooves echoes from a distant alleyway and doppled out into silence.

The passengers were now leaving the confines of the carriage as I made my approach. Some were couples hugging while others were silent in the wake of the attack. A mother and her foal were overjoyed to be in the custody of their own embrace instead of the enslavement of the raiders. I caught the ominous glance of an older pony gentleman with a handlebar mustache grey with age--Their triple-star cutie mark identified them to me as a law-stallion. I wondered why he hadn’t done anything to help defend the caravan.

Only two of the passengers approached me right away. A pony covered completely in a hole riddled brown cloak wearing a plague doctor’s mask that had a very avian appearance and a sleek opaque violet mare wearing the tattered and stitched together remains of a business suit.

‘’I’d like to formally thank you for rescuing my caravan. I was beginning to worry when the rocket launchers began to appear.’’ The mare chimed in a cold-cut manner. ‘’I’ve never seen somepony take on the Muffin Cake Raiders with furniture before.’’

‘’I have weapon proficiency with furniture I suppose?’’ I commented off-hoofedly, glancing around for my companion. ‘’Did you see where Gangrene went? She really saved my ass with that grenade trick.’’ That crazy bitch had probably slipped off the roof and had found a better position. I cupped my mechanical hand to the side of my snout and began to call out for her.

The plague doctor coughed and cleared his throat with the sound of a clogged sink being flushed of phlegm to attract my attention. He spoke in a gravelly voice, ‘’Oh, the grenade levitation was me. I was inspired to do something since our sheriff was too terrified to help you.’’

All the warmth left me and ice grew over my insides. ‘’That was...you...’’ I bleated, my eye widening slowly. ‘’Then that means...’’ If I didn’t say it then it wasn’t real. It didn’t happen and I’d never have to face the reality of this predicament. ‘’This isn’t happening!’’

Digging through the rubble, frantically hefting the objects and wall sections of the building like they had been weightless. My mind was gone in the desperate attempt to find my friend. My only friend I had. ‘’Damnit damnit damnit! You better be alive Gangrene!’’ I would never think of her as a viper ever again! I’d think of her as more of a moth or something a little more graceful.

‘’Come on, give me a hoof here!’’ I called upon the favor of the caravan I had just saved. The caravan’s leader and the plague doctor moved into action to help, trailed by the small foal. The mother scooped him up and kept him behind her forelegs.

‘’Momma! We gotta help! We gotta!’’ The child bayed entreatingly.

‘’No! I want you to stay away from that thing!’’ Her hard stare was centered on me. It wasn’t hard to tell what she was talking about. So I was just a thing? I was the thing that saved their ungrateful plots!

Things couldn’t get much worse at this point. Only two ponies were sifting through the store’s wreckage with me while the others were considering leaving now. I couldn’t blame them, I wanted to leave too but abandoning Gangrene out here was wrong.

I have found I am often wrong about how much worse a situation can get. I heard the click of a weapon and I knew that due to my horrid luck it must be leveled right at the base of my skull. ‘’Don’t you move monster...’’ The sheriff’s gruff voice sounded dark and full of loathing. ‘’What are you doing out of the Dead Zone, you monster? You should be dead after getting hit with a fucking rocket! You’re one of those things!’’

‘’I’m outside the Dead Zone so I could regret saving your ass...’’ I froze where I was as he had ordered. ‘’It’s cute that you will point a gun at someone that helped you but you won’t fire a single bullet in the defense of your own fucking caravan.’’

‘’What didja say boy?’’ The unicorn stallion sneered, grinding the barrel of the gun into the back of my head and forcing my head down with it. ‘’Say that again!’’

‘’He called you a coward, Gaoler,’’ The mare in the suit called him out while she sifted through the rubble tirelessly, ‘’And he’s right. That gun hasn’t been fired since the start of this fight. You crawled into the carriage the moment it started. to be honest I don’t care what you think he is, the fact is he and his friend saved our lives.’’

‘’He let one of them get away! They’ll bring reinforcements and kill us all!’’ Gaoler shot back with his deep and booming voice. ‘’We’re fucked either way! We can’t pull both wagons with what we’ve got left! He hasn’t made anything better!’’

‘’And shooting the pony that helped us will solve our other problems?’’ The mare rolled her eyes and moved to the sheriff, cracking him across the face with her hoof. ‘’You’re a shame to your authority. Now pony up or stand with the other passengers.’’

The exchange ended there and Gaoler slunk back to the carriage with wounded pride. He began organizing their withdrawal from this area, choosing who would be pulling the armored passenger wagon with him.

‘’I’ve found her!’’ The plague doctor called out, waving me over frantically. ‘’She’s right over here!’’

Vaulting over any obstacle in my way I reached him and helped him clear the coches off of where Gangrene laid. She had managed to curl herself under them to avoid being crushed but she had still been hurt badly. The ruddy white couch she had been pinned under was soaked with blood.

‘’Gangrene!’’ I cradled her, wincing when I heard her cough. ‘’You’re still alive!’’ Praise Celestia in heaven she was still alive!

‘’We...won, huh?’’ She croaked dryly, laughing under her breath. ‘’You reckless son of a whorse...you almost got us to buy the farm...’’ She was struggling to talk, bleeding from injuries the nature of which I did not know. ‘’I still have dibs....on their stuff...’’

‘’Yeah, I know! Their stuff is all yours...’’ I brushed the greasy black mane from her eyes and looked for her saddlebag, ‘’We need to get you some healing potions. You’ll be alright. You’re going to be okay!’’ This was all my fault. If I had listened to her she wouldn’t be hurt like this. This was all my fault!

Her saddlebag had been crushed, all of the potions and medical supplies were useless. I dumped it out to salvage something, anything! ‘’Throw me an apple here!’’ I begged some force of nature greater than my understanding and received no divine intervention.

‘’You know...’’ The yellow mare dying in my hooves continued on her stuttering epiphany, ‘’It wasn’t so bad I guess...Being a hero for once.’’ She was laughing! Why was she laughing?! This wasn’t funny!

‘’Don’t talk like that! You’re going to be fine, I promise!’’ Promises were meant to be kept, they were secret. ‘’Cross my heart hope to fly, stick a cupcake in my eye!’’ I swore on an oath that meant something to me. A Pinkie Promise was a promise for forever! ‘’I won’t let you die.’’

‘’You have to make sure the supplies make it to G-greenvale, SteelGraft. O-or this won’t mean anything. Just make sure some of t-those supplies get to the Community Center.’’ She wasn’t making any sense, this wasn’t Gangrene at all! The greedy, cunning, smart assed mare that gave no care about anything! She was acting so damn noble. So calm and happy. ‘’Promise me that, okay?’’

‘’You’re not doing this to me. You are not dying on me. I...’’ Why couldn’t I cry? I should be crying. Maybe ghouls couldn’t cry? The dead don’t cry...Even if they have tears to shed.

The yellow mare was looking pale, losing consciousness and sparing me no more words. My jaw grit hard and I was pinned between the needs of my friend and the needs of the many.

‘’Hey, make your damn self useful and pull the supply wagon!’’ The sheriff was badgering me already to help them even when my friend was dying. ‘’We have to move now! The raiders will be back with reinforcements!’’

The plague doctor rested a hoof on my shoulder, ‘’I don’t think any health potions we have are enough. She needs immediate medical attention. If you left now you could get to Greenvale Heights within minutes.’’ he was the other side of this dynamic situation representing the other choice I could make. ‘’But it’s not the safest place for your kind. Showing up with the caravan would be safer...But I’m afraid this mare has no time for that.’’

‘’And why can’t everyone walk and you take the supplies? It’s only four blocks.’’ I said bitterly, it was hard to believe they couldn’t make it four blocks walking and defend the supplies themselves. Maybe they were tired and scared but that wasn’t my issue. ‘’Why don’t you find a solution?’’

‘’The supply wagon is too heavy for Gaoler and no one else is strong enough to pull the armored passenger wagon.’’ The caravan leader explained, ‘’I won’t fault you if you choose your friend over these supplies. You’re right, it’s not your problem but these supplies are necessary to Greenvale. We could put her into the passenger wagon and you could pull the supplies. I’d get you into Greenvale safely.’’

‘’She doesn’t have time for that!’’ I exclaimed in frustration. I was holding her in my hooves as she struggled to breath. Her injuries were more than could be treated out herewith what we had. I had to get Gangrene to Greenvale Heights in order to save her.

The wagons would slow me down, the barricades left in the way would have to be cleared. Four blocks was faster on hoof than it would be dragging a wagon behind me. I had to make a choice. What would I choose? The life of my only friend or the needs of the many at Greenvale Heights? Getting my friend mixed into this mess was my fault and I had to fix it. Why couldn't it be me? I’d be fine if it had been me that was suffering because of my own crippling stupidity!

What was I going to do? What was the right decision? With only seconds to decide there was no dwelling. There had to be action. I made my choice...

Please refer to the Character Progress Review to see the character progress of...This colorful ~~hero~~ moron.

Chapter 4: Burden

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"Burden"
Blessing and burden both start with ‘B’. The similarity ends there.

A captive of my own choice to do what was right to me at the time, judged and condemned for what I was. Many things transpired before and during my captivity in the cells at Gaoler’s jail that prelude my current predicament. I had chosen to save the life of my only friend instead of escorting the caravan. Ignoring the warnings of the caravan leader had reaped me no reward. While I had avoided being gunned down on sight because I had a wounded mare I had not escaped consequence for my actions. Giving myself up provided Gangrene the quick care she needed at the cost of my freedom and all my worldly possessions. Now I was property, wearing a collar packed with enough explosives to pop my head off if I did anything to disobey the authorities.

Greenvale Heights was an ill attributed name. This complex was subterranean and made by a mixture of subway and sewage sections opened up to one another with hastily constructed tunnels. The only thing that was accurate about its name was the green moss growing on the majority of the walls, bioluminescence causing them to glow. Ponies scraped the walls daily, using it as a staple food. Thankfully I didn’t feel the need to eat the gruel the guards presented to me in a shallow tin bowl.

The name rightfully belonged to the gated suburbs that sat above the tunnels, circled in a massive concrete and sheet metal wall. On the surface wealthy ponies lived in reconstructed homes that weakly echoed their former opulence. A skilled working class kept the generators and water purifiers running underground. I didn’t know much other than that.

The cell blocks were next to the sewage treatment pumps, turning the floors and walls into a reeking quagmire of dampness. Dysentery and abuse by guards were the most common ways for captives to die here. Harsh working conditions forced upon captives to work off their time weakened once strong bodies and left them empty shells, sick and wilted. Their only hope was to be ‘purchased’ as indentured servants by one of the businesses or a wealthy member of the community or outlast their sentence. It was no wonder the name for the jail was just as unfitting, They called it ‘The Sink’ where ponies would wash free their crimes and become clean. There was no way to become clean in a place like this. You could only breed desperation and disease here.

The cells were rooms formed from metal bars with extra metal plating held on by rivets and layers of rust. Across from the cell a red brick and white plaster wall held a huge collection of bounties and wanted posters. I recognized one of the stallions from their poster, the explosives maniac Chunky Salsa. He wasn’t photogenic anymore, that was certain.

‘Chunky Salsa’
Muffin Cake Raider
Second in Command
Crimes:
Mass-Murder
Gang-Rape
Kidnapping
Wanted Dead or Alive
750 Cap Reward

Well he sounded pleasant. No wonder he was such a pain in the ass. Gangrene would be elated to see his bounty and more than eagerly claim her half of the reward. She was well, I hoped. The tough mare had probably recovered by now.

I had no idea how much time had passed since my incarceration-could have been days or even a week at most. There was no clock or method of measuring time here. My only clues were the frequency of the meals that were delivered and how often the ruddy green stallion Gaoler slept at his desk. That hadn’t been much of a clue, seeing as the sheriff was in the habit of constantly taking naps between rounds of hassling the inmates, bringing in new ones, taking his time to hurl insults at the ghouls in the cell next to mine, or leaving to relieve himself.

Admittedly I was appalled to see rationally thinking ghouls down here. Gangrene had mentioned them before but I didn’t know how I would feel when I met one. I was a ghoul too! Maybe I should have been happy to not be alone in my status as an undead. Except something set me apart from other ghouls. My body was incredibly well preserved and wasn't rotten like their bodies. I could pass for living if I covered up the stitching and masked my smell. Suffice to say, these ghouls probably couldn’t pull off the ‘living’ look very well. also there was the whole...stigmata of being accused of being a ‘Deadmare’ I had to deal with.

‘’P-pardon me...’’ One of the ghouls, a mare that called herself Marble was trying to get my attention, tapping her hoof against one of the cell bars. ‘’Are you going to eat your food?’’ She asked, reaching a hoof through the bars to reach for the cold lumpy spew they fed us here. It was just out of her reach.

Marble was a curious thing to me, much of what I knew about how the place operated was because of her. She claimed she was once a reporter for the ‘Pegasus Press’ for Cloudsdale long ago making her predate the war just like I did. I imagined she must have been lovely in her time, with both ears instead of one with a bite mark missing and her soft auburn pelt pristine unlike the patchwork mess of flesh and bone it was now. She was locked in here because she had been accused of stealing food. She had an appetite that was uncommon for ghouls.

Inching the bowl to her, she was able to stamp her hoof on the edge and drag it to herself. A few other ghouls in her cell moved over, asking her to share. She did so without even considering how little there was. A bulk of the food went to a ghoul foal in the cage with them who had been crying almost non-stop.

His story was particularly sad, Marble had told me his family had run a caravan that was hit by Chunky Salsa who used a ‘Balefire Egg Launcher’ to decimate everything. Instead of dying he and his family became either ghouls or ash. He was the only one to retain his sanity. The colt’s own family had tried to eat him.

By the time my food was gone, Marble had not eaten any of it. The kind mare was now rocking the ghoulified colt off to restful sleep in her hooves, planting a kiss on his forehead and laying him down on the filthy mattress that was their bedding.‘’Thank you. You know we ghouls don’t really need to eat much but the kid’s not used to it. Eating a filling meal helps a ghoul think they're still equine,’’ she said to me through the bars, running her hoof over the foals tattered and patchy black mane.

‘’It’s no problem. I wasn’t going to eat it anyway.’’ I replied, waving my foreleg to her in a dismissive motion to convey that to me it wasn’t a big deal.

On the other side of me a living inmate grumbled, rasping irritably. ‘’Aw come on guy! You gave your meal tah them? They don’t even need the food that badly!’’ A butter covered stallion with a cutie mark of a crossed pair of pickaxes gripped the bars on his side and glared at me. ‘’Hey if you ain’t gonna drink your water give it here!’’ His accent bore a resemblance to Gaoler’s.

Wordlessly I picked up the cup in my grip and held it out to him. The stallion plucked it from my grasp quickly, afraid I might do something horrible to him. Taking a long draw from the small cup he downed it all and smacked his lips, thirst quenched.

‘’Guess you’re not so bad,’’ he said while casting the cup aside to clatter across the hard stone floor. ‘’Them ghouls don’t need food, you should give your next meal tah one ah the breathers. We need it a lot more than them corpses,’’ malcontent words spilled passed his peeled lips.

‘’We’re ponies too!’’ Marble growled to Gold Digger, what was left of her curly brown mane was standing on end.

"How long have you been a comedian, Marble?’’ he asked jeeringly, ‘’Because that’s the best joke I ever heard!’’ Gold Digger laughed, pressing his forehead against one of the bars. ‘’You an that stupid brat that cries alla fucking time. Least them other ghouls have the decency tah stay quiet! So turn your ass around and don’t speak tah me you filthy f---’’

The metal bar cried out dully as I struck it, bending out against Gold Digger’s face, silencing and sending him to fall flat on his back. ‘’I know an even better joke for you, ‘’ I said with a smile, wrapping my metal digits around the bent bar and pulling it back into shape. ‘’And it’s punchline involves you eating the next meal I give you through a straw...’’

Gaoler snorted from where he was napping, face pressed firmly to a book he had been pretending to read. Maybe I would have been convinced of his literacy when he was awake if he hadn’t been holding the book upside down at the time. ‘’Hrn...Yeah lil’ misseh....It’s a loaded piece. Mmmm...I got plenty ah time tah show you how ah use it...’’ Dreams of grandeur, a window into his narcissistic and wholly egotistical dreams. He was easier to deal with after he drank himself into a stupor and slept. He slept through a vast majority of the hijinks that went on in the cells.

‘’Be quiet you three!’’ One of the other inmates said urgently, his voice low in a barely heard whisper. ‘’Wake up Gaoler and he’ll be pissed!’’

The butter colored stallion pushed himself up, rubbing the side of his face sorely, ‘’Sorry.’’ He replied sincerely. ‘’Guess Ah deserved that. Ah’ll simmer down...’’ Hopefully simmering down did not involve pestering me. ‘’Dang-gum. It must be true. You ain’t normal...’’ That was directed at me. Yeah, simmer down only meant speak quietly to the freakish stitched together ghoul-beast fitted with an explosive collar. He pressed his snout between the bars and nickered at me. ‘’Hey, it true?’’

Might as well get this over with, ‘’Is what true?’’ I turned my head towards him and he backed away from the bars.

‘’That you’re one of them monsters from Dead Zone? The dead beasts they stapled death blenders tah? Them cursed body snatchers!’’ Gold digger shifted a bit, licking his lips. ‘’It’s gotta be true. You got your own cell an one ah them blast collars. Only the dangerous ones get those...’’

‘’Of course he isn’t that kind of ghoul.’’ Marble answered for me defensively.

‘’Ah ain’t talkin to you, missy!’’ Gold digger hissed, ‘’Talkin to this here guy. Don’t interrupt when stallions’re talkin!’’ He looked to me, expecting an answer straight from my lips.

‘’If I was one of those things do you think I’d be talking to you? I encountered one of those things and they’re not very keen on conversation.’’ I answered him quickly, agreeing with Marble. I changed the subject before he could ask another question. ‘’What are you in for? Unregistered use of your single brain cell?’’

Gold Digger bit his lower lip, lowering his head, ‘’Ouch. Guess yall callin it right. It was somethin stupid,’’ he said bitterly, ‘’Ah found an ore vein while diggin a tunnel an laid claim. Dug it out an it turned out tah be pyrite.’’ He sighed, his lips flying from his teeth liberally. ‘’Buckin false gold! Still sold well, but when folks found out, wanted ah refund ah couldn’t give it out onna account that ah spent my earnins investin. Thought ah was rich! Now ah’m facin forced labor tah pay off mah debts. Ain’t fair...’’

‘’And by investing I’m sure you mean gambling.’’ I was blunt and to the point with him, speaking to him in the manner I would a child, ‘’You ripped some ponies off and you got caught. The only thing that isn’t fair about that is having to put up with your poor company.’’

He went silent, the words sinking in and having an effect on him. An expression of befuddlement and anger washed over him and he spun away to sit with his other cell mates to play a game of cards. ‘’Deal me in. This guy’s shit fer company.’’ He said under his breath, reaching for the cards they dealt him.

‘’Wow, he actually shut up...’’ Marble was impressed, ‘’Usually he harasses us until Rolly starts crying again.’’

‘’Rolly?’’ I asked her, looking over the other ghouls in her cell. I pointed to each one, ‘’Which one is Rolly?’’

‘’The foal,’’ she stated with a crooked smile, ‘’His name’s Rolly. He has been here for a while. I’m uncertain as to why.’’ She ruffled her wings and began grooming what feathers were left on the scabbed and naked nubs. She came up with a feather between her teeth. ‘’Oh! No, not more feathers!’’ She tried to thread the feather back into her wing, it looked like she succeeded. She smiled before the feather fell out again taking her smile with it. ‘’Of all the luck. I wish I wasn’t so rotten and ugly. Maybe I could be like you...’’

‘’Like me?’’ I looked down at myself, wrapped in bandages and held together with staples darting over my body, ‘’I’m not following you. I don’t look that good.’’

‘’You look so well preserved!’’ She bit her lower lip and threaded a rotten leg through one of the bars. ‘’I’ve never been vain but I’d like to think I was pretty once.’’ She turned her leg, much of the flesh and pelt were missing.

‘’I don’t think anyone should want to be like me. I don’t even want to be like me.’’ I sounded almost mournful, not for myself, for Marble and the other ghouls. I reached out and took her hoof in my freakish prosthetic and she did not pull away from me. ‘’In all I’ve seen in this world you are among one of the most beautiful Marble. How anypony could remain so kind for so long is a merit.’’

She was flush and stammering out syllables, finding other things to look at other than my gaze. She gingerly pulled her hoof back, wiping her eye with it. ‘’Where do stallions like you come from? It must be a much better place than here’’

‘’Not really. Well, maybe it smelled less. I came from the Dead Zone.’’ I warned her, scratching my cheek with a finger, tilting my head up. ‘’From uh...The hospital. I was a patient there.’’ Was that all I could remember? At least I was being honest with her.

The mare nodded gravely, ‘’That’s surprising. They say that place is cursed. And that’s where you lived? Is it as bad as they say?’’

‘’Well I don’t have a frame of reference. I just know their bedside manner really sucks and they let the patients wander around murdering intruders.’’ I summed up my experience in the hospital in a vague way as to not reopen terrifying old wounds and possible repressed memories. I recalled getting pissed on during that particular adventure. I shuddered. ‘’Though it was a lot cleaner than this dump. This place smells worse than my saddlebag.’’

We spoke for perhaps ten more minutes on other things, she was a font of stories from before the war. She mentioned she had a relative treated at the hospital once and she loathe to think what nefarious things were being done there now. She even clarified on the ‘curse’ of the hospital. The short version was that the veterans were all killed when the mega-spells hit, and their unfinished business and desires created an evil presence in the form of soldiers that fought long after the war was over. I knew a bit more about the actual nature of the hospital than her. Necro-Net wasn’t common knowledge. Of course a curse made sense too, maybe I was doomed to wander like one of those ghost stories.

Sad whimpers signaled the waking of Rolly and Marble excused herself to comfort him. Left once again to my own devices I sat on the tattered mattress covered in hay, blood, and other stains whose origins I did not want to contemplate and thought. I planned for what I would do once I got out. Breaking out would be trivial, the bars were old and it would only take me a few hours to bend the bars or take down the door. Unfortunately, Gaoler was here a majority of the time, specifically to keep an eye on me. Amongst the many bottles of alcohol on his desk was the detonator to my slave collar. Gaoler had threatened to pop my head like a pimple already, I was in no mood to push myself out of his tolerant graces.

Escape might be out. So what if I got out of my cell? I didn’t know the tunnels and I might take a turn and end up right in front of the deputy barracks if my bad luck streak held out. There was no way a single pony could take on an entire population without weapons or skills and tip-toe to freedom.

Considering most of the ideas in my head to escaped all ended in my death or humiliation I opted for the third option in my mind. Do nothing. I would sit here until something happened. It was the easiest option of them all and the only thing it strained was my patience. I was going to add ‘Freedom’ to my list of things I rather enjoyed. I’d place it at number five on my list. No, wait! Stop the presses! I rather enjoyed having Gangrene as a friend as well and that included Marble’s good company! Freedom would be number six while Friends took it’s place at number five.

Mental List of Thing I Enjoy:
1.) Being Alive
2.) Not being cut to bits, blown up, and/or eaten
3.) Inflicting injury to abominations/raiders
4.) Cover of the chest high variety
5.) Friendship
6.) Freedom

That summed up everything nicely. My mental list was subject to updates and changes as I saw fit! It also distracted me for a few minutes from thinking about the smell or the confinement. This was the longest I had gone without being shot at or put in an awkward situation! Might as well enjoy the relative safe...boring...irritating environment. Being shot at was more fun than sitting here.

How was I supposed to pass the time? The living inmates were terrified of me and wouldn’t let me play cards with them, Marble was dealing with an emotional child who shouldn’t even be here, and Gaoler was asleep so I couldn’t call him names or tell him how stupid his caterpillar mustache looked. Could I sleep? No, I didn’t need to. I still wasn’t tired. I changed positions where I laid so often I may have been doing formation swimming or aerial acrobatics...Except this was on a mattress. Laying still didn’t feel right. I was missing something. I made the motion to tip a hat over my face and was annoyed something wasn’t there.

‘’Where’s my hat?’’ I asked myself. I didn’t own a hat. I sat up in my bedding and brushed my metal fingers through my messy crimson locks, sighing wistfully. ‘’I’m going to go insane...’’

It was the blink of an eye, the single breath to span a century, it was the shortest millennium. That was how long I had been sitting there staring at the wall covered in the posters of the most wanted criminals in Detrot or even the entire world for all I knew anymore. The entirety of Equestria may as well been boiled down into this one city, because it was all I knew now. Faces of every most wanted pony, griffin, or beast glared smugly back at me from the wall. Their crimes liquified and filled the cracks in my sanity, freezing in the winter of my heart to widen the cracks.

Murder, rape, and thievery were their crimes. All of Equestria was their victim. They all roamed free while good ponies sat in cells struggling to survive. This is Equestria. My Equestria. The therapy of thought, promising myself I would rob the freedom of every wanted pony on that list, a driving fire in my belly and a push at the back of my mind turned all processes into a single path, a rail of all thought to focus on one thing.

Reality kissed me on the cheek and brought me down before wailing on my ego with a brick. I was just one pony, a weak thing in the grand scheme of things. What good would come of one pony standing up and proclaiming they were the vengeance of the wastelands? About ten seconds of laughter before I got drilled a dozen times in the head with bullets. I was my own rollercoaster of motivation and self doubt.

A deep rumbling voice growled, muffled behind the doors at the entrance of the cell blocks, the rusted steel doors slid open with a strained squeal. Two guards filled the doorway, large draft stallions that had to enter one at a time otherwise they’d get stuck in the mouth of the door. Thick combat armor covered almost every inch of their bodies fitted over a black undersuit. Grey and red streak decals decorated the scarred armor, a crest of a phoenix carrying a package with spread wings in a circle was stamped in white over the red shoulder pads. Riot helmets with dark face shields obscured any identifying features not totally encased in armor. On their foreleg was a mount that held a retracting baton on a swivel. I imagined they could pop it off in their mouth if they lifted their visors but that didn’t seem to be its intended function. They carried along their side on a battle mount for the combat armor a type of combat rifle, 5.56 millimeter ammunition in a banana magazine fixed to the top with some form of auto-reload system. An Iron Shod firearm I recognized from the catalog in the magazine ‘Ironshod Hotshots’, the Bloomberg assault rifle.

Every eye was glued to these guards, though reactions were mixed. Some were passive while others backed away from their cell doors. Rolly began crying again and Marble was working on hushing his cries less gently, opting to cover his mouth with her hoof.

The stallion at the front looked around the area, moving towards the cells of the brig. ‘’Hmmm, well...’’ He hummed, clicking his tongue to the roof of his mouth once he arrived at my cell. ‘’This is the one.’’ He moved his hoof up and pointed to the desk. ‘’Wake that useless piece of shite up so we can get out of ‘ere. This flat reeks to the rafters.’’ He sounded foreign, a distinct smooth and jarring speech pattern assigned him to hail from a different region.

The other stallion in nearly identical armor nodded, moving over the the desk and slamming his hoof down on the desk hard. Gaoler woke up with a start, scattering the bottles everywhere, some shattering across the floor.

Gaoler fell from his perch and tumbled to his side, getting to his hooves groggily, ‘’Gah, what riot?! Jailbreak?! The buck is...’’ He raised his gun and fired several shots wildly into the ceiling causing a rain of rock and mold. That was the first time I’d ever see Gaoler fire his weapon. He didn’t seem to be good at handling it.

Cries of fear grew louder, mostly from Rolly who couldn’t be silenced by Marble.

‘’Shut that fuckin’ urchin up!’’ Roared the guard standing at my cell door, ‘’Gaoler, unlock that cell if you need me to do your job for you.’’

‘’Now wait a gosh dern minute! You ain’t got no ahthority here, Ahm the sheriff down here.’’ The green stallion stammered out, dredging up some form of courage. He was already plucking his key ring out from his desk despite his words, looking at each key. ‘’What in ternashun you even doin here?’’

‘’Can it Gaoler, you’re only here because no one wants the shit job of policing this place.’’ The guard mocked the jailer, tapping his hoof on the desk. ‘’And I highly doubt you want it getting out how incompetent you really are. We’re here for the pale stallion, Baroness Bluff’s orders.’’

The jailer dropped his keys and firearm, all concentration broken in the haze of his massive hangover and processing that. ‘’You’re here for that stupid damn thing? Ah....Good ah guess, that weirdo’s creepier than a smiling hellhound passing out candy.’’ Composing himself he picked his key ring back up and segregated one key from the others on the ring.

‘’Unlock this ghouls’ cell too, I want to shut that kid up.’’ Rasped the guard pacing in front of my door and the cell next to mine that held Marble and the other ghouls. He seemed particularly bloodthirsty.

‘’No, please!’’ Marble begged, holding the sobbing Rolly close to her chest, ‘’He’s just a little colt! There’s no need for that!’’

‘’Ah ain’t openin no cell til ah see them papers.’’ He lowered the key ring, lifting his weapon up off the ground and setting it into the desk drawer. ‘’So lets see the order.’’ He cleared off a place on his desk and took a seat, spitting into a bucket he kept next to his desk.

Way to go Gaoler, he earned a few points with me. Maybe he wasn’t such a lost cause after all, even if his motivation was to protect his own authority.

One of the guards presented papers and Gaoler donned a pair of reading glasses and looked them over, tilting and rotating them and squinting his eyes. ‘’These look official.’’ Gaoler coughed, returning the papers to the armor clad meat tank. ‘’No idea why Miss Bluff would want him, be better off torchin him. Here’s the slave collar detonator, the button is a little sensitive, least that’s what I say when it ever goes off on accident. Sensitivity varies on my hatred of the particular inmate.’’ He laughed softly, trying to force a smile.

The guards were unamused and their silence and heated stares through their visors pierced Gaoler until his smile fell to a nervous frown. ‘’Ah’ll just unlock the cell now,’’ He muttered, snaking his way around his desk and pushing the iron key into the lock of my cell. The door slid open with a push of his magic. ‘’Now listen here ghoul beast, be on your best behavior, you get me?’’

Getting up from my mattress was enough of a motion to get Gaoler to retreat several feet.’’I get you Gaoler.’’ I deadpanned, stepping out of the cell. I flexed each metal digit on my hands into the floor, tapping gingerly as I sized these massive stallions up. ‘’Can we get going already? You’re scaring the kid.’’

‘’Just follow us closely,’’ One of the guards ordered in his booming voice.

‘’Disobey any order and your pretty necklace will make your head into an art piece.’’ Threatened the other smoothly.

‘’Be safe out there!’’ Marble called out to me as I left the cell blocks. If only she knew how badly I wanted to take them with me.

They led me out of the cell blocks and along a pathway lit only by glowing moss and the occasional hanging light riveted into the ceiling a few feet above our heads. The old metal walls were rusted and had water constantly running down them. It wouldn’t be surprising if this passage was directly beneath where they collected the water for the purifier. From the cell blocks we entered the maintenance walkway that stretched over a subway tunnel running perpendicular just below it, passing many pipes that fed water and power to the many parts of the makeshift bunker. Steam spewed out in thick huffs, pipes vibrated and rattled. I saw some subway trains running beneath us, ferrying passengers and employees around the different platforms.

‘’A lot of things seem to work around here.’’ I observed, speaking the the guard in front of me.

‘’Yeah, things are breaking all the time but the township’s got a pretty good mechanic. They’re always working on making better defenses or cleaner water. Only so much they can do though.’’ The guard replied to me casually, seemingly glad to have some small talk while he navigated these passageways.

‘’A single mechanic? One pony did all this?’’ That seemed far-fetched and completely unbelievable. This was too big of a job for just one mechanic, no matter how skilled. We passed a cluster of small floating orbs of metal flittering about and spot welding wire sections together. As the machines finished their work lighting along the catwalk came to life.

‘’The Mechanic uses reprogrammed Robronco robots to do most of the work around the tunnels.’’ He explained curtly. ‘’We do the jobs the machines can’t do.’’

‘’Yeah, robots aren’t good at being assholes.’’ I chimed in scornfully, eliciting a growl from both guards.

‘’I don’t recognize that accent. You’re not from around here, are you?’’ I asked the guard at my front, his accent was puzzling yet familiar.

‘’I come from Trottinham. Lovely place, you know, if you like haunt n’ night terrors. Blasted place is crawling with spooks and mooks.’’ He briefly summarized his homeland in a brief sound bite. ‘’I don’t miss it none, course Detrot’s a pit too.’’

Trottingham, another city that still existed. Maybe I’d visit it someday after this mess was sorted out. I still had no idea what kind of mess I was in. ‘’Do you know how Gangrene’s doing?’’

‘’Who?’’ Blurted the guard taking up the rear of our train. Any closer and his face visor would be brushing my flank.

‘’The mare I came in with.’’ I asserted.

‘’We don’t know nothing about that.’’ He rumbled dully, snorting, ‘’Maybe Misses Bluff knows.’’

I was going to be meeting her very soon I hoped. The sooner I found out Gangrene was okay the better. Worrying wasn’t in my nature and I knew she had to be fine, but any doubt I dared to carry was weight my mind didn’t need.

A massive commons opened up through the next doorway that receded upwards into the ceiling, leading down a set of stairs to another identical subway platform marked by signs that flickered in dying neon. ‘Platform 4F’ was painted on every one of it’s vertical supports in faded white paint in case anyone forgot this was platform 4F. Several subway cars sat dead on their tracks, refurbished into housing for the workers that milled about, scraping moss off the walls or repairing leaks in the pipes. It was a colorful arrangement, if filthy. An automatic floor buffer sat in disrepair while a barely functioning auto-vac scattered trash instead of picking it up. It was a dump, the workers lived here in squalor. The pungent smell of musk and urine wafted upwards around the subway’s stairwell.

Boarding a maintenance elevator towards the back of the platform, it shook and cried with the strain the cables were under. It swayed concerningly on its mountings and threatened to drop out at the bottom at an inopportune moment.

‘’This bloody thing gives me the creeps. Like it is always about to fail.’’ Grumbled one of the guards, pressing the button for what level he wanted to stop at. We were heading to the ground level. ‘’At least we’re out of that fuckin pig pit.’’

‘’Those slobs really live in the slum of slums.’’ Agreed the other guard, adjusting his riot helmet’s visor. ‘’I’ll have to sterilize this armor twice before I can feel clean again.’’

Since I didn’t know their names and they were identical in facelessness I gave them fitting names. The guard to my left? His name was ‘Snicker Snore Sassafrass’ and he was an asshole because his parents never loved him due to his irritableness caused by insomnia. The one on my right? ‘Beating Barley Buffnerd’, a young wimp who went to chemical abuse to increase his strength, now he was the stallion that made the other colts eat sand! My personification of their personalities made them more likeable and helped me contain the urge against wishing them ill for now. I just knew that out of the two I only disliked one of them a little more than the other.

‘Ding’ ‘Ding’ The elevator chimed at every level, ground level flashed on the LED light display before it failed and the lighting dimmed. The sliding doors had to be forced open.

‘’Welcome to Greenvale Heights’ community level.’’ spoke a chipper and familiar voice belonging to an earth pony mare in a fresh pin striped suit. Her short golden mane framed her face in a manner that recalled the flanged edges of a portrait’s frame with a slender face enhanced with subtle touches of eye shadow. It was the same opaque violet mare from the caravan I had rescued. She looked much better from the last time I had seen her, though now she had the addition of small framed reading glasses and a bandaid on her cheek.

‘’The blasted up-crate blew its gut box again...’’ Spoke ‘Sassafrass’ on my left after he had finished peeling the doors open completely. ‘’I’ll need to page Mechanic to get this bonker-box fixed. We need the express elevator running.’’ Trottingham must have been filled with interesting sayings and expressions.

‘’Everything’s falling to pieces around here. Won’t be long and my armor will be more holes and epoxy than armor.’’ Commented ‘Buffnerd’ in a plaintiff whinny, wiping dirt and grit off his chest plate with a hoof.

I stood before the mare flanked on each side by the ‘wonder twerps’ security force, looking around the courtyard we now stood in. It looked like this used to be a park or a garden area for the fenced in suburbs. They grew food here now, tended by a few scattered ponies armed with makeshift rakes and watering cans. The air wasn’t as foul top side but the condition of the homes and buildings wasn’t that much better than the state of the quarters underground, just less trash laying around and the homes were fixed up better than the wrecks outside of Greenvale Heights.

‘’Ah, there’s the guest of honor.’’ The mare said to me with a sincere smile, ‘’I do hope you remember me?’’

‘’You’re the mare that lead the caravan Gangrene and I saved...’’ I affirmed, my steel blue eyes locking onto her gaze. ‘’Lady, your hotel here sucks and the staff isn’t very pleasant or bright. Also room service was absent.’’

‘’So you do remember me...my name is Pane, I’ll be your guide to the meeting with Baroness Bluff...’’ She said, adjusting her glasses with a hoof, glancing at her clipboard that dangled on a cord around her neck and popped the pen from the board to jot something down. Replacing the pen she released the board, speaking crisply, ‘’With our sincerest apologies the Crimson Carriers are deeply regretful at how you have been handled. As such our CEO Baroness Bluff decided to drop the charges held against you and purchase your term.’’ She bowed her head, her will of iron not shaken by my rude sarcasm. ‘’Please, follow me.’’ She lead the way along the winding path through the garden.

‘’Pane’s a nice name. You know, for a chiropractor...’’ I began following her, thinking the other guards would leave us only to be disappointed. There was no losing Sassafrass and Buffnerd. ‘’You mind translating that to sanity? Why would I have charges filed against me?’’ I grit my teeth so hard I could hear my jaw pop, but not once did I raise my voice any higher than a firm and mellow bleat. ‘’Was it because my passport’s expired?’’ If sarcasm was currency, I was a very rich stallion.

The mare gave me a troubled glance and sighed, ‘’Actually that’s part of it. You’re an undocumented ghoul outside of the Dead Zone. Normally there’d be no problems if you approached Greenvale Heights and was admitted entry by paying for entrance. You didn’t have any caps and your friend needed treatment. So incarceration’s the standard procedure for safety.’’

That made sense, but if that was only part of it then that meant it’d get worse. ‘’Alright so what’s with the necklace of doom wrapped around my throat?’’

Sassafrass answered this one, ‘’It’s so you don’t cause trouble, we’ve never had one of your kind in here before.’’

‘’I saw plenty of ghouls in The Sink down below.’’ I reminded them sternly, ‘’Or do you just not let ghouls up topside, Sassafrass?’’

‘’Sassa-what? What’re you on about mate?’’ The guard asked quizzically, ‘’What’s a Sassafrass?’’

‘’You’re Sassafrass, Sassafrass.’’ I stated bluntly.

‘’I’m a what? But my name isn’t Sassafrass it’s---’’ He began only to be cut off by my insistence that his name was indeed Sassafrass.

Buffnerd soon joined in, bickering with me what his name actually was and affirmed he was not Sassafrass. I argued the contrary. ‘’If I have to wear the exploding collar than you have to be Sassafrass and you have to be Buffnerd. It’s for your own protection.’’ My statement held finality and conviction that they struggled to gain traction against.

‘’He’s mental mate, all them ghoulies are.’’ Sassafrass said to Buffnerd in a low mutter.

‘’I’m starting to think the detonator is going to get sensitive real soon...’’ Droned Buffnerd numbly.

The mare leading us didn’t miss a beat, ignoring us up to a point until Buffnerd mentioned the slave collar around my neck going off, ‘’It’s a shame really, because your name may as well be dirt if I have to issue corrective coaching to your performance as an employee...’’ She hesitated briefly, chuckling under her breath, ‘’Buffnerd.’’

‘Frozen mid-syllable at the rebuke their lips were sealed and only allowed their apologies refuge into the nippy air, ‘’Our apologies ma’am!’’ They blurted together, almost as if they’d practiced the line to be delivered on cue for a play. ‘’I think, uh, Buffnerd does suit me if you think about it, Miss Pane.’’ Buffnerd agreed, nodding his head so viciously the visor lifted halfway up.

‘’I have a suggestion, do your jobs and nothing else,’’ Pane proposed this idea cheerily and undaunted by their comments, ‘’And before we get on another tangent I’ll explain it by the short yard. You were charged with the loss of the caravan’s goods.’’

I stopped stock still where we were, next to the fountain in the center of the garden. The once simple garden fountain was in ruins, the statue that was supposed to be on the center pedestal was missing it’s head and a majority of its limbs, water squirted from a nozzle in the stump of its neck. It looked rather macabre in a setting like this, surrounded by life growing in this harsh environment.

‘’Straight shot in the dark here buuuuuut...’’ I fumed darkly, ‘’Is it a stretch to say I saved your lives and you’re shafting me over it?’’ I could understand the slave collar on a dangerous ghoul or prisoner. Sympathize with them over their trepidation of me was easy. This was not easy to relate with.

Both guards stopped and so did Pane who faced me, ‘’No, it’s not. The community is suffering because supplies never get through. It got so bad that Baroness Bluff thought of sending me along with Gaoler to ensure the transport of the latest supply run. We used decoys caravans. We almost made it before Chunky Salsa sprung an ambush on us.’’ She tugged at the clipboard held on the lanyard around her neck gently, her ears cresting back against her skull. ‘’The town wants a scapegoat they can put their fears into and blame. They want you to pay for what the Muffin Cake Raiders have done to our township.’’

‘’...So they wanted someone to blame...’’ I began to pace into the garden, treading over tilled and damp soil, out a dozen feet and back. It helped me think even if it was literally going nowhere. The guards followed my every move, keeping up with me. I backed up, they backed up. I stepped forward, they stepped forward. At least they didn’t repeat what I said. ‘’Why would they choose me?’’

‘’Like he said earlier...’’ She flicked her head towards the guard on my left, ‘’We’ve never had one of your kind here before. Not this far from the Dead Zone. Yes, you’re a ghoul and we’ve seen our fair share but you’re a specific type of ghoul. You’re a Deadmare, or as The Mechanic calls you, CyberZombie.’’

‘’So that makes it right by the winds to blame me for their problems? We did them a favor! Where’s Gangrene? What did you do with her?’’ My nerves were rattled. I stopped pacing and curled my digits into the earth. Sassafrass whistled at me, waving the detonator in the air. Any trouble and my head would look like a blossomed gore flower. what was the big deal about these Deadmare? It was like a hot button for terror for ponies around these parts. They just seemed like extra terrifying hazards in a landscape already full of deadly hazards.

‘’Motivation does not justify blaming you. That’s why Baroness bluff dropped the charges and elected to buy your term to let you free. And your friend is safe, she’s at the clinic resting.’’ She pushed her glasses up her nose and perked her ears, ‘’I visited her several times over the week to be sure of that. She is doing just fine’’

‘’I guess I should be grateful for that. Does that mean I get to ditch the pop top?’’ I pointed at the slave collar carefully, unaware of how much agitation the spiteful python around my neck would weather until going off. ‘’How long was I your ‘guest’ down there?’’ I added curiously, ‘’You neglected to tell me that.’’

To my great disappointment Pane shook her head with slow grace, drinking in a deep sigh through her nose. ‘’You were in there for six days,’’ She informed me smoothly, ‘’I apologize but paperwork takes time, especially when the Township’s mayor was against the idea of letting you live. The collar is a compromise. Furthermore, Baroness Bluff, the mare that bought your term, has a favor to ask you.’’

‘’There’s always a catch...’’ The words were mine but it felt eerily like I was sharing my body with an impulsive stallion that spoke his mind. ‘’What’s the favor?’’

‘’Maybe she wants you to be her butler or something.’’ Suggested Buffnerd dumbly. I was going to agree with the ‘or something’ part of his otherwise braindead comment.

Sassafrass gave his companion a look and punched him in the shoulder with a hoof, ‘’We’re supposed to keep quiet you nutter! You want to get canned?’’

The mare cleared her throat forcefully and silenced both stallions with a stern stare, ‘’You do know how easy it would be to schedule the two of you to take the next caravan to Tomb Town, don’t you?’’ She once again adjusted her glasses, her ice cold gaze centered on me. ‘’Now sir, if that is the extent of your queries, it is time for me to escort you to the meeting with Misses Bluff.’’

‘’It looks like I don’t have much a choice.’’ I theorized, following her into the wake of the community center.

Greenvale Heights had been a modest community before the war with every common luxury a middle-class family could afford. A park with a garden and jungle gyms, a school with a small track field for games and bleachers for parents to watch their foals make memories and compete in the name of fun. The community center even had a pool to accompany its gym; the gym itself remained but the pool had been filled in with soil and was used to grow crops.

A small auditorium in the community center acted as a meeting room for collaboration among the different companies and members that were among the loose government of the township. The walls were covered in orange and dark brown vertical stripes high into a vaulted ceiling with small warm dome lights. Cleanly polished tile checkered the floor like a chess board. This was the first place I’d seen that looked nearly pristine, like it was never touched by the ravages of war--even the windows were intact and reflective. A single janitor pony in ruddy overalls pushed a cart out of one of the bathroom stalls across from us into the foyer, cleaning up every blemish or scuff that dared to make residence on the floor. She was having some trouble with the scratches my gauntlets had left in the floor’s near mirror finish. I felt guilty but admired the mare’s determination to keep this place clean even if it seemed a pointless exercise.

‘’Why do they bother keeping this place so sterile? Do they do surgery here too?’’ I joked, fidgeting in the bench I sat on with Pane. The two guards stood at attention at either end of the bench.

‘’This is the center of our management. Our courthouse, meeting room, and yes, if necessary we even set up a place for our physician to do treatments if his clinic is overflowing. It happens more often than you think.’’ Pane’s answered me crisply, lifting her clipboard to roll her eyes over the top page.

They had concluded one meeting, the double doors to the auditorium opened outwards and vomited a trail of multi-colored ponies of various shapes, sizes, and states of dress. Cleaner than those I’d seen, some wore suits while others wore simple barding. Several sets of eyes lingered upon me and mutters drifted from them as they spoke to one another. Either they were talking about me or I was getting paranoid. Several made way into the restrooms marked by signs that indicated ‘Fillies’ or ‘Colts’.

Sitting next to me on a bench was Pane, she was looking over the papers on her clipboard and making marks where appropriate using the pen gripped between her teeth. She slashed at the paper with swift conviction like one would do when drawing a blade across flesh. She recapped her pen and let the clipboard bounce off her chest on her lanyard. ‘’It’s time for your meeting...’’ She wanted to get this over with as much as I did.

I stood up and followed. ‘’Who were they?’’ I asked yet another question. It couldn’t be helped when I knew horse apples about anything around here.

‘’The board members of various companies that hold interests in Greenvale Heights.’’ She replied boredly. She had a will of iron to answer my questions but was getting tired of answering them. ‘’They were likely discussing the state of our supplies and reserves.’’ She added.

‘’They didn’t seem happy.’’ Buffnerd bellowed morosely.

‘’When are they ever happy?’’ Snapped Sassafrass, snorting against his visor. ‘’More than likely it’s more rotten folly.’’

Our party approached the double doors that had expelled the previous members of the board. Buffnerd and Sassafrass both took one of the doors and held it open for Pane and I to go through. No sooner had I crossed the threshold of the door it slammed behind me and locked from the outside.

The auditorium was dark, the only part that was illuminated was the door behind me and a long oaken table that was set up with chairs all around it’s perimeter. Several carafes of water sat along the span of the rustic table with glasses for each chair. At the far end of the table, a distance of around ten feet, sat an elderly unicorn mare with a grey mane fastened up into a bun and a sagging sable pelt. Her eyes were hidden behind a thick pair of glasses, reflecting the light produced by the two ornate gothic candelabras set on the table. She was almost avian in appearance with how she held herself, head lowered and extended, a lit cigarette on an extender looked like a twig held in her beak.

Pane briskly made her way to the old hag of a mare I figured was Baroness Bluff and whispered into her ear and offered her several papers off the clipboard. Her task finished she sat down by the hag and watched passively until called upon.

‘’Ah, he’s here? Good...Good. You, boy, sit down. Don’t be shy...’’ She croaked, sucking deep breaths of her addiction to turn the stick to ash, tapping into an ashtray that Pane swiftly held out for her. Her voice was like fine sandpaper, a hint of roughness that left everything it touched feeling smoother.

I moved to the chair closest to me at the far end of the table, pulling out the chair and clambering into it. I rested my forehooves on the table, blowing a stray clump of crimson mane from my only eye. ‘’You’re all class lady, you don’t creepy up the auditorium for just any guest, do you?’’

The old crone laughed, a dry yet sweet laugh, ‘’Oh no child, I only want you to focus on me...You’d be so distracted if you gandered all the guns trained on your chair...’’

Was that fear knotting my stomach? Out there at the dark edges of the auditorium there were guards, armed with weapons trained on me. The explosive collar was more than enough! ‘’You have all your bases covered.’’ I observed, my gaze drifting from the dark sectors of the room and trailing back to the mare.

‘’I like to have contingencies...’’ She smirked, cracked and sagging lips raising her cheeks against the bottom rim of her glasses. ‘’How are you feeling today?’’

‘’I’m so happy to be here I could just die.’’ I groused kindly, drumming my digits against the table’s top. ‘’I certainly hope this will be a blast...’’ Gesturing to the collar I managed to get a roar of laughter from the elderly mare.

She drained the last of the life from her cigarette and ground the burning embers into the ashtray before slipping another into the holder, licking her lips. Pane held out a lighter for her and a small flame jumped from the end like summoned magic. ‘’You’re certainly fresh for a corpse.’’ She rasped coarsely. She sucked a few puffs of her cigarette against the flame Pane carefully held and leaned back in her chair, a few scant curls of grey coming undone from her bun. ‘’You’re not stiff like those...’’ She wheezed, ‘’Wimpy plot devices...’’

Did she just call the other board members dildoes? ‘’And you look pretty good for an old hag,’’ I taunted sternly.

‘’You’re still sore about spending a week in The Sink? It couldn’t be helped...’’ She assumed that’s why I was being cross with her. She was right. She turned her head so slowly I hardly saw her move. I could have sworn I heard her neck creak but that was probably just her chair. She leaned over towards the pale violet earth pony and whispered to her loudly, ‘’Pane, dear, what’s the first order of business?’’

Pane looked at clipboard, flipping over a few pages and squinting to read in the dim light. ‘’Introductions and...official gratitude, Baroness Bluff.’’ She reminded, pushing up her glasses once again as they began to slide off.

‘’Oh, yes. I’d forget my own head if it wasn’t screwed on. Now...’’ She turned back to me with the same slowness that could rival a tortoise...a dead tortoise. ‘’I am the owner of Crimson Carriers Caravan Company...I didn’t choose the name. My late husband, Barren Bluff, chose the silly name...’’ Her eyes twinkled with memory behind the lenses, head tilting back and she gave a sigh of longing. ‘’I’d like to thank you for saving my secretary and my customers...Mister?’’

‘’Steelgraft...’’ I gave her the alias I used. ‘’If you’re so grateful then why don’t you take this slave collar off and let me go?’’ It was worth a shot, though it was almost pure sarcasm to drive a point home no one other than me cared about.

The old witch drank my words and for a moment I thought she hadn’t heard me. She drew another long sigh of smoke from her addiction stick and blew smoke rings into the air. ‘’I’m afraid it’s a little complicated.’’ She didn’t sound afraid. ‘’You see you managed to...liquidate a significant drain on Greenvale’s economy. While we lost the supplies and suffered a financial loss our devotion to save our customers has earned us more business contracts. Unfortunately that raider punk you killed was small time compared to his boss...’’

‘’Gangrene and I did you a favor. Holding me captive to your whims isn’t painting you in a good frame.’’ If my unrest could take physical form it would be an elephant in the room. I’m certain the mare could taste my anger in the air. She looked eerily calm and contemplative.

‘’Yes, you did. That’s not being debated my dear deadmare...’’ She cooed softly, ‘’Would you like a cigarette? These are Clever Cloves, smooth mint. They’re my favorite.’’ She shook the carton in the air with her magic. ‘’Or candy? Anything to make you more comfortable?’’ she asked sweetly.

‘’I’d be more comfortable without a bomb collar around my neck.’’ I informed her.

Pane whispered into the old hag’s ear, nodding and producing a few notes for her. Baroness Bluff nodded solemnly. ‘’I’ll just get on with it.’’ She began, ‘’We did you no small favor ourselves. The mare you brought in, her injuries were extensive...and with those raiders and their tubby warlord hitting every caravan, no supplies have gotten into Greenvale in months...’’ Her voice rose and she began to cough, covering her mouth with a hoof.

The secretary filled a glass with water and pushed it to the elderly mare, making sure her boss was alright before taking over the explanation. ‘’The payout for Chunky Salsa’s bounty wasn’t enough to cover her treatment. The loss of the supplies is felt by all residents here. when I filed my report to my boss she took action to make sure your friend was taken care of and to grace you a stay of execution.’’

‘’A...stay of execution...’’ I parroted numbly, processing everything they had both said. Everyone here was suffering, no medical supplies. The sickness, unrest, and unhappiness of the ponies I had seen so far must be caused by the need for supplies. They were stagnating. Suddenly my own life seemed insignificant to their plight, any reservation or anger I felt was replaced for a greater understanding.

‘’Yes, the board wanted to have you destroyed. A ghoul with metal parts is said to be an omen, a sign that the settlement is going to die.’’ Her explanation only mystified the reanimated corpses as some mephistophelian machination that foretold the fall of a civilization. ‘’The collar is a compromise with the board.’’ She spared a carked glance to the elderly mare, ‘’Are you alright?’’

Baroness Bluff was drinking heavy gulps of water, draining the glass and calming herself. ‘’I’m feeble, not dead.’’ She cleared her throat and Pane refilled her glass of water. ‘’Young stallion...I know it is unfair to ask this of you, but we need as much of those supplies recovered as possible...The warlord needs to move on to greener pastures.’’

A job to do, they wanted me to finish what I unwittingly started. They wanted me to recover the lost supplies if any remained unused and kill the warlord leader that was organizing the raiders against the caravans. ‘’You’re putting too much faith in me. That was a fluke. I don’t know anything about fighting or...killing. I just--’’

‘’Did what came naturally.’’ Pane finished my sentence word for word. ‘’Your kind is resourceful at creating nightmares.’’

‘Your kind’, it was a most sincere insult that struck me where I was most tender. Denying any connection with the other creatures from the Veteran’s Ward was an old luxury I could barely afford. ‘’I’m nothing special.’’ I reaffirmed. I may as well humor them for what they did for Gangrene, ‘’Who’s lucky bachelor number one?’’

‘’So you’ll do it.’’ Baroness Bluff drawled, smoke billowing from her nostrils. ‘’You didn’t have a choice in the matter but it looks better for us if your signature is on the dotted line.’’

The unwitting fool playing a part in a play, they had no hero and looked to the first stranger that stood against the current. What was this raven’s motivation for this? I doubted her sincerity in her story, whether or not she’d pop my top I ventured not to query. I stood up from the chair and slammed my fists into the table causing the candelabras and carafes to shake, tipping a few full glasses. ‘’Alright hag, spare me. Tell me what I need to know and I’ll disappoint you later.’’

The old mare nickered, patting the table with her hoof heartily. ‘’Oh I like a stallion that gets straight to the point! I love that look!’’ She was beaming at me with a smile of perfect gleaming ivory; I guessed dentures. ‘’We’ll see if you fail to deliver. Pane, tell this boy what he wants to know.’’

Leaving Baroness Bluff’s side the secretary approached me, producing a file from her clipboard and laying it open. The wanted poster there showed the face of a pig, fat, ugly, wrinkled and bulging obscenely. Five chins and squinting, beady eyes glared back at me as the creature drew a fat slug across their upper lip. ‘’This is your target.’’

‘’A pig...?’’ I snorted out, looming over the file. I began to read over the articles inside the folder, leafing them out. ‘’No...A glutton.’’ I corrected myself, my upper lip curling in disgust. ‘’Muffin Cake.’’ I had been privy to his smug face on the wanted board at The Sink but he hadn’t been nearly this fat!

‘Muffin Cake’
Muffin Cake Warlord
Crimes:
Mass-Murder
Cannibalism
Slave Trading
Wanted -Dead-
2,000 Cap Reward

‘’He looks like a lumpy sausage.’’ My astute observation received a nod from Pane. ‘’What’s with the slug?’’

‘’That’s his tongue...’’ Pane pointed out, ‘’The artist had trouble drawing it. Your target is Muffin Cake, the warlord that dominates this region. He attracts raider ilk with fear and promises.’’

‘’Are you sure he doesn’t use an orbit and promises to not eat them?’’ Was I a comedian in the making or a sarcastic plot doughnut? The latter obviously, neither of them even snickered at my joke.

‘’That slug sausage is a cannibal. Eating his own isn’t beyond him.’’ Pane uttered balefully, taking off her glasses and setting them on the table. ‘’Please take this seriously, lives are at stake.’’

‘’Sorry, that was in bad taste.’’ I admitted crisply, ‘’So tell me what you know about my target. There’s only a few things in here...’’ The file only contained an updated wanted poster and artist rendition and a small map of the local area and large areas of the industrial park circled as if by random.

‘’That’s all we have on the target. For as big as he is he’s very good at staying hidden. He could be anywhere in the industrial district in one of the many manufacturing facilities.’’ She gestured to a place on the map where large portions were circled, ‘’It’s the only place that could support his clan and still be in proximity to strike our supply lines. As you can see it’s a fairly large area...’’

‘’That’s not very helpful. This will take time...’’ I studied the map closely, finding Greenvale Heights on it and tracing my finger along the streets I’d need to take to get to the industrial complex.

‘’You have three days...’’ The old bag of skin and bones interjected into my discussion with Pane. There was a blunt edge to her words, both forehooves pressed together as she gazed over them at me.

‘’A deadline?’’ Bad mojo all around, deadlines had consequences and costs. ‘’What happens after three days?’’

‘’The collar comes off after three days.’’ The old witch cooed through pursed lips. ‘’One way or another...’’ She added with lethal finality. ‘’The clock is ticking. We won’t last long without supplies and if we can’t get the next caravan through we’re finished.’’

‘’No pressure.’’ Pane quipped in a straight fashion that could be mistaken for sarcasm.

No pressure? No pressure!? Oh no this was metric tons of pressure! I was literally only a week fresh into this world, most of which I spent sleeplessly in a jail cell and had no idea how to fight raiders! They had unrealistically high expectations of me and there was nothing I could do. Here’s a great million cap idea, next time they could just shoot me for doing them a favor. I was going to need Gangrene and my weapons for this...And alcohol by the barrel to convince me this was a good idea.

‘’I need my stuff back...’’ I muttered in defeat, there was no way out of this. Which also meant I really had nowhere to go but up, little to lose and...I forgot where I was going with that.

‘’Your belongings will be returned to you once the leave the auditorium.This concludes our meeting. This has been a pleasure Mister SteelGraft.’’ Baroness Bluff chimed pleasantly, ‘’Now don’t you have a job to do? Tick Tock, Tick Tock.’’

Back in the foyer once again, leaving Pane and that old crone behind in the auditorium. I had only stayed long enough to sign a document agreeing to this contract that lasted a term of three days. I was guaranteed freedom once the mission was complete and the icing to the cake was I got to keep the bounty, which Baroness Bluff acted as if it was by the graciousness of her kind heart that she humored me to keep the fruits of my labor.

‘’That bad, huh?’’ Buffnerd chuckles from one side of the doorway.

‘’I don’t want to talk about it, Sassafrass,’’ I taunted, ‘’Hand over my saddlebag and I’ll be on my way.’’ Pleasantries were for ponies with time to waste. My fortitude for patience was getting stretched thin.

‘’I thought I was Sassafrass.’’ The guard on the other side of the door frame bluntly stated, ‘’You called him Buffnerd.’’

I smirked, ‘’Of course. Silly me. Who has my stuff?’’

‘’Just go outside and your things will be delivered to you.’’ Sassafrass pointed a hoof towards the door, ‘’Go on, as much fun as it is foalsittin you we have other duties to attend.’’

Everyone is so damn polite, I thought bitterly, leaving the building and entering the garden commons where I would have to wait for someone with my belongings. The decapitated fountain seemed like the best place to wait, in the center of the park on an elevated concrete slab. I should be easy to spot here. I did stand out, the only stapled stallion of this township. I scanned the gardens and watched for movements among the homes.

A single spritebot rolled in a sputtering and jerking orbit around the gardens, stopping at each pony and blurting out a cheerful ‘Hi!’ before moving onto its next target. This one was odd, adorned with flapping fins and was pink--Not painted pink, the metal was pink. There were places where the machine had been damaged, scratches covered it’s surface but in those crevices the pink permeated the entire metal.

‘’Oh hi!’’ It blurted in a sharp and excited voice, nearing me. Seeing the metal bauble talk was unnerving, it sounded so...cheerful. Could a machine be cheerful? ‘’Are you feeling peachy keen, friend?’’ A soft pop of static rolled from it’s speakers. The voice while tinny was that of a chipper and happy mare. A familiar voice that I couldn’t quite place.

‘’I don’t feel a thing...’’ If reality shattered and a marching band came strolling out of the still broken maintenance lift it would still be more subtle than this thing. ‘’I’m waiting for someone to bring me my things so I can go kill a warlord. You know, just a typical...what day of the week is it?’’

‘’It’s monday!’’ The blathering bauble said, then it gasped. ‘’You’re new here aren’t you? You are!’’ The sounds of trumpets playing sounded over it’s speakers and a jaunty tune began to play, heavy trumpets and drums began to sound, then it took a deep breath, which was odd since it didn’t need to break, and began to belt out lyrics to a song.

‘’Welcome welcome welcome
A fine welcome to you
Welcome welcome welcome
I say how do you do?
Welcome welcome welcome
I say hip hip hurray
Welcome welcome welcome
To [Greenvale Heights] today!’’

During the course of the song the music never missed a beat, the pounding of drums rising to the forefront briefly before dying to the battle cry of trumpets. The bauble didn’t stay still, rolling in the air in somersaults as if possessed. The last chorus bashed out over static broke by the crags of the incredibly tinny voice insert of Greenvale Heights to the original song.

I was unable to escape listening to the song, stunned by the sheer audacity. Is it over? I hoped, hearing the music die down to silence.

‘’Wait for it!’’ The bauble announced, heralding the firing of confetti into the air from a compartment that opened on the top of it’s chassis. ‘’Another successful welcome wagon delivered!’’ The spritebot was proud of herself...Or itself. I didn’t know how to judge it’s gender. ‘’How do you feel?’’ She began to ramble at this point about her favorite colors and asking me what mine was, then somehow she got on the subject of birthday parties.

‘’Thanks...I certainly feel...Welcome.’’ This was just awkward. I backed away slowly and turned around to trot away only to have my vision filled by the same spritebot. How the hell did she do that?!

I turned back around and the spritebot wasn’t there. I took off on a brisk trot to escape the aggravating device only to be ambushed from a bush by the offending contraption. ‘’Augh! How do you keep doing that?!’’ I gasped.

‘’Hello again!’’ The bot chirped happily and then it giggled. ‘’I don’t know what you’re talking about, silly. I’ve never seen you before! What’s your name?’’

‘’It’s Steelgraft.’’ For now that was my alias anyway, ‘’Could you leave me alone? I’m waiting for someone.’’ I wasn’t keen on spending a moment of the last three days of my life annoyed.

‘’Wow, me too! We can wait together!’’ It chimed out, ‘’My name is PNK-3! But all my friends call me ‘Oh Celestia have mercy get away from me’!’’

‘’You...Have a lot of friends, don’t you.’’ I stated dryly.

‘’Everyone is my friend!’’ It insisted. ‘’So, who’re you waiting for SteelGraft?’’

‘’Someone that has my things.’’ The drive to continue this delightful conversation was null, I was at an impasse. I could try ditching the idiot ball but I doubted I could shake it given it’s ability to just appear in random locations.

‘’Oh that’s so neat! I actually have to make a delivery! I was looking for the stallion I was supposed to meet but then I got side-tracked. Everypony gets a smile and a hello!’’ Another curl of smoke and static rose from it’s speakers, the low drum of music was heard before it died. ‘’Oh! Maybe you’ve seen them? They’ve go a long red mane--Like yours, one big blue eye--Like yours, and are covered in bandages covered in filth just like you are!’’

Waving a prosthetic gauntlet in front of the pink drone I clicked my tongue and stammered out to get her to stop her blathering, ‘’You’re looking for me. Me, I match that description!’’ The spritebot fell silent and hovered closely, so close that it pressed it’s chasis against my nose.

‘’Hmmm...Are you really who you say you are?’’ She interrogated, turning on a light that shot intense beams into my eye. Suddenly we were in a noir detective movie or something.

Reeling back I covered my eye, lights dancing at the peripherals of my vision. ‘’Yes! I am who you’re looking for! Now give me my things and get lost!’’ Was I over reacting? Definitely. I think I could be forgiven my transgressions due to the poor hand the game of life had dealt me.

It complied, supplying my belongings in a sudden burst of light. The summoned belongings dropped right onto my head and floored me. ‘’Whoops!’’ PNK-3 giggled out, insisting shortly after that that was purely accidental. Pain pounded through my skull--The source of the spasm inducing pain was the horn which had been knocked loose and was askew. A firm twist and tightening of the bolt realigned the bone organ into it’s socket and sent alien sensations of sinking, falling, and burning throughout my body before all sensations died completely.

Pleasant didn’t describe the feeling of fucking with my horn. I was not used to feeling anything. Maybe being numb was better, the sensitivity of the protrusion from my head was crippling. ‘’What...Did you do that for?’’ I hissed through my teeth, pushing myself up to look through my saddlebags and collect my belongings.

‘’I just don’t know what went wrong!’’ PNK-3 confessed loudly, ‘’I think the Mechanic got the coordinates wrong when he locked onto our position.’’ The spritebot’s theory seemed plausible, of course I had no idea how my saddlebag had teleported to be just above my head.

‘’How did he do that...?’’ The world was filled with equal parts wonder and horrible. It was a multi layered cake with uneven slices made of whatever ingredients you found in Tartarus’s kitchen. It was a wonder but it was still terrible.

‘’Magic!’’ The robot replied happily, ‘’Don’t you know about magic? It’s everywhere! Not just in unicorns.’’

‘’Everyone knows about magic...’’ I grunted, riffling through my belongings. I had donned one of my spare doctor coats and refastened the holster to my Cornhusker revolver to my upper right leg near my shoulder. I could draw it easily by turning my head and biting the mouthgrip or I could draw it using my prosthetic hands. I hung SteelGraft’s ID around my neck and refastened my battle harness and it’s attached shotgun. Everything was here except the black box and the recording I had found in Patient 39’s room. ‘’Where’s the rest of my stuff?’’ I spat accusingly, looking up from my emptied saddlebag.

‘’Oh, uh...It’s not all there? Oh I know the answer to it!’’ She cleared her throat with a cough and began to imitate someone’s voice poorly. ‘’PNK-3, let the deadite know I’m fixin him a favor. I wanna get this recordin’ here and get it to play. And this black box? I’m running a few scans on it. I think I might know what it is.’’ She was trying to sound like a stallion, one with an accent that sounded like he was some city slicker stallion. ‘’End recording!’’ She wailed out with a laugh, ‘’That’s what The Mechanic told me to tell you.’’

‘’...I really have no time...’’ The saddlebag was mounted onto the battle saddle and I turned to leave the spritebot.

For an hour I wandered trying to find out where anything was. The local signs were difficult to make out, the locals scurried away at the very sight of me or to avoid the idiot ball trailing in my wake. All I wanted to do was find the clinic to get Gangrene and figure out what I was supposed to do. But the sights were more spectacular than I had realized, maybe I wasn’t lost at all but wandered to explore and see everything. The community here worked hard together and accomplished feats of engineering I thought impossible with few tools. Greenvale was home of the ‘Earth Pony Way’ who worked thrice as hard as any other pony group with little complaint. Even while starving, sick, and unhappy they hadn’t turned on one another like the raiders outside had.

The park was where they grew food, the residential homes and school was where they housed their young. I saw many adults, weakened by hunger pressing on. PNK-3 confided in me that some families had their rations cut due to shortages and the fathers went hungry for their children. A father taught his young colt how to till the ground using a plow, his muscles straining under his flesh. Three days...It wasn’t just my deadline. It was a milestone to the grave for everyone here.

‘’You have no idea where you’re going, do you Steely?’’ PNK-3 hummed from nearby, never having left my side even though I’d ignored her this entire time. ‘’Just tell me where you want to go and I’ll help you out! This place can be like a maze if you don’t have a GPS.’’

‘’How do I get to the clinic?’’ I asked simply.

‘’The clinic is located at 3424 Truffle Avenue near the Residential block. There is also a small practice located down at subway station 3E near the bar for ghouls and body disposal.’’ It informed me without breaking its unsettling cheerfulness. ‘’Your friend wasn’t a ghoul so she would be at Doc Murdoc’s clinic...’’

That name was incredibly unnerving, a doctor named Murdoc? That was a name you’d run away from the moment you heard it. The name alone was enough to scare the lameness and injuries right out of someone so they’d run from the clinic screaming in terror. A picturesque scene of an insane doctor bearing down on Gangrene with a bonesaw filled me with dread. ‘Oh don’t you worry we just need to take a blood sample!’ The shadow doctor rumbled in my mind.

‘’Yeah...Is the ghoul doctor named something a little nicer?’’ I probed.

‘’His name is Undertaker.’’ The bauble replied happily, ‘’He’s really nice. Good bedside manner!’’

‘’Groovy...’’ I clicked, following the bauble out of the park and along the well worn streets filled with wagons and the occasional fruit stand that sold apples. There was even a lemonade stand made out of a broken down sky wagon with a set of fillies selling their drinks to anypony wandering by. ‘’It’s almost like the war never happened for them...’’ I observed. ‘’It needs more color...’’ Most of the paint on the modest homes were weather worn and faded, windows were broken and boarded, and each home bore barren lawns.

‘’I know! But painting up the houses is low priority while we have rumbling tummies.’’ Toned the drone crisply. Then another voice played over the speakers, this one was a stallion, ‘’Things aren’t completely tanked but most of them don’t know what’s going on.’’ This voice was a far cry closer to the one PNK-3 had been imitating. ‘’The water purifier needs parts and the filtering system’s going out. The caravans bring parts and trade we need to keep the underlying structures up and running.’’

‘’And this Warlord stops the supplies...’’ I added. ‘’You must be Mechanic?’’

‘’Yeah, that’s me. The one that keeps the place running. Sorry I’m not there in person. I sent PNK-3 up there but I still need to have words with you. It isn’t easy being the only one that knows how to fix shit.’’ A crackle of static sounded and PNK-3 blurted at the other voice aggressively, ‘’You’re supposed to ask before you do a manual override!’’ She complained to the other voice. The spritebot wobbled and jolted around in the air, ‘’I’m trying to talk to h---No you listen here mister, it’s rude to butt into a convers---I’m not arguing with you PNK-3 now cool your jets right now!’’ The machine fell silent flying alongside me and began speaking again, ‘’Sorry about that. She gets testy.’’

‘’More like possessed...’’ I suggested with a snort.

‘’A mare scorned ya’know? Anywatts here’s the heavy load for you. You have a job to do, what’s your plan man?’’ The voice asked inquisitively, taking a turn at the next street.

We began passing a few homes that had been refurbished into storefronts, one of the stores was ‘Shot Trotters’ which sold a vast amount of weapons, another was ‘Armor Armory’ which sold armor, and the most comical, ‘Trebled Trough’ which had a picture of an earth stallion blowing bubbles in a trough advertising it as the best eatery in Greenvale Heights. All the names were a bit weird or uninspired--The general store that sold the mundane everyday items was named ‘General General’. There was an ancient stallion wearing a combat helmet snoring away behind the register.

‘’My plan starts and ends with getting Gangrene.’’ I replied, trotting along the sidewalk and skirting around a wagon that had broken down in the center of the road. ‘’Baroness and Pane blew spit at me and that didn’t help.’’

Silent consideration for what I’d told him echoed soundlessly for a dozen seconds. When I thought I’d lost his attention for being an idiot, he spoke again. ‘’I specialize in information.’’ The stallion boasted in that tinny voice, ‘’And it’s in my best interest I help you. Gangrene’s one pony. You’re going to need more help. I can recommend a few things that will make your job easier.’’

‘’I’m all ears.’’ His plan was better than mine because it was a plan. It had plan things...

‘’First I recommend you get more help. A contract with a Talon Merc might be just what you need. They tend to hang around the Trebled Trough or the bar, the Winking Mare.’’ The names around here had to have a committee filled with deviant yet unimaginative young colts. ‘’You’re going to need every edge you can get. I’d recommend you get some combat enhancing substances specifically for ghoulies. Undertaker should have some...’’ Then he paused just briefly and the sound of hooves on a keyboard was heard and then a few soft clicks, ‘’Last but not least you should check out Armor Armory and Shot Trotters for better equipment. Your gear looks bad and I feel bad for letting you walk around in it.’’

‘’Sound advice but it’s not going to help me find the fat fuck.’’ I huffed, looking at myself and my gear and suddenly feeling very exposed. My gear was disgustingly filthy and I’d want another saddlebag. Curbstomp’s smelly bag was so stiff it was almost a hard-case. ‘’And how am I supposed to go shopping without the bones?’’ I was poor, the invert pockets expel moths and dirty lint level of poverty.

‘’I’ll give you an advance on the bounty for Muffin Cake--500 caps should get you a decent set of threads and a better weapon.’’ He offered. That generosity was a big favor and I was feeling better about my chances. ‘’As for finding him...’’ The speakers crackled weakly, ‘’I might know of a lead. I’ll look into it.’’ He promised.

We turned on Truffle Avenue and soon arrived at the clinic. A two story home with a black wrought iron fence had been converted into a clinic. A sign posted outside the gate had the insignia of the Ministry of Peace and the name ‘Harmenhope Hospital’. Harm and hope should never be put next to each other when considering a hospital’s name. The iron fence opened with a slow creak and the wind picked up, scattering dead leaves across the stone path overgrown by wild grass.

‘’Did you pick names out of a hat when you named these places?’’ I asked, giving a nervous chuckle.

‘’It was a community effort.’’ The Mechanic answered, ‘’Anyway you should get in there and get your friend.’’ He reminded me crisply, tilting to study the cracks on the sidewalk. ‘’Oh and before I forget...’’

‘BZT!’ A sound of crackling energy echoed and a sack appeared over my head and crashed into my head, falling to the ground and spilling bottlecaps everywhere. ‘’Oh damn, my digistructer’s on the fritz...’’ He muttered, ‘’Sorry bout that. I’d help you pick that up if PNK-3 had arms.’’

‘’Two for two...’’ I tweaked the nut at the base of my horn with a grunt, snorting and gritting my teeth. I was beginning to see my horn as an achilles hoof to my otherwise robustly enduring body. I began scooping great hoof-fulls of caps back into the sack. ‘’Thanks for the advance. At least you have some sense to give me a hoof in this mess.’’

‘’I ain’t diggin the alternative.’’ He answered glumly, ‘’Anyway goodluck. Remember what I told you and if you forget anything talk to any Robronco model robot you see round here. Chances are I’ll hear you.’’

‘’You’re not coming with me?’’ Not that I’d be too sad to see PNK-3 leave, I just didn’t feel ready to fly solo just yet.

‘’Got things to do--Sides Murdoc hates PNK-3.’’ He explained simply. Another crackle of static flickered from the speakers followed by a belch of smoke. ‘’S-see you around...’’ The speakers were failing and the acrid smell of smoke filled the air. ‘’I’m back!’’ PNK-3 was back in control and soon became aware of where she was. ‘’Oh this is the place! So you do know your way around. I have errands to r-run. I’ll see you around Steely!’’ The spritebot fled the area, warbling in the air awkwardly.

Well that was enlightening, eventful, and perfectly normal. For the crazy! I pocketed my goods and braved the rest of the yard to enter the clinic.

My brief introduction to the clinic had been through the wails and cries of the sick and the ambient music playing from a gramophone in this modest home. Classical music heavy on the string instruments played a concert of slow melodies that meshed with the groans and coughs that prevailed the clinic’s atmosphere. Harmenhope Hospital was a very small clinic serving a community of over a thousand. It was overflowing with the wounded and sick. Every room of the two story home had been modified into makeshift hospital rooms, only the kitchen and the rest room had been spared being stuffed with cots. The walls were covered in photos of previous patients, some after recovery and others that may have never recovered. The pungent smell of rotting fish clung to the air, this was not a completely sanitary environment and stains of blood were on every surface. This was leagues different from the Stable Heart Veteran’s Hospital. Less corpses more casualties.

A griffin dressed in scrubs was pulling slugs out of a squirming griffin that was draped over the couch in the living room. The griffin patient in question had gotten shot in the ass.

‘’How’s it looking doc?’’ The griffin winced, chirping in pain as the doctor pulled a piece of shrapnel and dropped it into a tray on a nearby table.

‘’It look like birdshot.’’ The doctor mused, pulling out another piece of metal eliciting a squawk of pain. ‘’Oh don’t be a fledgling.’’ He cracked the feline rear with gusto causing the griffin to bawk loudly and fall into a panting heap on the couch. ‘’Rest up...’’ He said, ‘’At least one of us will get the rest we need.’’ His keen eyes turned and he smiled in the awkward way avians smiled. ‘’Ah, a ghoul? I’m sorry I can only treat living. You’re looking for Undertaker down at 4E Platform.’’

Doc Murdoc was a griffon insomniac that worked late into the night in his understaffed clinic. He was slender and polite if a bit eccentric, with dark plumage and the typical lion back half griffons were known for. He had a doctor’s headlamp on his forehead and blue surgical scrubs, his face mask was hanging around his neck making it look like a blue turkey wattle.

‘’My ass really...hurts...’’ The griffin crooned, beak buried in the cushions. His flank was covered in blood and the good’ doctor had neglected to wrap the wounds.

‘’I’m here to see Gangrene.’’ I said solemnly. ‘’You might want to stop the bleeding...’’ I pointed a gauntlet to the griffin who was adding a new stain to the heavily stained couch.

‘’Ah you’re Deadite everyone’s got their feathers ruffled up over!’’ His eyes refocused on my gauntlet, the dull shine enticing him to give it a modest review. ‘’Ah now that’s some nice shine...’’ The griffin on the couch was giving another swat on the ass with his open talon. ‘’Oh I know what I’m doing. Are you some doctor yourself? Got some fancy med degree or...’’ He noticed the ID around my neck and leaned closer. His expression was a priceless mixture of awe and despair. ‘’They just gave em out back then did they Mister SteelGraft?’’

It was a complete lie, I wasn’t any more qualified than him. He was better by default seeing as he treated all these wounded and made them well on very little supply or help. ‘’I uh, specialize in holes. Perforatorial studies.’’ I lied, giving a wide smile. ‘’Where can I find Gangrene?’’

‘’You mean my number one assistant? Hah that lass has been big help around here.’’ He spoke vaguely, sweeping the air with his wings and standing on his hind legs to approach me and take one of my forelegs in my grip and shake it heartily. ‘’My manners I forgot! My name is Doc Murdoc. Mister SteelGraft, I have heard good good things about you.’’ He released his grip and lowered himself. The plaintiff patient was then given the treatment they needed as Doc Murdoc began administering bandages. ‘’Go upstairs. She might be resting. She hasn’t yet recovered and she has been helping me.’’

‘’What? You’re not afraid of me? Not even suspicious?’’ He treated me like I was a normal pony. Just normal. That was more touching than it should have been.

‘’You rather I treat mistreated hero like bad ugly rock in mating roost? Bah...You get enough from others. This is place of healing. You are even my patient. Your spirit hurts because others treat you poorly. Here...You are like everyone else. You are patient.’’ He tightened the bandages on those wounds a little too tightly and received a squawk from the griffin he was treating. ‘’Now go see your friend. She was worried something had happened to you...’’

Utilizing my poor sense of direction I finally found the staircase. I half expected the steps to be covered in cots--How counterintuitive that would be! Cot sledding down a flight of stairs. Ascending the steps as quietly as possible did not stop the stairs from creaking and groaning under my weight.

On the second floor I checked the first of four rooms, all that was here was a few empty cots and some old bandages. I shut the door quietly and checked the next room. The patients in this room were fast asleep, the window was open letting in a pleasant breeze.

In the next room there was a nurse mare casting a healing spell on a patient, a young colt who was bandaged around the leg with a splint. I watched briefly, staring at the pale yellow nurse unicorn and chuffed softly, leaving her to her work.

Gangrene was not in the fourth room either. A plaque read ‘Doc Murdoc’ on the locked door. That was the griffin doctor’s room.

‘’What are you doing snooping around?’’ The saucy voice of a disgruntled mare broke me from my thoughts and startled me.

Spinning I came face to face with the pale yellow unicorn nurse, ‘’I was looking for...’’ For a brief moment I evaluated this mare, similar to Gangrene but she had a cornsilk blonde mane that shimmered in the scant light filtering in from outside and a kind expression not hardened like the Viper I knew. ‘’Is that you Gangrene?’’ I rolled my gaze over her in silence and my jaw hung at the air. I was speechless.

‘’Got a problem?’’ She cooed, pressing her hoof under my jaw and pushing it back up. ‘’I was wondering when you’d show up. Get lost? What’s up with...that. Why are you wearing that slave collar?!’’ Her kind demeanor broke and her eyes narrowed into slits.

‘’You look...’’ She looked beautiful, cleaned up! wearing a doctor’s simple barding and a clean nurse’s cap. Her cutie mark was a medical box covered in bandaids! I lost my voice and stammered.

‘’Busy.’’ She stated grimly, ‘’As soon as I was feeling better I started helping out here to save lives. I told you I was a medic before...’’ She about faced so quickly her tail whipped me in the face and she began strolling to the first room I had passed. ‘’Why’re you so damn surprised?’’

‘’You seem upset...’’ I mentioned with a hint of nervousness. ‘’I thought you’d be happy I saved your life...’’

‘’At first I was concerned that you died. That busybody bitch kept assuring me they were ‘doing everything they could’ for you...’’ She snorted and moved into the room, her demeanor changing in a metamorphosis of kindness. ‘’Hello there~ Are you feeling better?’’ She chimed sweetly to her charges. Her bedside manner was amazing, her kindness towards her patients was remarkably deeper when dealing with those young and weak or old and feeble. She did what she could to make them comfortable, giving them a ration of water.

When she returned from the room shutting the door I asked, ‘’What’s wrong with them?’’

‘’Cholera, radiation sickness, and bad luck...’’ She replied sadly, ‘’The water and food isn’t top quality...It wouldn’t be a problem if they had proper antibiotics...But somepony decided I was more important than the supplies.’’ She levitated a clipboard off a tack on the wall and began marking appropriate boxes and filling out the paperwork. She knew how to read and write but not how to read a map? Here I thought she was illiterate.

‘’I didn’t know this was going to happen!’’ I defended myself, at a loss for a proper justification for my actions, in retrospect I was convinced I made the right choice. ‘’I didn’t want to lose the only friend I had. Those supplies would have been a bandaid on a gaping wound. Their caravan would still keep getting hit. At least this way we can stop it!’’

‘’You chose me over everyone in Greenvale you idiot. How are we going to fix this shit? What the fuck’s your plan?’’ She groused coldly, her fur bristling as a hot snort of steam curled from her nostrils. ‘’Had you just sat tight and...and not done anything maybe we could have avoided getting in this whole mess.’’

‘’You mean so we could ignore their problem...’’ I accused her. ‘’You were fine with getting what we wanted here and moving on, weren’t you? The ponies here don’t complain, we would have never found out.’’

‘’And then I would have...I could just walk away guilt free but now I can’t, SteelGraft. I can’t walk away because I took an oath.’’ She wiped sweat from her brow with a damp white towel and slung it back over her shoulder. ‘’Now what the fuck are you doing with a bouncing betty latched under your brainpan?’’

‘’It’s a long story and my plan’s a li--’’

‘’Not here, we’ll disturb the patients. Follow me.’’ The mare interrupted me and trotted down the stairs and out the back of the clinic, passing Murdoc along the way. ‘’Taking a break Murdoc.’’ She told him, tossing a clipboard at him as she passed. ‘’I need to have a little conversation with SteelGraft.’’

The massive backyard to this once luxury home was now a graveyard from fence to fence. Tires, wagon wheels, and wooden fence posts were used as grave markers. There were a few ponies here visiting graves. The smell of fresh earth clung to the air and several of the graves smelled fresh.

Gangrene was speaking again but her voice became the muffled wind that blew against my cheeks, cold and stinging. My cheeks were wet with tears and the world lost focus through my tears. Every breath was painfully and the pulse in my chest was a hollow that pulled on everything inside me where my heart should be.

I stood at one of the graves that evoked a sense of deja-vu. A grassy hill of rolling tomb stones that still had space for more graves. ‘Why?’ a small foal asked me, a young buck whose features kept shifting and breaking away into static. ‘Did she do something bad daddy?’

‘’No, she did everything right...’’ The stallion I was replied, controlling my every action down this stroll of my memoirs. ‘Then why did she have to go?’ The foal--My son asked. My son--I had a son once and a family.

‘’Sometimes doing everything right just isn’t enough.’’ I replied consolingly, the words were sour and bitter. My entire world had the focus and meaning of a lead balloon dragging an airship out of the sky. I was falling in flight lost, she was gone. He was all I had left.

I held the foal in my forelegs and hugged him. He was shivering and crying, trying to be brave for me. ‘Daddy I...I miss mommy.’ ‘’I do too...’’ I didn’t think I could do this. I couldn’t raise my boy all on my own. Why can’t this war just be over?

More graves appeared on the grassy hill where they had never been before, rolling into place and saturating everything...

‘’STEELGRAFT!’’ Gangrene was fuming, waving at me frantically. ‘’Are you even listening? Come on! You’re doing that stand stock still and stare at shit thing.’’ She pushed against me side and I nearly fell over, ‘’You’re freaking out the visitors!’’

Reality was back, I could no longer feel a single thing! I was glad to return to the numb existence of my body after a memory with such moving emotion. If I had a relapse like that during a fight I’d be in trouble, I had to find out what triggered them. I shook my head free of the cobwebs and faced the disgruntled Gangrene. ‘’Sorry...I...uh, why are the graves so fresh?’’ I sought to change the subject and get an answer. Two birds with one stone.

She grit her teeth and rolled her eyes, taking a breath in and letting out a sigh, ‘’Cholera kills quickly. In a single day...it’s called the blue death for a reason.’’ She elected to answer me before I asked, ‘’It’s called that because it makes you shit blue rice water until you’re dehydrated and dead.’’

That was...disgusting. I opened my mouth and closed it several times, struggling to find an expression that didn’t seem obtuse. ‘’What a way to go...’’ I muttered. The three day time limit on my job seemed more generous now.

‘’Was that a joke, SteelGraft?’’ Gangrene growled.

‘’No! Why would I make a joke when the epidemic’s killing folk?’’ I waved one of my gauntlets at the air in a defensive manner. I was attracting attention of the other ponies that were visiting the graveyard. ‘’I have tact...’’ That was a lie, tact was for people too dull to utilize sarcasm.

‘’Are you going to tell me where you’ve been for the last week today or are you going to go off in la-la land again?’’ The mare snorted softly. ‘’And who the buck fuck put that slave collar on you?!’’ She demanded, wanting to get to the seed of the problem.

‘’That’s where things get a little...complicated.’’ I began weaving the tale for her to bring her up to speed. I told her about my stay in The Sink, about my deal with Baroness Bluff, and the plan of action given to me by a floating tin can that sang a song of welcome to me. Her expression didn’t change from the dull, bored expression as I explained to her in length the burden the leaders of the community had sacked me with. I showed her the folder, the wanted poster, and the caps we had gotten in advance.

She slowly peeled the nurse’s hat off her head and spiked it into the ground. ‘’Let me go get my rifle and barding. We’ve got a long three days.’’ She hissed venomously. As she turned her tail whipped me in the face. I saw nothing but her smooth flanks as she sauntered back into the clinic.

What day was it? Monday. PNK-3 had said it was Monday. ‘’...I really hate Mondays.’’

No Exp! You haven’t killed ANYTHING. I can’t award Exp for anything other than gratuitous violence. Refer to the Character Progress Review for more exact information.

New Mission: Baking Bad
Kill the Warlord Muffin Cake in three days or lose your head. You’d better plan ahead to clear this hurdle, it won’t be easy to do.

Chapter 5: Shop and Drop

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"Shop and Drop"

Too much demand, not enough supply

The plan had to be thought out carefully--so many things were riding on knowing exactly what to do and when. Our mission was to kill the warlord pinching off the supply routes to this region so the citizens of Greenvale could get much needed relief against several factors aiding in the slow decline in their population.

We had the disadvantage of this day being half-way finished, the shadows growing long across the ground. The sun would be leaving the city of Detrot soon and the moon’s weak light could barely make it through the haze of clouds and smog that lingered like a foul fart over the city.

I split the caps from the advance for the bounty with Gangrene so she could get what she needed and we left for the stores down the road from Hopenharm Hospital. A most unfortunate name for a clinic, my opinion had not changed in the slightest.

Okay SteelGraft...Or whoever I am...You just need to keep your focus and forget about the timer you have around your neck! All mental exercises I used to remove my thoughts on the explosive on my neck failed me. Think about...Think...About who that was. From my memory, the foal that cried for his mother and hugged me in the cold October winds. It was in October. How did I even know that?

Down Truffle Avenue we conquered sidewalk and street, for as much wild grass grew around here the grounds were devoid of insect life. No butterflies, no bees, and no ants. Well there was that enormous cockroach I killed back in the Dead Zone. Don’t think about it! Massive insects. Damnit! The grass near the street rustled, both me and Gangrene were alert and drawing iron defensively. I drew my weapon to feel safer, Gangrene drew out of habit. A small scorpion crossed my path and stopped on the warm sidewalk, curling it’s tail around itself. I relaxed, holstering my revolver. So there are some normal sized wildlife still. Gangrene did not hesitate blasting the tiny scorpion into a twitching crater.

‘’That was a waste of a bullet.’’ I asserted, ‘’Are you afraid of scorpions?’’ My taunt was all in good humor, but the speed she made to shatter the scorpion to bits held hints of animosity.

‘’I wasn’t about to let it grow up.’’ She blew the smoke curling from her rifle’s barrel and holstered it. ‘’It was a baby.’’

Just a...Just a baby?Don’t think about it. I’d shoot larger ones without hesitation. ‘’Which store should we hit first?’’ I asked, we had started down the street lined with shops and business wagons.

‘’General-General first. We need to get you a new saddlebag that doesn’t smell like a thousand asses cooking over a fire.’’ She has a marvelous way with words, doesn’t she? The mare lead the way as she was apt to do and steered our small party of two straight to the small trailer. A large wooden sign over the doorway facing the street boasted the name ‘‘General General’’--A strange and absurd name just like every other name in Greenvale Heights.

The outside of the store had been fairly normal excluding the broken down wagons and a foot of uncut grass that had dried up. A group of Greenvale citizens were doing their part harvesting it from the yard and tossing out any assortment of trash, two additional earth stallions stood at alert to kill any wildlife that may be hidden in the thrush. Inside was what one would call a packrat paradise--Except the rats were hanging dead by their tails behind the counter with an advertisement for their sale. Wall to wall knick knacks and supplies ranging from the mundane canteen and most basic traveling supplies to the ridiculous ‘Shark repellant’ that was 100% guaranteed. I did not want to know why anyone would need shark repellant in a city.

The caretaker of the place was asleep, head tilted back and jaws open with drool running down the corners of his mouth. A simple looking decrepit mule with a mangy pelt that was stained by his previous attempts at his concoctions, the likes of which was probably aligned with the aforementioned ‘Shark Repellant’.

A mare of business, Gangrene began to assess what supplies we needed and things we did not need. After she had rummaged through several bins and shelves she had a small pile of supplies that she was seeking to buy. She slammed the supplies on the counter, rousing the old mule. ‘’Up you ass!’’

The mule sat bolt upright and look around in a state of terror before he settled his eyes upon his customers and relaxed. “Guess I should be grateful you didn’t try running off while I was asleep.’’ What great customer service.

Feigning interest was difficult with so many things to look at, while Gangrene haggled in the background I was taking in the sights and smells of the collected wealth of the store. Well, mostly it was just junk at first glance, one shelf was completely covered in metal scrap while another had bins of smoke-dried apple slices and meats. The meat was interesting, it smelled spicy and salty, as far as I remembered ponies were herbivores. Who eats this stuff? Part of the normal cuisine for a survivalist.

I wanted some, mostly due to morbid curiosity at it’s taste and texture. I was very glad that I could still taste. I grabbed a nearby small sack from a pile and filled it. At 25 caps a pound it was pricey considering that a litre of water was around 15 caps. I took one pound, why not treat myself to something?

The beef jerky was added to the pile of supplies we were buying, receiving a cursory glance from Gangrene for it in mid-haggle with the mule. Their quick words exchanged lead to no lost love between them and the pale yellow mare emptied her satchel of the goods she planned on selling to him. All the duplicates to our magazines and odds and ends only net us a small sum of caps that barely covered my jerky.

Gangrene was a seasoned barterer, she took what she got for the sale and began talking the store owner down about his high prices. The unwelcoming geezer rumbled coarsely about supply and demand, their haggling ping ponged for several minutes until they eventually came to an agreement.

Three litres of dirty water, three boxes of enchanted plasters, some incredibly weak foal brand cherry flavored healing potion, and a new saddlebag for 65 caps. Slim pickings for supplies, so we took what we could get. The mule tossed in the beef jerky for free, hoping that we would bring return business.

The new saddlebag was mine, I gathered, so when time came to leave I picked it up and swept our new supplies into it. The yellow mare tugged the saddlebag from my grip, ‘’Oh no, no no no. You are not putting this saddlebag on until we get you cleaned up.’’

A bath sounded good, ruining my new satchel sounded bad. “Is that what the water we bought is for?” I asked simply, the amount of water wasn’t anywhere near enough for a bath or even a shower.

The mare trotted out from the store, ‘’That’s for drinking wise-ass. No, there’s a certain way the folks wash round here when water’s scarce.’’ She clicked her tongue to the roof of her mouth, ‘’Come on, I’ll show you.’’

Shower stalls outside, at least those looked like shower stalls. They were more like metal cubicles one would expect to find on a beach to rinse the salt water off before returning home or the simple showers at a chlorinated pool. There were no showerheads, just hanging buckets with pull chains that opened a nozzle in the bottom to let it’s contents drain out. All this right out in the open, a community shower placed behind an unassuming row of houses.

The thing that baffled me the most though, was that there were troughs filled with fine white sands and grounds silt, almost the consistency of chalk dust. What the hay is that? Did they just...Rub themselves down with dust to get clean?

‘’Now since you’re so clueless about everything let me give you a little demonstration.’’ She said with honeyed words, sauntering up into one of the open stalls and filling the bucket hanging overhead with a large scoop. She made a show of everything, stripping herself of each part of her armored barding and peeling it off like a second skin. Every subtle wiggle was accentuated by her never-care attitude. She levitated a grit brush off one of the nails in the stall and pulled the wooden handle with her teeth. A cascade of shimmering white powder doused her, running over every curve and sparkling in the light. Her head tilted upward and even her face was covered in a fine layer of the silt.

This was Gangrene, the hard-assed Viper bandit with the bad attitude and the charisma of a snake. I shouldn’t be looking at her like this. But with her golden sunflower mane and tail and the ways she moved was completely different from what I came to know of her. She was beautiful to say the least, even when the dust caked up against the grime coating her form it did nothing to diminish how appealing she was becoming. Stop staring! I couldn’t. Is my mouth hanging open? It was!

The golden idol I saw before me began to polish herself with her grit brush, flaking off the clumps of sweat and dirt that had been gripped by the fine white powder. Her body was dusted and scrubbed to a dull polish and the trickle of dust soon slowed and stopped altogether. She finished her scrub down and shook the dust off her pelt, leaving a pile of filthy powder behind. She swept up the powder and put it in a waste bucket.

‘’See? Easy peasy.’’ She stated saucily, slinking up to me and pressing my jaw back up to meet its home against my upper teeth. She skirted around me and I followed her with my gaze. She began advancing on me from behind, pushing me to back up into the stall she had just used. ‘’I’m not going to bother to ask if you liked what you saw. I know you did, deadhead...’’ She purred throatily.

‘’I...Uh...Buh...’’ Sentences and syllables, Steelgraft! Sentences and syllables! “I’m just very surprised at how well a little dust can clean up a mess.” I admitted, the world was still full of so much wonder and not all things were as horrible as they seemed. Gangrene was a testament to that.

‘’It’s talcum powder.’’ She answered, a small smirk creeping into her features and a mischievous twinkle shining in her eyes. ‘’It has many applications, pharmaceutical, engineering, and even construction. In it’s most basic ground up state it’s called soap stone, it rips the moisture and dirt right off.’’

‘’Sounds like an amazing thing. Seems like a waste to use it for this...’’ It was either using this powder or water, and the community needed the water more..

‘’It can be recycled.’’ Gangrene filled the bucket over my head, and selected an appropriate grit brush from one of the nails on the wall. ‘’And since you’re so new to this I’ll help you this once.’’ The mare pressed her nose against mine and growled, ‘’Of course I’m not exactly gentle.’’

She pulled the chain with her magic and stepped back. I was doused in the fine powder, sputtering as I tried to respond. I had not gotten to strip out of my battle saddle or bandages! A thick cloud of musty yet clean smelling talc filled my vision and soon I saw Gangrene working me over with the brush, tongue extended in an expression of concentration. ‘’Oh look at what we have here!’’ She chuckled.

‘’What?’’ I sputtered out, feeling more exposed than I’d ever felt before. I may not be able to feel it but I knew where she was rubbing that brush, watching her with a nervous expression. ‘’Hey, cut that out! I can do this!’’ To no avail, she was dead set on making this the most embarrassing moment of my brief unlife.

‘’Is that rigor mortis or are you happy to see me?’’ She cooed to me with a cruel snicker.

‘’Okay, stop no more! I’m done!’’ I snatched the brush from the air and gave the taunting mare a swift swat on the flanks with it. She squealed and retreated out of the stall to avoid my follow up swings, snorting out a mouthful of talcum powder.

‘’Fine, haha! You’re so fucking easy.’’ She rubbed her sore rump cheek with a hoof. ‘’Totally worth it.’’ She found great pleasure in my discomfort, pushing my buttons brought her glee.

Clean and less smelly--Mission accomplished! A successful dust bath. At least keeping clean wouldn’t be such an issue but I longed for a normal shower with this thing called water. By the end of the ordeal the powder had worked it’s way into my stitches, caked in with blood and sick black batter. It took me several minutes of scrubbing and I still couldn’t get all the powder out of the flesh valleys. My bandages were caked with powder so I stripped of them, adding my old saddle bag and coat to the growing pile of my cast-offs.

Everything went fine until I removed the bandages around my left eye. I had never considered why it was bound, figuring I was missing an eye. That wasn’t the case as I found I could see, but the glaring light that hit my retina caused me to shudder and cover my revealed eye with my prosthetic hand. ‘’Augh, that’s sensitive.’’ Sensory overload--Pain. Discomfort that grew from the sensitivity of light and the feedback I received. I briefly uncovered the eye and my world was briefly filled with information--Projected images in the form of cursors and readouts. The buildings around me were displayed in a manner that they must have been before the war, crisp and clean.

Unable to understand lead to creeping fear in the pit of my soul, a cold nagging whisper of a thousand woes suggesting I may not be entirely equine afterall. My companion approached me, concern etched into her face as her smirk fell to a neutral worry.

‘’You alright there Steelgraft? Something wrong with your eye?’’ She was trying to get a good look at me, guiding my foreleg back to the ground. ‘’Let me see you git, I’m a medic.’’ She studied the nature of what caused me discomfort and came to a conclusion. ‘’Sclera’s pure black, retina is gaping. no eyelid...Sunken, scarring of the ocular muscles...’’ She frowned, ‘’Someone really did a number on this eye.’’ She pressed her hoof over it and blocked the light from reaching it, ‘’Looks like a botched operation if I ever saw one. Someone tried to do surgery on your eye--Looks like some kinda implant.’’

Great, more things wrong with me! Just what I needed, a busted eye. It'd be better to just not have an eye at this rate. Gouging it out briefly crossed my mind as an idea while another considered self mutilation to be the worst possible path to follow. ‘’Great, someone tried sticking something in my eye...’’

My companion wrapped my eye with a fresh roll of gauze after making sure the wound was clean, ‘’I don’t know how to treat something like this. Maybe you should go see that ghoul doctor at the Morgue? I’ll finish up shoppin’ up here.’’

If one good thing came with being a grab bag of mistakes was escaping the mundane act of shopping to go see some new sights. I’d yet to meet Undertaker and I needed to see him anyway. Two birds one song kinda deal, right?

‘’Yeah...Sure.’’ I managed to mutter, the sensitivity left me unfocused and woozy. My cornea was on fire and I was still reeling from the sensitivity. Two things to worry about in a fight now; Little trips down memory lane and a crippled eye that had to remain covered. I think my warranty expired ages ago. A hundred years of sitting around doing nothing but being nailed to a wall and things tend to age and fall apart.

To say that platform 3E was a rat infested den of horror that escaped someone’s deepest, darkest nightmares of being buried alive would be a polite understatement. It definitely was rat infested and saturated with colors the like of red and black, red brick walls, signs and markers warning of potential pathogens and sicknesses when dealing with the dead, and my personal favorite was the panhandlers playing on the better natures of citizens for caps. Beggars that had injuries, boils, or grotesque growths and mutations. 3E was nicknamed ‘Leprosy Lane’ by a majority of the townsfolk that never dare venture here. This is where the ghouls lived, second class citizens along with the mutated and the crippled.

Even the lighting here was bad, dim and flickering, recalling my time in the Veteran’s Wing of my own hospital of horrors. Leaking pipes rumbled and belched steam and the subway cars sat dead, rusted to their tracks. There were shops down here that catered to ghouls, run by ghouls, and shopped at by ghouls. A small mural on a far wall read in bold letters ‘Tomb Town Lives’ and was flanked by several images of mausoleums and a light growing on the horizon. Upon closer inspection I had to admire the work, the flowing weight of every stroke was deliberate in execution.

The culprit who painted this was nearby with a can of paint, working on a new addition to their wall. This average adult pony was a ghoul that wore thick sunglasses. He tapped his brush out on the can and spoke in a raspy voice, ‘’Whatcha want smooth pelt?’’

‘’Just admiring your work.’’ I said in a friendly manner, ignoring the comment about being a smooth pelt. My pelt was not smooth, it was interrupted by a railroad track pattern of stitches holding me together. ‘’Do you know where I can find the morgue?’’

The vagabond dipped his brush and mixed two colors on a lid to make a soft orange and began applying that to an empty space on the wall, ‘’Yeah, just follow the subway tracks and take the first ladder down. You’ll hear a lotta boomin’ noise and music coming from the Winkin Mare that’s just above it.’’

‘’Thanks.’’ I was about to leave him to his work when he brought my attention to his donation cup by tapping it a few times with his brush. It only had two bottlecaps in it.

‘’Your words mean nothin to me. I can’t eat words or buy new paint. If yo--’’

He fell silent went I made a donation of clinking caps into his can, twenty plinks of metal rattling. He picked up the can and shook it a few times, a mixture of satisfaction and surprise creasing the rotten features of his face. He shook the can again, ‘’You call this alms for the poor, cheapskate?’’

Is 20 caps not a lot? I had no idea the value of these things. I scooped out another handful and dropped them into the can until it was almost filled to the brim. ‘’I have no idea how much these things are worth. I wish we still used bits.’’

The ghoul froze stiff for a moment and swallowed, ‘’Yeah, dying shame we use ruddy caps now. They’re plentiful if you look hard enough though.’’ He dipped his brush and resumed painting, using long elegant strokes of his brush. ‘’Eternal Herd bless you. Hope you get whatever you’re looking for. Just be careful. Leprosy Lane’s got a reputation for being unsafe.’’

I found his advice to be odd, most normal citizens avoided 3E, but the more adventurous had sought this platform for its harsh and dangerous vibe. I’d encountered several griffins here already, all wearing armor with a set of talons emblazoned over their shoulder pads. From what I gathered there was no party like a dead pony party and the bar had music and atmosphere to spare, attracting the rough and rude mercenary types.

Neon signs and flickering lights advertised the bar the further down the tunnel I went. Trash everywhere, bums sleeping under flaps of cardboard, and more beggars looking to me, shaking their cap jars. Some of the ‘sleeping ponies’ were still as the grave but I had learned from experience that checking could be rude or give you a sudden and deadly surprise. Zombies with buzz saw arms among those surprises. The first ladder I encountered was on my right, next to a staircase that lead to the Winking Mare. The committee of bad names strikes again!

Business first and pleasure later. I’d hit up the bar and seek a contract with a merc to help me with taking out my target after I got a check-up with the ghoul doctor and got some combat enhancing chems specifically made for ghouls like me.

A ladder, it was thought provoking why a purely quadrupedal species would use ladders like these. The rungs were extra wide for hooves and the slats were pitched forward slightly to help maintain a grip, but it all seemed awkward. Even for me it was a bit of a stretch to accomplish the climb down even with digits to grip with. At the final four feet I dismounted the ladder and landed back on all four hooves.

‘’And what can I do for you my friend?’’ A cheerful voice muffled by a plague doctor’s mask. This was Undertaker? This particular doctor had been the one to save my plot when Chunky Salsa had me in his sights. As if reading my mind, he added, ‘’I have not forgotten you. My memory is quite good, a week of your absence did not plague me with amnesia.‘’

The esteemed doctor was no longer wearing his cloak, but his mask remained on. Not a single inch of his pelt showed through the thick black banding around his body held in place by buckles and straps, even his horn had a rubber stopper on its end. Yeah that’s totally appropriate attire for a doctor to wear! A crazy doctor. The world was filled with wonder. Sometimes too much wonder.

His practice was beneath the subway level where the runoff from rain and moisture would go. The floor we stood on was grated metal that allowed the fluids to flow into runoff channels below into the sewers. From the looks of the tilted table and the small river of blood seeping from the corpse he was preparing I guessed he used it to drain bodies of fluids. There was a desk with his personal items which included a radio and a small pony mannequin that wore his burlap cloak and pointy wide brimmed hat.

‘’I came in for a check-up. I didn’t expect you to be Undertaker. I guess it’s nice to see you again.’’

‘’Ah, yes, an educated guess I hope. I am the Undertaker, but I’m also a doctor of Ghouls. It’s a shame that there aren’t enough doctors willing to treat ghouls.’’ He replied in a chiming voice that almost sounded like he was singing. His horn flickered again and he turned up his radio. ‘’I see, I see. You don’t mind if I listen to music, do you?’’ I shook my head slowly and he chuckled, ‘’Very good! Take a seat at one of my empty examination tables while I cover the dearly departed Mister Gloss up.’’ He draped a stained sheet over the body and dusted his hooves off in a small bin full of fluid.

‘’One moment, let me get sanitary before I start mucking with you. It’s a habit, but a good one to keep, even though ghouls really have no worries for infection.’’ While he went about stripping the rubber socks off his forehooves, I began listening to the radio.

‘’--ther tale of woe with a bad ending folks. Steer clear of the roads at night unless you want to end up like those poor unwary caravaners. Now lets lighten the mood with a bit of music. These’re classics your mothers and fathers listened to, so lets go back to a simpler time with some old blues that tug those heartstrings and sooth the fire in your hearts.’’ The radio sputtered with the occasional static, but I could make out every word easily, a stallion radio show host was telling a story that hadn’t had a good ending, ending it with a bit of advice. The song that played after was a slow and soothing melody that evoked emotions I was rather familiar with now--Wistful Longing.

Pity me, oh pity me, I can’t remember who I was. That would be so pathetic to say aloud. My internal voice was a broken record of the same thing. I didn’t want to be defined by what I couldn’t remember. I wanted to stop thinking about it. I was sick of trying to remember.

“And ready!” The song had barely hit the chorus after the first set of verse before the doctor was prepared to see me, laying out a sheet of rubber to stand on while he sterilized a few tools over a small blow torch held aloft in his telekinetic field. ‘’Now what seems to be the problem?’’

A welcome distraction and possible solution to one of my problems! “A few things.” I began to explain my situation in a way that wasn’t too vague but not too descriptive, “One of my eyes is messed up. It hurts to see through it. And I’ve been having...Memory issues.”

My eyes took an immediate back seat, “Memory issues? Are you having trouble remembering things?” His voice was heavy with concern. That worried me.

‘’Can’t really remember much of anything, doc.’’ My response was met with a few hums and nods of the doctor.

‘’I see, I see. How have you been sleeping?’’ He asked while checking me over. He was doing a few tests, checking my reflexes which were unresponsive. Next he was listening for a heart beat, checked his stethoscope and tried again. ‘’Could you breath for me?’’

I inhaled as directed and exhaled, speaking as I did. “I don’t sleep. Or eat...Or really need to breath. That’s the same for any ghouls though isn’t it?”

“Uh no, that’s concerning and isn’t normal.” Undertaker corrected me, ‘’Contrary to popular belief ghouls do need to breath, eat, and sleep. They’re just naturally more resilient. Of course all those responses could all be mental, the mind still perceives the body to be alive. I have yet to complete my research on the subject matter.”

“Hey that’s all really interesting, but what concerns me is the fact you look like a gimp.” I regretted those words the moment they left my lips. I made no expression that I regretted my words but I did, internally. Externally I was incredibly curious why the Undertaker looked like a fetish stripper.

“Oh?” He chuckled, his laugh muffled by the mask, “It is for your protection and mine. Much like that explosive collar around your neck protects others from you and you from others.”

“I don’t see the parallel.” I grumbled bitterly. The radio began playing another song but I wasn’t paying attention, all I knew was the songs were quite familiar as if I’d heard them before. The song was something about sleeping or something, ‘leaving the exciting day behind you’.

“Maybe you will come to understand with time. But many fear what you represent. People will fear what they do not understand.” He sighed into his mask, the large beak resting over my shoulder as he began unwinding the wrappings around my left eye. “The amnesia, lack of sleeping, and your sensitivity to sunlight may be attributed to a degenerative condition of your occipital and temporal lobes. Actually that doesn’t account for the lack of sleeping.” He mused, levitating a small pen light and flashing it into my left eye.

An explosion of pain socked me in the back of the skull, lancing a hot nail through the soft butter of my brain. I fell back off the table and crumpled to the ground writhing and clutching both hands over my face, “Augh! Ow!” I drew a reflexive breath in through my teeth and fell limp.

“Are you alright my friend?” He asked with less than genuine concern, seeming to be noting my reaction and judging it mentally. “That’s actually good news...”

“That really fucking hurt.” I chuckled, giving a soft snort. “Good news? How is this good news?”

“How fast you responded. It means your injury isn’t due to degenerative tissues in the brain. It has to be something wrong with the eye itself. The brain has no nerves.” He scooted the table back and lifted me up, carefully setting me back down. “I was afraid you might be a lost cause, a degenerating brain is a death sentence for a ghoul as I’m sure you’re aware.”

“Care to enlighten me?”

“Oh certainly!” He began, sounding excited to tell me what he knew, “A ghoul should always be aware of the signs they are slipping. You see ghouls are dead in a way. Their minds can hold on, an anchor or purpose typically helps them. It is magic after all. There are a plethora of theories on such a subject but research is inconclusive seeing as I’m the only researcher I know of that studies ghouls. The psychology of a dead mind is most intriguing and thought provoking in it’s function.” He lectured me in a long winded flair that had me blankly taking him at his word. He referenced a chart of the brain, pointing at several parts with a pointer he summoned from thin air, “You see the brain is made up of fats and lipids, it’s structure and connections reestablish themselves throughout life and it adapts. However in ghouls adaption is harder, the brain does not make new connections and only breaks down. Eventually the higher brain functions cease altogether and the result is the primitive brain taking over--Survival instincts and the expression of violence towards the living. The strangest thing is that they no longer require food but they still seek to eat the living. I’ve observed a fair number of ferals and...Are you even listening?”

I had listened for a minute or two and then lost interest, he was droning on and on. While I appreciated him explaining it to me I really didn’t want to sit here for a lecture. “I said enlighten me professor, not bore me to death. And this isn’t helping my condition.”

Frozen in time he tilted his head back and forth with audible pops, “You are right. I do tend to ramble.” He rolled up the chart and set it aside and cast the pointer into oblivion from whence it came. “Now I need to ask one more question, this one is very important. Can you remember anything about your life at all?”

I nodded numbly, “Yeah. I remember I had a family. I keep seeing things, the world warps around me and I’m suddenly somewhere else. Then I remember something and it keeps bothering me. Just short fragments of memories, nothing...Solid.”

“That is worrying.” He spoke softly, “An enigma! A mystery, there is little explanation for why that is occurring. Memory orbs can invoke such things but to project your memories onto the world around you and reliving them? That’s hallucination...That means mental instability and psychosis. Except you’re not exhibiting any tells for insanity or lapses of cognition.” He moved my hand from my face, ignoring my protests and took a close look at my eye, ‘’Black Sclera, dilated retina, and a glowing iris. Blunt force trauma? Doesn’t explain why it’s glowing. Mutation? Possible. Could also be a faulty ocular implant but those are incredibly rare--Still plausible. I could prescribe iodine eyedrops, radioactive agent can cure cataracts in ghouls and heal eye injuries due to radiation healing wounds in ghouls. Except I am unsure how radiation will affect you...’’

‘’Could you speak simple Equestrian, doc?’’ A large majority of this was way over my head.

‘’Ghouls are accidents. A symptom of surviving megaspell fallout and not having the good fortune of dying.’’ He drew in a shallow breath and exhaled, ‘’You’re an intentional creation. That I am certain. Treating you will be a challenge for me. If I had a cybernetics specialist to consult, it would make this easier, due to your nature.’’

‘’Can you help me or not?’’

‘’I can try.’’ He spoke with an inward sigh and exhaled sharply like he was snuffing a candle. ‘’I think I have a medical eyepatch you can use. I’ll read up on what I know and see if I can diagnose your problem. Is there anything else you need from me? I need to see to Mr. Glossy before he begins rotting.’’

The drugs for ghouls, right! I needed those, Mechanic had told me the Undertaker had them here. ‘’The eye patch and some ‘chemical enhancers’ for ghouls would help out in the whole ‘slaying a war lord’ ‘’

The doctor sputtered and wheezed, coughing on his words, ‘’You what? I...how do you know I have those?’’ He swiftly tried to cover his tracks, backpedaling towards his desk, ‘’Those are strictly for medical purposes and treating ghouls! They aren’t meant to be used for that flagrant--’’

I slid off the table and approached the doctor, grabbing him by the mask’s beak and pulling him into a stern glare. ‘’Listen here doc I’ve had enough horse apples for one day. I’m a walking mess and I’m expected to go out and slaughter some sod I don’t even know. No one asked me, I have no choice. And you know what makes me most unhappy?’’

‘’Wha...What’s that?’’ The doctor stuttered nervously.

‘’Twiddling my hooves while that slug’s out there still murdering folk. I don’t like sitting around, I don’t like lectures, and I sure as buck don’t like your attitude right now...It needs adjustment.’’ My digits squeezed firmly down on the beak until it began to crumple.

When I released the doctor he nearly collapsed, shaking with nerves. He twisted his mask a few times and blew hard into it to reinflate the beak of his mask, ‘’You’re right.’’ He admitted sheepishly, moving to a nearby wall and pulling a few loose bricks it. ‘’I do not envy your position. I shall give you free access to my stock so long as you use it to help Greenvale.’’ There was a hidden safe behind the bricks in the wall. He entered the combination and opened it, selecting a few items and locking the safe. He put them into a small burlap bag and scribbled a few notes upon a few pieces of paper, ‘’No time for long winded explanations. You can read, can’t you? The descriptions for each drug and it’s notable effects are on this note. Take it and my blessing. Go with Celestia and Luna’s lights to guide you.’’

‘’You’re forgetting one thing,’’ I mentioned while stowing the drugs into my saddlebag. I pointed several times at my still exposed left eye, ‘’I need to be a cyclops because this hurts worse than a hammer to the face.’’

‘’Of course, yes. Let me find that for you.’’ It took him a minute of scouring the desk but Undertaker finally produced the promised eyepatch and even placed it upon my head gently. ‘’Now my secret is safe with you, yes?’’

‘’Cross my heart and hope to fly.’’ I promised.

‘’Fly. Hah, that’d be quite difficult for a unicorn such as yourself.’’ The doctor whinnied dismissively, ‘’Now if you’ll excuse me I must prepare a body for burial.’’

I resisted the urge to mention how I flew a couch out of a hospital and simply laughed, leaving the Morgue behind and checking one thing off my mental list. Next stop was the Winking Mare to see if I could recruit some help.

‘’You want to WHAT!?’’ The griffin I had been speaking with at the bar’s counter spat his drink all over, snorting out choked squawks. ‘’...Hruk...That’s suicide!’’ He left the counter and slipped into the crowd that was writhing and pulsing to the beats of the music.

That was strike two so far. Attracting promising and tough looking mercenaries with a free drink to speak with them about the job was cutting into the last of my caps. The first had taken the drink and drank it in one go, listened to me all of three seconds and laughed before slapping me on the back. He had said nothing as he rejoined the crowd just as my last mark had done.

Thumping bass and fake smoke mingled in the air, trembling at the shake of massive sub woofers that were set into the walls near the dance floor. The mercenaries came here to blow their earnings and forget their troubles in a river of booze. The same four songs repeated constantly in a stream of flowing sweat and thumping rhythm. Insanity was easily defined as doing the same thing over and over again expecting a different result--Everyone here followed that to a perfect ‘T’. Maybe they didn’t expect a different result, maybe it was out of social habit that they congregated here to do drugs and drink until they couldn’t remember.

I was no shrew, I loved a good party. The energizing music had a pleasing feeling that tapped into my carnal desire for action. Even while sitting still the vibrations I could scarcely register the stimulation that I was accomplishing some form of momentum. Running in circles will only wear out the floor and make you look aimless. I pounded the bar several times and the bartender served me another drink, sweeping a few more of my caps off the counter and into a small bucket he kept. I could taste the bitter alcohol, it’s effects were dull on my palate, no intoxication boiled in my brain. This was a vice I could not enjoy. At least I could taste, the beef jerky I had was very spicy and pleasant.

The spot next to me filled with an older griffin, his dark plumage and scars marked him as a veteran easily. He wasted no time and was very direct, every word he spoke was punctuated with the clicking of his thick, fearsome beak. ‘’So you’re the new contractor that’s the talk of this little shithole? I also hear you’ve been looking for someone to help you on a big job. Would you like some advice?’’

‘’Am I going to have to pay for it?’’ Nothing was free in this bar, I had to pay an admittance fee and even tip the overweight buzzard of a bouncer at the door because I was a new face. A Talon Mercenary that looked the part of a several hundred battle veteran wouldn’t waste his breath on someone like me for free.

‘’Wow, aren't you sharp?’’ He slammed the counter several times and clicked his beak for the bartender’s attention, ‘’One glassa Beakardi on the rocks. My friend here’s buyin.’’ The bartender was cleaning a glass with a rag, not missing a beat of the order. He plucked a bottle off the shelf and dropped the glass, up-ending the bottle until it was filled, finally he added actual rocks. More caps were drained from my small pile leaving me with very few left.

The veteran took the glass and began to drain in in short sips, sighing with a deep and pleasant rumble that ruffled the feathers around his withers. ‘’Ah that’s the tingle. So I hear you’re lookin’ for a merc with the balls to go after one of the warlords, eh?’’

‘’Yeah.’’ I replied simply, running one of my digits around the rim of my own glass, ‘’He has to die if we’re ever going to get new supplies in around here.’’

He nodded and took another heavy gulp, dusting the feathers under his beak with dregs of his brew. He set the glass down, ‘’My advice is simple.’’ He leaned over so that his beak was merely inches from my ear, ‘’Fuck off.’’ He growled, ‘’And get the fuck out of my bar.’’

I wasn’t expecting that type of advice and posturing, that was a threat! ‘’Come again? Last I checked this bar was run by ghouls, not by you. How about we start over?’’

The veteran rooster didn’t respond right away, he opted for something physical. He hooked his talons into the back of my explosive slave collar and slammed my face into the counter hard, shattering the glass and soaking my face in a mixture of alcohol, blood, and sick black paste that oozed from my cuts. ‘’Fuck your shitty little attitude little pony! You might think you’re tough shit since I hear you’re the one that offed that second rate bomb chucker but he’s bird shit compared to that slug you’re after.’’

I squirmed, trying to resist. He pulled back on the collar and slammed my head into the counter again. My horn shifted and pain blossomed though my forehead, he slid my cheek along the counter and slammed me into the counter two more times. I looked to the bartender entreatingly, looking for help. The bartender avoided my gaze and went further down the counter to ignore my plight. Were they just going to watch this happen? I’d fight back but I was told that any aggression from me would set the collar around my neck off.

‘’That fuckin bastard has a force of slavers and raiders they say is two hundred strong. He eats and fucks whatever enters his territory. Two kay caps ain’t featherdust compared to how much of a job that is. No Talon would take a contract like that.’’ He chuckled cruelly, ‘’And no talon would follow a slave like you. You’re lower than a ghoul, lower than dirt...I could do whatever I want to you and no one would stop me.’’

I was frozen, grinding my teeth together in a sick mixture of anger, pain, and fear. If he continued tampering with the slave collar he could set it off. ‘’Just let me go. I’ll leave.’’

‘’Nonsense! Let me walk you out...’’

What’s red, white, and has the momentum of a slinky down a flight of stairs? I know the answer! It was me. I was sent end over end, tumbling and rolling down the stairs from the winking mare, face planting in a puddle of mud at the base of the staircase. My horn was realigned with a few twists of the bolt at the base of my skull and I pushed myself up from my shallow grave.

‘’I hope you enjoyed our hospitality!’’ The older griffin squawked from up the stairs, hurling my saddlebag down at me, knocking me over again. ‘’If I ever see you again I’ll take your slave collar off for you by ripping your fuckin head off!’’ The griffin threatened, dusting his talons together and letting out a victorious guffaw. He certainly was helpful and polite to help me down the stairs. He saved me the effort of walking.

I picked up my saddle bags and put them back on, wiping the caked on mud off my face and leaving platform 3E to return to the surface via the subway entrance. It was already time to meet up with Gangrene again outside of Hopenharm Hospital, the sun was setting behind the blanket of clouds. Our first day of the three day middle of the week weekend was coming to a close.

‘’What the buck happened to you? Rough day?’’ She snickered softly, ‘’Captain Ahab?’’ Gangrene found my retelling of my entire day to be hilarious. She wasn’t the least bit surprised with how the Talons acted towards me or how I was thrown out by someone who may have been their leader. ‘’That’s kinda what they do. They like to live to spend their caps and they do risk evaluation to make sure they aren’t taking more for less. They’re right though, 2,000 caps isn’t much considering what we’re up against.’’

When I asked her about her day, the story she shared was much more mundane and pleasant. She had gone to Shot Trotters with my old weapons, trading in Curbstomp’s shotgun and battle saddle for a new scope for her Varmint Rifle. I had no idea how to use the battle saddle and the shotgun was too unwieldy for me, the scope she wanted was actually useful and would get used. She mentioned she bought some ammo for our weapons without even denting the remaining caps we had.

Then she asked me how many caps I had left--I deflated. ‘’None.’’ I told her, the shame I felt was amplified by the expression of anger she took.

The anger passed and she rolled her eyes, ‘’I’d slap you around a lil for being stupid but that’d be pointless seeing as you already kissed counter and ate glass.’’

‘’Yeah, thank you o'merciful one. You mind helping me get the glass out of my face?’’

A quick spark of her horn and she was already extracting shards of glass from my pelt. She laid one plaster over the bridge of my nose and called it quits. ‘’That’s the best I can do. Ain’t wasting a single drop of healing potion after wasting three last time.’’ She sounded exasperated, possibly still upset over wasting three health tonics on me with no effect.

Even I didn’t understand it, either I was immune to healing magic or it just took a long time to take effect. I did heal when I was fighting Chunky Salsa afterall...After his head exploded. Which was just a coincidence.

The last place she had gone was Armor Armory, where she had her personal armor patched up and improved. She invested another 100 caps into a ‘like new’ burlap brown duster she offered to me. ‘’And that doctor’s coat ain’t going to cut it against a bullet. This might fair better...’’ She unfolded it and tapped her rifle’s barrel against the side of the sturdy looking canvas cloth. ‘’This thing’s got metal plates sewn into it. And it’s light and cheap to maintain.’’ The coat had a few holes in it and a few red stains hinted that it may not have protected it’s previous owner very well.

‘’I see the last owner still on this thing. I wouldn’t call it the best form of protection.’’ I reached out, knocking on the coat and identifying where the plates were.

‘’You know I could just take it back for a refund if you don’t want it.’’ Gangrene teased in a light, airy tone.

I snatched the jacket from the air and hugged it close, ‘’It’s better than being naked!’’ I exclaimed before shaking it out and putting it on. It was a bit baggy and sagged on my form, weighted by the metal plates along the back, flanks, chest, and sides. ‘’They didn’t have any other colors other than brown, bloom, and bloody?’’

Gangrene sighed, rolling her eyes and shaking her head with such force they might just leave her head, ‘’No, that’s all there was. It’s made of canvas, you expect a different color canvas? It’ll be red with blood soon enough anyway, just roll around in the first raider you kill.’’

‘’That’s morbid, even for you Gangrene.’’

‘’That’s a solution. Take it or leave it.’’ She waved me off and yawned, ‘’You know it’s gettin late. I think I’ll turn in, been up all day treating patients and helping your hopeless plot. I feel like a charity.’’

A sleepless night for me, I never got tired. Everywhere the lights went out all over the surface streets of Greenvale Heights. Stores closed their doors and families went to bed. I was left burning the midnight oil, taking advantage of my restlessness to better prepare myself for surviving in this new gritty reboot of Equestria.

I went to a more secluded section of Greenvale Heights, a place that was empty, a firing range that had once been a small hoofball field. The bleachers that remained were rusted and overgrown with dead vines. Targets had been set up along the bench seats, bottles and cans just begging to be shot.

Within 4 meters I was fairly accurate, able to hit a can off the bleacher one out of every three times. I considered that good since I was using the mouthguard tongue trigger mechanism and had no real prior experience with firearms that I could recall. 33 percent accuracy. I averaged at that every time, but beyond 4 meters my accuracy became nearly negligible, the targets were untouched. No depth perception, no clarity, and no spatial awareness. Maybe if it fired couches I’d be more accurate. That was a funny thought, hitting a small target with a larger object wasn’t very hard. Bullets were small.

A hundred thunderous cracks later followed by the dropping of shells to the ground at my hooves. Many of my targets were still standing, taunting me with their wholeness. My reload speed was improving, aided by my increased dexterity from my gauntlets. I was getting better with understanding how to move them, how the chamber of the Cornhusker fell open to the side with a swift turn and jerk of my head, and most importantly I knew now to never try sticking the ammo in backwards. It wouldn't even fit anyway.

After cleaning everything up and tossing the broken targets into a nearby dumpster the sun had risen up, shining its light through the blanket of miasmic clouds. If there were weather forecasters in today’s age they’d have fun forecasting overcast and gloom everyday all day broken up by the occasional snowfall or rain, region permitting. Weather pony in Equestria after the fall; easiest job ever. Overcast everyday!

Experience gained! Killed a baby Radscorpion. It’s a start.
Overall your performance here was bland, going to give you some role play Exp at least. Maybe you’ll level next time you play.

Flaw Discovered!
Into The Light:
Refer to the Character Progress Review for any character changes.

I need to review your character sheet. I expect you to give it to me tomorrow.

Here’s a shout-out to my great editors, Requiem and Decaf! You guys make this possible. To all my readers, another thank you!

Chapter 6: Metal Heads

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"Metal Heads"

They dishonor the memory of their ministry, they are traitors to their own uniforms.

Things back at Harmenhope Hospital weren’t all sunshine and rainbows. During the night two patients had died, their bodies were wrapped in linen and put in large trash liners before being carted off to the Morgue at platform 3E. Murdoc was in an indifferent mood, shaking out a polaroid picture he had taken of each patient and putting both up with sticky tack on a bare place on the wall. He wrote the day in the lower right corner in thick black ink and went back to his rounds, treating his other patients and walk-ins with grim determination.

For the first time ever Gangrene was quiet, solemn in the aftermath of two expirations. She looked tired, her mane was matted with perspiration. One of the deaths was of another nurse who had been handling care for others that were sick. She had contracted something and had hidden her symptoms, dying sometime early this morning. Gangrene was flush, worried that she may have gotten sick as well from contamination. She claimed she had been careful, never touching patients directly and using alcohol to sanitize everything, still she needed a bit of time alone to think and to handle paperwork. They still had paperwork a hundred years after the war, it seemed like a waste of time to me.

I left the small hospital and found PNK-3 waiting for me outside the wrought iron gate. Just what I needed, death followed by a cheerful jaunty about something I didn’t care about. I wondered if she had a cheerful tune about stomach ulcers somewhere in the messy jumbled mind of hers.

‘’Good morning!’’ The bauble chimed to me in a sing-song voice. “I’m really happy to see you!”

I pushed the gate open and slammed it shut behind me. “That makes one of us. This morning won’t be good unless I have some good news.”

The spritebot sang in a cheerful voice that fit her color perfectly. ‘’Oh yes, good news! Let me give you some! There are four birthdays today I get to go and celebrate!’’ PNK-3 swayed in the air, bouncing with excited glee.

‘’I meant good news for me, specifically for me.’’ I groaned, feeling utterly lost when trying to talk to this aggravation. PNK-3 fell silent and stopped moving. ‘’Thought so.’’ I added bitterly. ‘’Is Mechanic there?’’

‘’You’re so mean mister! You really need to try smiling for a change, cranky pants.’’ The robot chastised me to try being more cheerful, though I was baffled why ‘pants’ were mentioned since I didn’t wear pants. Most ponies didn’t bother wearing pants. ‘’I’ll put him on, he wanted to talk to you!’’ A soft crackle of static hissed over the radio, a fizzle and pop heralded the arrival of Mechanic’s voice, ‘’That’s why PNK-3 is here. So I could talk to you. I have some good news for you. Also I hear you didn’t have any luck recruiting anyone. Guess that means it’s just us, Mister Slinky.’’

I winced, recalling my time at the bar yesterday as noteworthy. “Yeah, good ol’ Greenvale hospitality.” My dialog dripped with sarcasm, “Is the good news that you’ll be sending me a different messenger next time?”

“Nah, good guess though. PNK-3 is the best messenger I’ve got right now. Give me a few moments to double check my facts on this.” I could hear a few mechanical beeps and soft tones of a computer doing calculations, the spritebot gave a soft chime and the Mechanic spoke again, ‘’After double checkin’ and callin’ inna favor I found someone that might know a lil somethin’ somethin’ about where Muffin Cake stays at in the industrial park. It’s a more recent lead too, so that saves time and resources. The Highscore Arcade on the corner of 5th Avenue and Trotsworthy street. Pretty easy to spot, a mare named ‘Record Wrecker’ runs it.’’

‘’What are you waiting for? Can’t you send a robot out there or something?’’ That should be incredibly straightforward. Robots were built to handle the three ‘D’type jobs that ponies didn’t want to do. Jobs too Dull, Dirty, or Dangerous for normal workers. This might fit all three if it meant trekking into the wastes to ‘check in’ on a lead.

‘’That ‘or somethin’ is gonna be you. I don’t got the resources tah spare so willy nilly. One raider is all it takes to trash a spritebot. I can’t spare one of my bigger toys since I need them here for emergencies. You’re the next best thing to heavy metal interference.’’ He assured me, ‘’And aren’t you gettin’ restless hangin around?’’

He was right about me getting restless. A hundred rounds at tin cans had not cured the wanderlust. They call it wanderlust, idiot, not stand-there-and-shoot-cans-to-feel-better-lust. I mentally corrected myself, that was ten seconds of thinking I’d never get back. ‘’Don’t assume things, it just makes you out to be a mule.’’ I defended. Yeah, I was being a jerk. Why? Because I hated this job.

‘’Well aren’t you a barrel of sour cider?’’ Mechanic huffed over the speakers, ‘’And the expression’s ‘It makes an ass of you n’me.’ Just give me a hand here.’’ Thank You for the correction, poindexter.

‘’Hand? Oh, ha-ha, you’re a real comedian. I’ll do it, I need to take my aggression out on something anyway.’’ I waved a hand gauntlet in the bauble’s constantly-smiling face.

‘’It’s just an expression.’’ Mechanic replied gruffly, ‘’No need to get nasty.’’

“I think the explosive around my neck is cause enough for me to be snippy.” I gestured to the collar with a digit, poking it gently, “You Greenvale ponies are real slave drivers. Literally.”

The gate creaked open behind us and Gangrene joined me on the sidewalk. She was wearing her armored metal barding and had her rifle slung over her shoulder. ‘’I really hate paperwork.’’ She stated mournfully, ‘’Murdoc wanted it done right away.’’ She took notice of PNK-3. ‘’What’s with the bullet magnet?’’ She was either very fast at paperwork or the paperwork was simple.

‘’That’s PNK-3.’’ I introduced them to one another with a quick wave, waving a gesture to the floating bauble that never ceased it’s unnerving smile. ‘’I’d think even bullets would try avoiding this thing.’’ She’d likely talk them out of the air or through some power unseen never cease blathering even if she was more holes than robot.

‘’I’m Mechanic, currently remote pilotin’ this unit. You must be Gangrene. Hear you got a rep as a tough broad.’’ The tinny voice rang out swiftly.

‘’Aw, are you a Hoofer Vacuum? Because you must suck a lotta dick to sweet talk like that.’’ Gangrene retorted snidely, she wasn’t in the mood to be patronized. ‘’You’re the brains that keeps this place running aren’t you? Got anything for us?’’

‘’Ouch, you two are in a funk today. Yeah, I have information. I told Steelgraft where to follow up the lead on ‘Tubba Bubba’.’’ The way Mechanic talked was chuckle-inducing. Toughness forced into every syllable artificially by that city-slicker swagger.

“While I’m thinking about it, mind telling me what you know about my box?” I wanted to know what I was supposed to do with that special box. And by special I meant stupid. That’s a bit harsh. I really needed to stop arguing with myself mentally.

‘’We can yak after you follow up on that lead. Got shit to do.’’ The mysterious stallion chimed over the speakers. I could hear the echoes of work going on in the background and music playing over the sound of tools running. Music featuring Sweetie Belle’s voice sidled up to the sound of industrial revolution. If he thought I was just going to forget about that box, he had another thing coming. I wasn’t sure what that thing would be, but it would be something unpleasant if he tried to keep my strange black box.

‘’Where’s the lead?’’ The yellow punk mare asked, pulling open her saddlebag to pull out a small tub of industrial machine lubricant. She applied a glob to her mane and tail, the metamorphosis profound as it was simple. She put a smudged line of black under each eye.

‘’Highscore Arcarde.’’ Mechanic informed her without a moment of pause. ‘’Good luck n’ such. I gotta go.’’ A fizzling pop of static blossomed from the speakers with another twin fingers of ghostly smoke. PNK-3 was back in control. ‘’Oh! Guess you’re done. I have birthday ponies to go sing for!’’ The pink robot went on it’s merry way. At least someone was going to have a good day, maybe PNK-3 gave out presents or had a cake dispenser? Let them eat cake! Food shortages probably meant parties were lackluster compared to pre-war bashes.

You didn’t ask about the Recording! The little voice in my head nagged me. Hind sight was always 20/20. More pressing matters at hoof! Or hand. Buck you Mechanic, pointing out the obvious. I gave Gangrene a pensive glance. “Why are you slicking up your mane and tail? It looks better without the grease jello.”

The mare snorted and whinnied dismissively, ‘’Yeah, looks real pretty. Pretty ain’t gonna make raiders or travelers wary. I need to look the part if I’m going to act like a bandit.’’

‘’So the tough bandit Viper Gangrene’s just an act?’’ A smirk creeped onto my lips, one that unsettled the yellow mare.

She slammed her side into me roughly as she stalked into the street, ‘’More like an improv with bullets and a hoof tapping diddy at the end. Quit flapping gums and move tail. We have ground to cover.’’

‘’Yes sir ma’am sir!’’ I patronized her and received a glance full of daggers.

We left Greenvale Heights via the massive gates that dropped into the ground, powered by massive hydraulic pistons that rumbled with power. The large sign that greeted me when I had first arrived carrying the critically wounded Gangrene reminded me of the tense moment a little over a week ago. Now it was tense for different reasons--Namely the explosives latched to my face. By the time we were three blocks away I realized I’d never asked what the range of my collar was, if there was a range. Baroness Bluff had to give me enough range to get to the Industrial Park, I had nothing to fret over unless I tried fleeing from this problem into the wastes. Not an option, no idea how to get the explosive collar off. There was always decapitation! Which I would definately not live through. At least the collar was a lovely shade of craptastic brown.

“You know what I just remembered?” Gangrene asked me as we rounded on 5th street. “All those weapons and swag we didn’t bag off those raiders last week.” She turned her head to spit, “What a fuckin’ waste.”

Scavengers had picked everything clean by now. Seven days was more than enough time to collect everything of value and leave. Maybe they even posed the bodies in funny post-mortem positions or used them to make ‘art’ like the wailing walls in the Dead Zone, only with less wailing.

‘’That extra cash would be nice, jingling in our pockets.’’ I commented passively.

‘’I had dibs.’’ She growled, angry at her bad fortune. Hot snorts flared her nostrils and every step she took was a firm, angry stomp. She kicked a tin can that dared to be in her way down the street.

‘’You’re going to attract attention. The raider kind.’’ I warned her, keeping my eye on the road ahead of us. Large storefronts greeted us on either side, boarded up but obviously already looted and bare. The Highscore Arcade was a perilous 16 blocks away from Greenvale Heights said to be fraught with pitfalls and wandering bandits. So far the only dangers were unimpressive shallow potholes and the only bandit here was Gangrene, both had their failings at being an actual hazard. Well, the small potholes weren’t that hazardous.

‘’Raiders are just couriers delivering me their stuff for the low price of a few bullets.’’ She sassed, tilting her head back and splattering the armor on her withers with thick black grease. She leapt up onto the curb of the sidewalk and trotted along it, taking the lead.

A few more store fronts, nothing eye-catching drifted past the edges of my vision in a dull blur. ‘’This arcade, what’s it like?’’ I tried to create some small-talk to pass the time, boredom was the only enemy I had to contend with at the moment. That and the occasional radroach, as creepy as they were, they weren’t all that hard to deal with. Step, crunch, and trot on.

‘’Flashing lights, beeping machines. Ticket prizes...massive turret security system.’’ She answered. The mare gave me a playful shove as she hopped down from the curb. ‘’I have the highscore on Dance Dance Pony: V-Beats Syndrome.’’ She boasted, she spun and cracked me in the face with her tail, leaving a streak of grease on my cheek.

That was no accident, she was doing that on purpose. And every time she did, her tail flicked up just slightly, barely drooping to maintain her modesty. I didn’t like Viper Gangrene as much as I liked Medic Gangrene. I wiped the streak of grease off my face with my sleeve and sighed.

‘’We all need our hobbies.’’ I affirmed, hopping over a mailbox that was in my way in the street. ‘’This arcade sounds like it hasn’t changed much since the war.’’ Except for the turret defense system. I thought with a soft chuckle. At least patrons would be safe from raiders getting rowdy.

‘’You ever been to an arcade, Steelgraft?’’ She asked with genuine interest, either that or she was a better actress than I thought. She looked at me over her shoulder.

I knew a bit about arcades, there was one somewhere in Necro-Net. An entire server was dedicated to recreation in all it’s forms. I hadn’t gotten to enjoy it much, having been segregated from the main system for so long. “Yeah. I’ve been to one. Once or twice.” At some point I had been to one, in my normal life, with my family. The moment I grabbed a concrete memory it slipped away, breaking apart.

‘’Good! We should try winning something. They have some good prizes.’’ I knew where this was going. ‘’I get first pick of the prize if we win anything.’’ Why am I not surprised? The mare was wearing a wide smile, tail swishing back and forth as she tapped her hooves to an imaginary beat.

Everything stopped, the practice dancing to a beat, the sound of hooves clopping over concrete, and even the street stopped abruptly. This was what they meant by ‘pitfalls and dangers’--The street ended in a gaping ravine that dropped twenty feet into a pit of spiked rebar and jagged scrap. An old narrow power pole bridged the gap. the pole was splintered and sagging at the middle.

Yeah. No. No. Nope. No...No no no no no. ‘’How about we go around this dangerous pit of pincushions?’’ I suggested, looking for another way across the gap. The pit was too far to jump and it was the width of the entire street and sidewalk, butting up against the edge of the storefronts and their foundations.

“I’ve crossed this thing plenty of times.” Gangrene tried to reassure me, “All it takes is just one slip or a single raider popping you to drop you and it’s curtains. Gotta be careful is all.” I preferred drapes. That and not dying because I went across a spiky death trap and got curtained for it.

”You have so experience with this pit?’’ I coaxed.

“It’s a popular ambush spot.” Gangrene revealed with a mildly manic grin, “We should make sure to cross quickly or find another way around. Just be quick or be dead.”

I’d rather not cross over a giant pit of spikes while someone could have crosshairs on me. I was going to go around through one of the stores. Gangrene seemed comfortable with gambling a quick run.

‘’I’ll meet you on the other side, just don’t keep a lady waiting.’’ She chided as she began her quick run to the other side. She made it halfway across before an ominous soft ‘beep’ ‘beep’ ‘beep beep beep’! sounded from the center of the plank. Gangrene cursed and sped up to a gallop as the center of the power pole splintered completely in an explosion of wood and fire. Gangrene barely managed to make it to the other side, dangling off the edge with her forehooves. “Bucking fuck rut! Stupid fucking trap!” Gangrene colored the air with flavorful dialog. She pulled herself up on the other side, tearing her rifle from it’s mount and cocking the lever.

‘’You alright?’’ I called out to her from my side.

‘’I’ll be better once you get your ass over here! The fucking dickmoles can’t be far!’’ She snarled, scanning the storefronts for any movement, rifle trailing through the air.

I would have to go through the stores and get around the gap to meet up with her. I opened one of the doors to the nearest shop, a small cafe, and heard a soft ‘click’. A small bouquet of metal apples fell from next to the door frame and struck the floor. I slammed the door shut and braced myself against it. ‘THOOM!’ The door shuddered, fracturing into fat chunks of rotten wood, leaving me to only hold the handle.

‘’Goddess bucking damn, traps are everywhere!’’ I wasn't seriously injured, I couldn't feel a thing. Of course the ringing in my ears only muffled the whooping cries of what I assumed were the raiders that had set up this ambush. I could already hear Gangrene cursing and opening fire on them.

There was no time to spare, as usual it was charge without thinking. Into the cafe and over the counter. The dividing wall between this shop and the next had been broken down allowing me to enter the next store. There were newspapers unfolded and laid everywhere, likely they were there in case someone came by and disturbed them. More traps. This store had been a small book store. What better way to clear the floor than one of the bookcases? I pushed the one closest to me over, down into the center of the shop.

A chorus of beeps blared before the bookcase exploded into splinters. A soft snowfall of fluttering paper scraps danced around the air in the aftermath of my slick ‘trap disarming’ skills. I had attracted attention for my efforts, a raider filled the doorway on the opposite wall. A degenerate piece of work wearing a burlap bag over his face, his eyes peering at me through holes cut in the bag, he was wielding not one, but two Bloomberg assault rifles, one on each side. Oh well blow me with a 34-pounder, how about we just give him a chain gun and call it a day?

Both barrels ripped the air as he trained his sights on me. I began to move, juking to the right and galloping towards him, which he didn’t expect. I was struck several times, bullets glancing off the armor in my coat or lodging into the metal plates. I was almost on him! He’d already began to back up into the next shop, his accuracy suffering.

‘CLUNK!’ I whipped forward and kissed the floor. Black and scarlet blossomed out of my nose as it smashed into the floor. I grunted, looking back to see one of my gauntlets had triggered a massive and unkind looking bear trap with sharpened, beveled teeth. Had the teeth bit in any higher, where my flesh was, I would have more than just a broken nose to deal with.

‘’Looks like we have a clever one!’’ Snorted the stallion from the doorway. He made his way to me and brought his hoof down on my head, grinding it into the floor. “Stupid little shitfuck!” Did they just string random curses together to make new unimaginative curses? The only thing I disliked more than dying was being killed by asinine ponies.

He should have just shot me in the head, but no, he had to go with posturing. I reached up with my other foreleg and gripped him by the front of the burlap sack, pulling hard and tossing him off to the side like a sack of potatoes. He landed among a set of undetonated mines and died after their short lived song lead to turning him into a splatter of meaty, twitching chunks. A jolt of pleasure filled me and everything was crisp with clarity. The flow of sick, bubbling muck from my nostrils ebbed and I was able to push myself up and free myself from the bear trap.

I tore the chain linked to the trap up from the floor and reset the trap, entering the next store with murderous intent. The act of premeditated murder did not feel completely alien, I had killed before. It was for survival. I don’t particularly enjoy wholesale slaughter.

The raiders in this store had not expected me to be here, that anyone could get past their traps and their stupid sack wearing friend. They were all taking shots at Gangrene from behind their cover in front of the large open window. Several of them had jumped out to attack Gangrene earlier and now their bodies littered the street. The yellow mare was hunkered behind a broken sky chariot outside.

‘’Hey Burlap,’’ One of the raiders grunted without bothering to look back at me, ‘’How was that other guy? I heard a lotta booms.’’ Only now did he begin to turn to face me, his eyes widening as he took in my fearsome visage.

I briefly imagined what thoughts must be going through his head at this moment. The dirty raider’s expression evoked a feeling of fear and helplessness. Surprise and remorse briefly flickered into his eyes before the bear trap I hurled clamped down over his face and crushed his skull, his eyes lolling out of their sockets as he slumped over with a wet, sick gurgle of sick.

‘’I gave your friend some unconventional beauty treatments.’’ I slyly spoke, letting the bear trap’s chain drop to the floor. ‘’And now it’s your turn.’’ Stop it. I ignored that little voice.

The remaining raiders put their attention on me. One that turned and raised his weapon to fire had his head split open at the back by a shot from Gangrene’s rifle. The other, a younger slate grey earth pony, rushed me with a sledge hammer. This guy was as stupid as they came. Rushing someone that had a brutal flair for punching things wasn’t the best thing to do. He’d have better luck keeping his distance and trying to hit me in the head with a ranged weapon.

The sledge hammer came down and I stepped back quickly, letting the heavy head of the weapon sink into the floor. ‘’Jheerst Rrrrrie!--ghek!’’ His words cut off, my knuckles left a bruise where I struck him in the throat, a light quick jab to disorient and cripple him. The sledge hammer’s handle dropped from his mouth and he collapsed into a heap, wheezing uncontrollably. He began to cry, choking on every struggling gasp of air. That’s enough! I froze, unable to act, to finish him off. I no longer saw a raider or bandit, but a helpless unarmed pony choking on his own spit, no longer able to harm me or my companion.

He wasn’t a threat, disarmed and unable to fight back. With no threat there was no reason to keep fighting, I went to the morbid task of retrieving the bear trap from the dead raider’s face and wiped it off on my sleeve. I was rather fond of it already, as far as weapons went.

‘’Fucking brimstone and balefire, Steelgraft.’’ My companion sputtered, looking around at the carnage that lay in the wake of my ‘shopping trip’. The mare had killed a few herself, making six in total for this ambush party. ‘’Remind me to never piss you off. For a stallion so green behind the ears you smoked them pretty fast.’’

The entire conflict had only been a few minutes but living through it, it was the longest few minutes of my life up until that point. ‘’I just did what came naturally.’’ I parroted what Pane had said to me in the auditorium. There was truth to those words, this was just what came naturally. I was getting better at it too. Better at taking lives and protecting others. You can’t complain when you have someone relying on you for protection.

Gangrene went about her usual job of corpse robbing, I didn’t help. Something about taking things off the dead felt too much like desecration. I really didn’t like how she suggested throwing their naked bodies into the pit for an ‘improper burial’. It was better than leaving them to rot, considering there was no place to bury them and no time to do so. I had come to realize the tool shop’s name was ‘The Shed’ from the sign that hung crooked over it’s ripped awning. Why was the name so amusing? This was the oddest line-up of shops ever. Cafe, then a bookstore, then a home repair and tool shop. At least it wasn’t a store that only sold sofas and quills.

“Steelgraft, you missed one.” Gangrene shouted from inside the tool shop.

“Missed one?” I asked, then it dawned on me. She was referring to the raider I had incapacitated. ‘’He’s harmless--’’

‘BLAM’

‘’No, Steelgraft,’’ She morbidly corrected me, ‘’Now he’s harmless.’’

I stormed into the store, a chain of knots forming in my gut, ‘’What did you just do?!’’ I knew what she had done, she killed that pony, the one that was helpless after I’d socked him in the throat. She shot him in the head while he was squirming and gasping for air. “Why did you do that? He was helpless!”

“Now he’s a helpless corpse.” Gangrene spat viciously, “What’s your problem? You killed two of those raiders in the most brutal ways I’ve ever seen and you just decided to go easy on this guy? I don’t like to sleep with one eye open if he decided to go get some more buddies and hunt us the fuck down!” She holstered her rifle on her back after cocking the lever and went back to collecting their belongings.

That was murder, it wasn’t killing for survival, it was murder! Or was it still survival? Justified by the chance that he might come back and kill us while we were unprepared? This was uncharted skies for me, Gangrene knew more about how the world worked now, how Equestria operated. I did not like it. “It shouldn’t be like this.” I muttered. You shouldn’t find joy in this and do it needlessly.

“News flash, it is. Life ain't all sunshine and rainbows. Ponies gonna die, monsters gotta eat, and I want to live a while longer.” Gangrene collected the rifles off the raiders, broken and worn down from abusive use. They’d be worth some caps, just for their parts. The two Bloomberg assault rifles in the other room had suffered damage from the detonation of the mines, but with the parts between them we could salvage a working rifle. The remaining mines were levitated from their hiding places and disarmed at a distance by the yellow mare, she added those to her saddle bags.

I had nothing else to say to Gangrene right now, I wasn’t exactly happy. Normally I didn’t feel anything at all, but in the wake of the battle a sense of serenity filled my senses. The euphoria slowly tapered off replaced by the cold, oppressive numbness that permeated every limb until no sensation remained. You shouldn’t enjoy this. I palmed my messy red mane and slicked it back, then shook it out. Anything, anything to keep my hooves occupied so I couldn't wrap my cold metal fingers around my only friend’s throat!

“All this stuff for the price of a few bullets.” Gangrene sauntered out from the shop. How about some of my respect for you, you crazy bitch? How much is that worth to you? Let it go. It isn’t worth it. My mind was arguing with me again, pushing me away from thoughts of violence.

“What all did they have, or do you have ‘dibs’ on everything?” I grumbled, hoping she could detect the anger in my voice.

“Some of this is for you. And get over it already, you’re being a hypocrite!” She bayed roughly, “They had some good shit. We’ll need it.” The mare brushed passed and flicked her tail, snorting. “Us or them. Them or everyone back in Greenvale relying on you! I’d rather keep on trekkin’.”

She was right but that didn’t mean I had to like it or believe it. Deny it for now. You know you liked it. Fighting is fun, isn’t it? That euphoria, that drug. That sensation... I shook my head slowly, clearing it of the whispers and cobweb thoughts. “So you’re saying that’s for survival. In case he did do something...”

‘’Does it look like I enjoy killin’ pones?’’ She asked. The mare wasn’t smiling. She looked just as unhappy as me.

‘’You like taking their stuff.’’ I replied hoarsely.

‘’It’s a side effect of self defense. Some lives end so others can keep living free an’ safe. That’s why I’m a bandit. I got other scrubs other than you needin’ me.” She rolled her eyes, giving a soft huff. “Come here, I need you to carry shit, Mr. Muscles.”

I was saddled with the heavier equipment, namely the two broken assault rifles and their provisions; a few days of water and some roasted meat that had the flakey consistency of crab or shellfish. How I knew that consistency was a mystery. I was just going to stick to munching on my beef jerky if I ever finally got hungry. Meat does sound tasty. Ponies are herbivores. Beef jerky is an exception, then.

There was another mystery, I didn’t know much about the Vipers. I only know they robbed travelers, or in Gangrene’s case, raiders for their supplies. She wasn’t doing it for her own personal gain, at least not completely. She was very hard to read. If she stuck around long I’d likely find out about them or maybe I’d ask around, see what word around town was concerning them.

The rest of the trip to the Highscore Arcade was eventful. The streets were littered with the usual junk and wagons, long since looted shops staring at the street, empty and vacant. The one noteworthy thing that happened was I had disturbed an incredibly territorial radscorpion nest and we were chased for half a block by an enormous angry mother with infant scorpions on it’s back. Gangrene thought it was hilarious that I ran so quickly and screamed ‘like a little filly’. Just don’t think about it! What else had been jumbo-sized thanks to a hundred years of mutation? Don’t ask that! We’ll find out soon enough.

“What’s the matter Steelgraft, not into moms? I think she liked you!” Gangrene snorted out through held back laughter. I was not amused. “I wish you coulda seen your face! Big Helga really put the scare into you!”

“I was too busy running away from a GIANT SCORPION to care about it’s gender! The fat little babies were cute in their own...way.” Like tiny little sausages in carapace lining. And then they’d grow up and get big and--Stop thinking about it! “That thing has a name?”

The yellow mare nodded, sliding up next to me, “And a fat ass bounty if you catch it.” Catch it...? “You know, alive? There’s a whole ranch that raises them for food. They want Big Helga.” Catch it alive. ALIVE! That was one bounty I was never going to accept. “Pinchy pinchy stiiiiiing~” Gangrene cooed, nuzzling up to my side and fluttering her eyelashes, “Oh, look! A tiny lil zombie pony! I’m just gonna eatchu up~”

“Cut it out...” I begged, I didn’t like being taunted because I ran away from a scorpion the size of a small house. “Stop it.”

‘’Pinch pinch your lil cheeks~’’ She rubbed a hoof into my cheek, pushing my head to the side.

‘’You ran too!’’ I exclaimed, pulling away to trot out of range.

‘’I didn’t cry and scream like a filly gettin’ her cherry popped!’’ She called after me, breaking into a fit of laughter.

That was over and done with, the ambush and...thing I didn’t want to think about were far behind us. We’d made it to the corner of 5th Avenue and Trotsworthy Street, a street that stood out with flashing lights, most of which were malfunctioning, a large neon sign that flickered and sparked saying ‘H-gh-cor- Arc-de’. All this surrounded a massive reinforced storefront with heavy double doors with two massive turrets that scanned the area passively, a single unlucky radroach was reduced to a crater by a quick ‘Bzat’ on the turret on the left. The one on the right was trained on us now.

“That fortress is the arcade?” It looked more like a military complex now. “What are the prizes, surplus military weapons?” I joked, chuckling.

‘’Yup! Wait until you see the inside, it’s great!’’ She exclaimed, trotting up to the door. The door opened automatically and she disappeared inside. I soon followed, joining Gangrene. I had been joking about the surplus weapons part! Joking!

A small foyer between the arcade’s flashing lights and the outside greeted us. Cubby holes lined the walls on both side, each with a key sticking out of the lock. Some keys were missing, in use by other patrons. They were little lockers.

A small poster on a nearby wall stated in bold, sweeping letters:

‘No weapons in the Arcade. No bad attitude in the arcade. No whining. Make use of communal cubby lockers. Have fun.’

Gangrene was already stripping out of her armor and stowing it away, adding her weapons to the same locker. She stored her saddlebag in another cubby and took both keys after locking them. Gangrene kept a neck pouch on filled with caps, giving them a soft jingle. I followed her lead, all weapons and armor was stowed, saddlebags were shoved into another cubby. They barely fit into the locker. I took my key to my locker and followed Gangrene into the business side of the arcade.

She hadn’t been kidding, the inside was the best part. It was like going back in time! The walls had colorful paint to elicit cheerful emotions, red walls with blue ceiling tiles and a chessboard floor tiling, characters from once popular games adorned the walls and ceiling. None I recognized of course. Arcade cabinets stretched from one side of the arcade from the other. Racing games, shooters, pinball machines, it even had a strength challenge bell and anvil! Many of the cabinets whirred and beeped with life, either being attended by a foal or covered with an ‘out of order’ sign. A lot of them were out of order, but the ones that were running were being used. Laughter, when was the last time I heard real laughter?

‘’Oh no! This is terrible!’’ Gangrene cried.

What? Something bad? Here?! Could anything good last? I looked at her, her face full of shock and sudden disbelief. The mare dashed along an aisle and knocked over no less than two older ponies and a griffin before she came to a skidding stop in front of a particular arcade game. Dance Dance Pony: V-Beat Syndrome.

‘’No!’’ She cried out, ‘’Record Wrecker beat my score on ‘Through Balefire and Tartarus’! On super duper uber difficulty?!’’

I had followed her, expecting a fight or a great atrocity only to find...this. This was a nice change of pace, but Gangrene’s sense of priorities was definitely lacking. Everyone needs their hobbies. I thought, laughing to myself, ‘’And here I thought you said this was horrible! It’s just a h-’’

She shot me a glare that would boil water then freeze it instantly, one that said ‘not another word’. She pulled out four caps from a small neck pouch and stepped onto the dance pad, paying her toll to play. She tapped the arrow controls on the floor to select her song and difficulty. The hardness of this song was rated at ‘5 Records’.

‘’Are ya ready for dis beat?!’’ The arcade game boomed cheerfully, the voice of a very excited mare that sounded happy to be spinning the song. The music began to play, swift beats and arrows began to fly across the screen. Gangrene began to move, tapping each button with the timing of the music. This wasn’t just a game, this was a performance. She had a certain flare, her grease heavy tail spiraling around and her hips shaking gracefully, bobbing up and down.

Soon a crowd gathered around us, to watch the performing mare swing to the beat. A minute and a half into the five minute song and she was drenched in sweat, her mane dripping black and she shamelessly pushed her rear out towards her audience, “Yeah! Like what you see?” She huffed, “I’m the beat mastah!”

“Bonus points! Double score! Shake that thing! Oooooh! D-d-double team! Grab a partner!” The machine announced, the score was climbing higher and higher with the speed increasing. Gangrene shouted for me to hop on and join her. I was unsure, I’d just ruin her score.

“Uh, I’m no good...” I waved a foreleg at the air and scratched the back of my head, “I’d just suck.”

“Outta the way, chump!” A small soft blue earth pony foal with messy dark hair stepped in and took my offered position and began to play with her. His legs were so short he could barely reach multiple buttons at once. Rude, stubby lil bastard... He wasn’t doing great, but he was helping her score. I suppose it didn’t matter, those were bonus points after all.

The song entered the final minute, the beat picked up even faster. Gangrene’s hooves were a blur, sweat flying down her body, her breath a swift pant, eyes narrowed in concentration. The older stallions and some mares about the crowd whistled, finding the sight quite appealing.

“I’d love to tap that.” “Hot burning sun, look'at that sweet water!” “Dayum, she just winked at me!” A soft clamor of mutters and declarations of ‘love’ floated about, muffled by the beat of the music from the game’s massive subwoofers.

Gangrene was all smiles, the foal was in a state of pure concentration, tongue extended and an intense look on his face. ‘Tap tap tap’ ‘Wub wub wub’--The mixture of the beats moved me to my core, a display of swishing tail and beading sweat, sparkling like dew. She’s something, my mind echoed to itself, beautiful, strong, insane?

With a soft cry, the little foal tripped, falling right under Gangrene’s hooves, tripping her up. She fell to the ground with a firm ‘thud’ with only fifteen seconds of the song left. The crowd collectively winced, drawing in sharp breath. The game began to blare out ‘boos’ as they missed the tail end of the song, the beat multiplier dropped and the music stopped. She didn’t beat Record Wrecker’s high score.

The crowd dispersed, some laughed, others were just disappointed. A few mentioned that it was an amazing attempt. The foal sat up, his eyes welling with tears, he began to bawl. Gangrene pushed herself up and faced the sobbing foal, her eyes narrowed, she’d bitten her lip in the fall, a thin trickle of blood dripping down her chin. I was about to jump in, to save the foal from what I thought would be a verbal stream of vile curses, but was surprised by what happened next. Gangrene smiled and drew the foal into a hug, brushing over his forehead with a soft kiss, ‘’Oh sweety, shush~ It’s okay, it’s okay. You’re not hurt are you?’’

What magic was this? I couldn’t figure this mare out. She was bi-polar wasn’t she? Was she just insane? Static filled the corners of my vision, things began to flicker. The young blue stallion now had goggles around his neck and a unicorn’s horn, Gangrene slowly shifted to a deep purple, her mane becoming a dark blue, natural and lush. Her smile never faltered, but its depth grew. The foal whined as the unicorn mare before me licked a napkin, dabbing it over the boy’s face. He had fat smears of ice cream over his cheeks and lips. The sounds faded and returned, with new music and laughter. There were stalls everywhere, games, prizes, and even a big tent was set up. A large, impressive castle loomed nearby, built against a mountain, cascades of waterfalls falling to the ground below. Canterlot, I remembered, You brought them here. To celebrate. There was a festival. My heart was beating in my chest, I was happy, even with the growing worries in the back of my mind. The smells of candy and baked apples filled the air, and the cool breeze felt amazing against my pelt.

‘’Mooooom!’’ The young pony whined, squirming and turning his head away, ‘’This is embarrassing! Cut it out!’’ He looked to me for help, ‘’I’m not so little anymore!’’

“Do you really need to baby him so much?” I came to the foal’s rescue, wearing a very genuine smile. I was levitating a set of ice cream cones in my telekinetic field, an easy exercise for me. “Besides, his face will just get messy when he eats more.” I shoved my face into one of the ice cream cones, making a mess of my snout on purpose. Cold, sweet, and creamy. The sweet vanilla danced on my tongue.

The mare gave me a look of annoyance and disapproval, “Oh you! Now I have to clean you up too!”

My smile couldn’t get wider, “So get over here.” Was this my family? My wife. My child. My everything. I drew the lovely mare in for a kiss, she did not resist. Warm, sweet, and soft. Sensations alien to me were now familiarized. I knew it was a relapse, that this was just a memory. But this was a happy memory, one that I enjoyed and cherished.

She giggled, squealed, and eventually pulled away. ‘’Gah, you cad! You almost got ice cream all over my gown!’’ She was so beautiful! How could a rough edged stallion like me land this mare? “Mmm...” She licked her lips, “Vanilla? Can I have a taste?~”

“Sure!” I laughed, offering her a cone.

She shook her head and drew her tongue across my cheek gently, “It tastes better like this~”

“Ew! Mom, dad! No mushy stuff!” The foal complained, wearing a pouting little frown, “It’s gross!”

“Ah, it’s gross is it? I thought you weren’t so little. Where do you think you came from mister?” I teased, sticking out my tongue. My son was amused, laughing softly.

“Momma said the flutterpony brought me!” He squeaked. I rolled my eyes.

“Mhmm,” my wife agreed, “And you were the cutest little foal!”

The boy snorted softly, “I’m not cute! I’m handsome!” His protest was as adorable as he was.

“Alright my handsome young colt, how about you and I go play a game together?” I offered. Even though I was just along for the ride I felt everything, every emotion, every sense of pride and love. I wanted to play just as much as the foal did. I wanted to feel more happiness and share this time with them. The foal was so excited, nodding and scampering off to the first booth that caught his eye.

It was a milk bottle and balls game, one that involved knocking over a set of weighted milk bottles with light red balls. It was an easily rigged game, and I somehow knew that. Or whoever I had been had known that.

My son was pointing at a large plush he wanted, a large pink unicorn body pillow. I snorted softly, glancing to the foal that bounced up and down. ‘’I want that! I want that!’’ He squeaked.

‘’Are you sure? That’s pink. Little filly pink fru fru pink.’’ Maybe I had laid it on thick, the pony I was now growled, don’t you dare say no! Give him what he wants! I just wanted to make him happy and keep him that way.

‘’Honey, just let him.’’ The mare’s voice traveled to my ears, the lovely purple mare had not been far behind. ‘’It’s not going to hurt anything.’’

I dug out the bits and slammed them on the counter, ‘’Alright, don’t have to tell me twice.’’ I was outvoted two to three! Families were a democracy after all. The pale red unicorn mare behind the counter took my bits and offered the colt a set of three balls to play.

‘’Knock ‘em all down to win your prize.’’ She announced, stepping out of the way.

My son grunted, the magic of his horn flickering until it held stable. He picked up the first ball and dropped it down onto the counter.

“That counts!” The mare announced, removing that same ball, “Two more shots kiddo!”

Why that little rat-tossing pony-feather sucking daughter of a whorse! That grinds my gears. I could feel my teeth gritting.

The little foal frowned and tried again, concentrating fiercely and lifting the next ball. He hurled that one backwards and struck a display behind him. I winced when I heard a crash. That sounded expensive!

“I...I don’t think I can do it.” Was he about to cry? The foal looked heartbroken, like he’d failed at something important. This was just a game!

‘’Yes you can, slugger.’’ I reassured him, ‘’And if you can’t do it now, we can always try again, okay? It’s not always about winning.’’

‘’But I want the fluffy unicorn!’’ He squeaked out. I wanted him to have the unicorn plushie, I really did. He had to earn it for himself though.

‘’If you want it, then earn it. Don’t you remember the basics of Telekinesis?’’ The colt nodded slowly. ‘’Focus, visualize, and?’’

“Act!” He completed my sentence with gusto and pulled his goggles up to cover his eyes. He was serious now. He lifted the ball, grit his teeth, glared at his target and threw the ball. The milk bottle on top was struck and it fell over with a thud. I cheered, so did my boy. My wife laughed at how silly we must have looked.

‘’Sorry, you only knocked over one. There’s no prize for only one.’’ The mare deadpanned. ‘’Nice try, though.’’

What? ‘’But he...’’ One of my eyes twitched. My wife looked rather displeased but accepting of that situation. My son looked crestfallen. He pulled his goggles down around his neck, his lower lip began to tremble. That isn’t fair. Do something about it! I mentally urged him, the stallion I was. He had to do something.

“Let me give this a shot...” I hissed darkly, a deep and cruel smile spread my lips.

“I...I don’t think you should do this, honey, just let it go!” My wife was worried? Oh, great. What was I about to do? Now I was worried.

I slammed the bits down on the counter and she gave me three red balls. I passed the ice cream, which had begun to melt, to my wife and the three balls took their place in my telekinetic grasp. The balls spun into fast revolutions, a soft sizzle and crackle of magical energy echoed from each one. ‘’You might want to duck, miss.’’

After I had all but atomized half the stall, the mare offered up the pink plush in exchange for our promise to never play a game at this festival ever again. I thought that was a solid victory. My son was overjoyed, hugging his prize and squealing with glee. ‘’It’s so fluffy!’’

The lovely purple unicorn mare was giving me a very deeply disapproving look, her lips in a deep frown, “Did you really have to do that?”

“Totally.” I answered.

“What am I going to do with you?” She asked, the concern growing across her face. She waved her hoof at me, “Hey, hello. Steelgraft?”

No! No, don’t let this memory be over! I don’t want to go back yet! I want to stay here with my family! My happy memory faded away into a blur of sound and color. My everything, my whole world, gone again.

‘’Does he always do this?’’ Whispered a voice.

‘’Yeah, I think he’s fuckin’ busted.’’ snorted Gangrene.

Great, I was back in reality. Gangrene’s face was uncomfortably close and she was slapping me in the face with her hoof lightly. She looked livid.

“I leave you alone for two minutes and you fuck off in la-la land.” The mare accused me. She leaned back and sighed. “Got stuff to do, Dead-Head.”

I was back in the brightly lit and cheerful sounding arcade, the flashing lights and beeps from operational machines melded into the marching band to my creeping insanity. A throng of foals surrounded me, looking at me with keen interest. Some were staring deep into the glowing face on the back of my gauntlets and a small griffin fledgling had perched on my back at some point during my relapse.

‘’Where do you put the caps?’’ The young griffin fledgling chirped, resting her talons on my ears and gripping them.

‘’I’m not a ride.’’ I grumbled, regaining composure as my mind caught up with everything going on. My companion was joking with the young whelps that gathered around me with interest. Just how long had I been out? A few minutes, maybe ten at the most?

‘’Hey, could you get off ‘im? I don’t think you want to put caps in him. He might not like that.’’ Gangrene found great mirth in my predicament. She smirked, nickering softly, ‘’Besides, his cap slot’s probably in his butt.’’ No I did not have a cap slot in my ass.

A collective ‘ew’ echoed from the children and I was dismounted by the fledgling. Finally, a bit of space, for as much as I liked kids, being swarmed was overwhelming. Extracting myself, I left the horde, only to be followed by a few that were still interested in me. They were asking questions, ones that annoyed me to no end.

‘’Come on SteelGraft, we need to talk to Record Wrecker. Enough wasting time.’’ She heckled me. She was the one that wanted to waste time playing an arcade game! She paid the children no mind, trotting off ahead towards the massive prize booth.

‘’Why’re you walkin’ away?’’ One asked of my tagalongs asked.

‘’Because Gangrene and I have to talk to Record Wrecker.’’ I answered.

‘’Why?’’

‘’Because I have business to attend to.’’ I answered again, my eye twitching already. Shouldn’t kids be afraid of me? All the adults were nervously avoiding my gaze or shuffling out of the way yet the kids were enamored by my presence.

‘’Are you a super hero?’’ Asked a small teal unicorn foal, one with a constantly dripping nose. She inhaled sharply through her nose and swallowed, panting out through her mouth. Isn’t that adorable? I shuddered.

‘’Uh, no. I’m ju--Actually, you know what. Yes. Yes I am. I’m a superhero. On super hero business.’’ I lied, much to the adoration of several of the foals. A few ‘ahs’ and silent, wide eyed stares began to make me feel uncomfortable.

‘’Your costume’s really stupid.’’ Spoke one foal in particular, the same eggshell blue colt that had been playing Dance Dance Pony with gangrene. His slicked back red and black mohawk screamed the influence of Gangrene’s style, and his narrowed grey eyes were now free of tears. ‘’What’s your superpower, being beat up and needin’ stitches? What a fucking joke, you ass weasel. You’re just Gangrene’s lackey.’’

He was mouthy for a little brat that had just been crying. He seemed to be a ringleader among these little urchins. The others joined in, no longer were they impressed, but now mocking. All that was bearable, the curiosity of how this brat knew Gangrene was not. ‘’I dunno, is your super power crying like a whiny filly?’’ I had previously thought it just random that the foal had joined her in the game. “And how do you know Gangrene?”

The foal stomped his hooves, growling. “My super power’ll be kickin your faggy ass, staple dick!” The foal roared, wearing a cocky smile. I was tempted to compare the grin on his face with the one on my gauntlets with added velocity. You’d never hit a child.

“You got a mouth on you, brat. Your mom must be proud.” I rumbled darkly. This foal was trying my patience and I had no time for it.

“The fuck you know about my mom?! You wanna fight, you stripe dicked ninnyfart?” The foal shouted to me, narrowing his eyes. The following children began to chant ‘fight’ over and over again, which was a bad idea. I’d mutilate the kid If I was to fight him! Didn’t he know not to pick fights with things bigger than him? Like gigantic radscorpions? Augh, don’t think about that!

I pulled ahead of the children, trying to lose them around a congested corner and going down an adjacent aisle. ‘’Yeah, you better run you coward! Run away!’’ The small eggshell blue foal was snorting and stamping triumphantly.

‘’I remember when kids respected their elders,’’ I muttered to myself dryly. I don’t think I was ever that bad as a foal. Or maybe I was. Ah yes, the old days, where grass was green and the mares were pretty. I guess those times may as well be prehistoric.

All the games in this aisle were shooting and war games. Target Terror, Rapid Recoil, and Airship Armada were among the most notable titles. They displayed animations of all their gameplay, the high scores that appeared weren’t held by Record Wrecker, but by a name unfamiliar, ‘Keena Keenshot’. Almost every working arcade game had a record of Record Wrecker at the top, this was the first time I’d seen consistent titles with high scores held by someone else.

‘’Steelgraft, hurry that ass up and stop playin’ with the kids, will you?!’’ Gangrene cupped her muzzle and shouted at me from across the arcade. I could barely hear her over all the boops and beeps and bouncing electronic 8-bit music.

Eventually I did find my way to the prize and concession counter. A large glass display counter held prizes, all of which were toys, refurbished and repainted to near pristine condition. The mare behind the counter wore thick aviator goggles and a wide brimmed straw hat, an orange pegasus mare with a single crippled wing held at her side with bandages in a sling. Her short and spiky mane was a deep red.

On the wall behind her, mounted on a pegboard was the ‘Big Boy Toys’, a range of weapons from rifles to rocket launchers, ammo, large chainsaw knives and other aggressive looking weaponry and an assortment of goods including chemicals, old music records, and even a gramophone. All prizes had ticket prices written down next to them. The most expensive item was a mint condition Pinkie Pie plush for 15,000 tickets. It was in a glass container on display, with it was a small figurine of the same mare on a tiny pedestal. A figurine which had no marked price.

‘’About time you made it, Deady. I was starting to worry you’d get your plot kicked by Rebel Riot.’’ She chuckled, shaking her head slowly. She wiped the residual sweat off her face with an old towel offered by the mare from behind the counter. ‘’Damn. I’m thirsty after that workout.’’ She tossed the towel back and pulled out a small bottle of slightly muddy water, drinking in heavy gulps.

‘’It was a neat attempt there, Gang Gal. Better luck next time to reclaim your record. Least your name’ll still be on the ‘Wall of Winners’ “ The orange pegasus quipped, running the sweat soaked rag over the counter. That wasn’t sanitary! The wall she pointed at nearby was behind the counter, it had names on plaques all over it, names emblazoned upon them. Those were from before the war, for right below them was a bunch of beat up hubcaps for sky wagon wheels with painted names on their polished yet still rusty surfaces.

‘’That little brat’s harmless.’’ I stated duly, pointing out the obvious. ‘’But your name is on the wall? Right up there with everyone else.’’

‘’Don’t let him hear you calling him harmless, he’ll get cranky,’’ Gangrene knickered, capping her bottle and stowing it back into her small neck pouch. ‘’And yeah it’s up there, but I like havin’ my name in the machine. ‘Sides, it feels good to tap the beat and give them stallions some heat.’’ She gave me a subtle smoldering look. ‘’Did you enjoy feelin’ the beat?’’

‘’My feelings on your performance are dull.’’ I groused.

‘’Necro feelin’ yeah.’’ She snickered.

“Was that entire thing a setup for a lame necrophilia joke?” My jimmies were quite rustled.

‘’You give me too much credit, but it’s fuckin funny!’’ Gangrene snorted out and burst into laughter at my expense. Even the mare behind the counter laughed at that lame, horrible, racist joke. Yes, racist! Ghouls are a race. Or was it sub-race? ‘’Lets get back to business.’’

‘’Ah, sure, what did you need, Gang-Gal?’’ Wrecker spoke with a small, warm smile.

‘’Word ‘round town is you know where that fat fuck Muffincake is.’’ Gangrene stated, looking over her friend appraisingly, ‘’How th’ fuck you hurt your wing?’’

‘’I uh, I don’t know where he is,’’ Record admitted while she continued to wipe the counter with the rag in rapid circles. She was smearing streaks of sweat over the counter, biting her lower lip. She ignored the second of Gangrene’s questions.

“We were told you knew something.” I added. If this was a dead end lead I was going to play hoofball with PNK-3 next time I saw her. Maybe give Mechanic a verbal thrashing for wasting my time. That won’t do you any good. Damnit voice in my head, stop being so logical. I want to be mad.

An adult pony approached the stand and ordered a sparkle Cola, setting caps for it on the counter. Record Wrecker turned around, fiddling with one of the vending machines she kept behind the counter, slamming it to get a Sparkle cola and setting it on the counter while taking the caps. ‘’A few Muffin Cake Raiders came by this last sunday.’’ She began, ‘’I told em they weren’t welcome, they left. Waited outside my turret’s range. A group of kids left the arcade and got grabbed.’’ She took a deep, shuddering breath. ‘’Me and Keena went out and tried to stop it, but Keena got her gun broke. They stomped my wing.’’ She cast a sad glance at her bound wing and tried to adjust it, wincing at the discomfort as the brittle bones popped.

While this infuriated me and drove me to new heights of anger it didn’t help with finding Muffincake. I wanted to find him even more and rescue those kids but I’d never find them in the Industrial Park without any information. Holding back my anger I asked another question, ‘’Is there anything you remember? Anything that will help me find them?’’

‘’I...I don’t know,’’ The mare stuttered, her ears folded back, ‘’All they told me was that they were going to boil the kids alive in a giant metal bucket and eat them.’’ The mare was bothered deeply, her voice wavering, ‘’These kids come here to forget how bad the wastes are. They should be safe here.’’ She looked me over and she ducked behind the counter, ‘’Just please leave me alone. I don’t know anything else.’’

‘’They threatened yah and beat you?’’ Gangrene was angry, but she didn’t raise her voice, ‘’Wrecker, let me fix up that wing.’’

‘’I don’t want to be involved! Go bother Keena. S-she wants to go after them.’’ The mare was near crying. She was afraid. I could understand, if we failed to kill the warlord and died, then the warlord would send trouble. The arcade was no match for the warlord with resources, a few rockets or explosives would take out her turrets, they’d just break in. If she helped us she’d make herself a target. Everyone here would be in danger. My understanding didn’t stop me from grinding my teeth in agitation.

‘’Where’s Keena?’’ Gangrene asked. ‘’We need all the help we can get to save those kids.’’ Her determination was only matched with the anger that burned in her eyes, brows knitted together in a stern scowl.

After a moment to compose herself the mare straightened up behind the counter and wiped her face with that unpleasantly sweaty and dirty rag. She coughed, lifting her goggled off her eyes and wiping them clean. The tears that had filled the lenses fell down her cheeks and splashed over the countertop. ‘’Keena she t-took losin’ the kids super hard.’’ She was calming, soon her demeanor was less shaken. ‘’She’s over trying to earn tickets to get a new gun.’’ She unfurled her unbound wing and pointed at the wall of prizes. “She was thinking about g-going after Muffincake herself.”

“Wait, you own the arcade, why don’t you just give her one?” What a cheapskate, my upper lip curled back and I exhaled what must have been foul breath, judging by how Wrecker’s nose wrinkled. “You don’t enjoy being helpful, do you?’’

Wrecker bristled, “Oh, you mean give one of my most frequent customers a weapon so she can go off and get herself kill’t?’’ She wrung out the dirty towel into a bucket behind the counter and slapped it down with a snort, “It’s a shame that happened, mister. Bad things happen. Lettin’ a friend go off and suicide pointlessly ain’t helpful. Now go away, your breath reeks and you’re rude!’’

I recoiled as she grabbed the towel off the counter and whip snapped it at the air, a sharp crack going off next to my ear that caused a deafening ring. “Alright! I’m going, I’m going!” We had outstayed our welcome with the owner, it was best if we moved on. And by ‘we’ I meant me, since I was an insufferable jerk.

“Way to go Steelgraft, you went and pissed her off.’’ Gangrene chided me, following me as I left the concession and prize counter. “That only leaves finding Keena and seeing what she knows.”

There were no other options, we had to find her and ask for her help. If she wanted to go after Muffincake that meant we had an ally. We were making progress towards the ‘games of skill’ section. Machines here spat out tickets for rewards, put in a cap or two and play a game for tickets, turn those in for prizes. Straightforward and fun. If scavenging from the wastelands was a fun game I might enjoy doing it more.

‘’Do you know who Keena is?’’ Or perhaps vice versa, according to that brat everyone knew of Gangrene, the Viper leader.

‘’Seen her around. She’s hard to miss.’’ The mare replied, scanning the aisle and games for Keena. ‘’Sticks out like a sore hoof, she does.’’

‘’Why is that?’’ I asked, curiosity peaking.

“Oh, you’ll see.” She assured me, raising a hoof and point towards a few skee ball machines. I could make out a griffin at one of them with downy white plumage and a messy crest of headfeathers. “There she is!” Gangrene took off, circumventing the few ponies in her way.

I followed, every step bringing me closer to them. Soon, all things blocking my view of the griffin playing skee ball was behind me. I soon realized why Keena was said to stick out, she was a griffin with the back half of a pony! A painted mare’s back half had been attached to a griffin’s upper half, warm tones of earth mixed with splotches of creamy white and a tail of dark, shimmering sable braided short. Her beak was shorter than typical griffin beaks, curving downwards with a soft blue cere on her beak between her sharp amber eyes.

She rolled a ball up the track, missing all the hoppers for the highest points, cursing under her breath. Her score was low and awarded only a few tickets, “Dangit! That was the last of my caps.” She rasped, clicking her beak in agitation. She had yet to notice Gangrene or I and she counted her tickets, pulling the streamer of tickets from the floor.

‘’This isn’t enough to get that assault rifle.’’ She sighed softly, hanging her head. She seemed so defeated, sitting sullen.

‘’Keena Keenshot,’’ Gangrene stated her name to get her attention, ‘’I normally don’t see you on this side of the arcade. Shouldn’t you be breakin’ records at the shooting gallery?’’ Gangrene took a seat on the lip of the skee ball machine’s edge.

“Uh, yeah. Pretty bad few days. Do I know you?” The young griff--erm...whatever she was chirped questioningly, tilting her head to the side. The little brat Rebel Riot had been wrong, not everyone knew of Gangrene after all.

“Yeah, ‘course you do. I’m Gangrene. You don’t recognize me when my hair’s not got an erection?” Gangrene then slicked up her limp mane, trying to get the heavy with sweat flophawk to stand on end. It slowly fell back down after maintaining it’s form for a paltry three seconds.

“Oh,” Keena muttered, then did a swift double take of the yellow unicorn between her and me, “Gangrene, you mean Viper leader, top dog of the Rec Center Gangrene?”

I spoke too soon, apparently the yellow mare was known around this area far better than in Greenvale or I had just failed to realize just how popular my companion was. Gangrene had mentioned a Recreation Center once before, over a week ago. You know, when she was going into shock from rocket propelled grenade and building debris poisoning. My short term memory was amazing for an amnesiatic dead guy. Stop thinking about it, more important things to do!

‘’The one and only. Now word is somethin’ big happened. And you know me Keena, I don’t take kindly to raider pukes fuckin’ with the itty bitties.’’ said the yellow mare with a grim smile, “I trash em.”

“Is that why you’re here Gangrene? You and the Vipers’ll be helping me get the kids?” Her eyes were wide, her voice that had sounded so defeated before now held a kernel of hope.

“Uh, not exactly, no. We’re actually going to be killin’ the fat slug of a warlord. Treatin’ a symptom of a disease ain’t enough.” Gangrene let Keena down gently, that sly smirk only getting broader, “You in?”

“I, uhm, maybe. Who’s all coming along?” Keena asked, nervously clicking her beak, “You know I won’t be much good without a gun. Mine broke and I’m outta caps.”

“Well, right now it’s juss me ahn my ghoul man-servant, Steelgraft here,” Gangrene introduced me, tugging on my explosive collar with her telekinetic grip. ‘’As for the gun problem? We got two Boominbergs we kin refurbish. That gat is pretty sick. 5.56 mm full auto-pain.’’

‘’I’m not your man-servant, I’m Steelgraft, noone special. I just punch things.’’ I humbly made a reintroduction. That mare was really cheeky, her grin only widened at my obvious discomfort. ‘’Stop it! You’ll set it off!’’ I reached to my neck, holding the collar steady.

With a sigh the punk unicorn released my collar, remarking, “Oh chill, it’s not just going to go off juss cuz I give it a tug.” She nickered softly, “Maybe I should get a little leash for yah?” The image of me being led around on a bridle and reins entered my mind, the absurdity broke me into laughter.

The griffin--Erm, bird horse thing waved a talon at the air and straightened her shoulder satchel, “A Bloomberg, that’d do nice. I couldn’t pay but consider me interested.” She gave a shrewd smile, looking around nervously. I wondered briefly why she was circling in place, head high and at alert, finally she muttered to us, “You shouldn’t be talking like that! Kids are around!” She took keen interest in me, leaning in and looking me up and down. She tilted her head and took a step back, “What kinda ghoul are you?”

Taking in a needless breath and exhaling exasperatedly I prepared for another potential freak-out on my hooves. Here we go again. “Yeah, I’m one of those Deadmare things everypony is so terrified of. Some don’t give a shit, but others do. Nice to see my condition bothers you little miss pony-bird.”

“Hippogryph.” Keena corrected me crisply, “And no, It’s a pleasure to speak with you, the others will be so jealous!” If at any point in this conversation had veered into the asinine, this was it. Anyone that would consider it a pleasure to speak with me because I was a death blender was someone I sincerely doubted the mental continence of. Anyone who was jealous of them shared an equal level of stupidity.

“I...What? I don’t even---’’ I had no words to convey why I was so confused, my mind slammed itself into a brick wall at thirty knots nautical over and over again, spilling it’s cognition into the clouds swirling below in my metaphorical thought soup. “I’m a bit confused.”

Gangrene sighed, “Keena’s parents were interspecies, dolt. Papa liked them fine pone flank and got his kitty kit up in her mare grill. Plow wow pow wow, the good fuck? Birds and the Bees?’’ The yellow mare explained the birds and the bees in a vernacular that made my brain hurt even more. She also completely missed what I was confused about.

“No, I mean why would anyone think it’s so great to meet a cyber zombie?” My words came out in a blurt, “Most I hear about ghouls like me are ill omens that murder towns and wreck entire settlements! They’re monsters!”

“Language!” Keena hissed gently, looking around to make sure no young whelps were within earshot of us. Thankfully there weren’t, lest the clean speaking hippogryph decide to give me a speech about being a bad influence on kids. “Well it’s because ghouls are really neat, they have all kinds of stories, ya know? At the church we get to hear their stories, what Equestria was like. One thing they say about the Deadmare is they’re tortured souls that seek to return to the life they knew.” She took a short, inward gasping breath, “No one’s ever been able to talk to one of the tortured souls. The prophets are either ignored or...Well, made to pass on.”

I think she meant killed. Murdered, executed, ripped to shreds, pushing up daisies, or whatever other way one could creatively say ‘they got fucking killed’. The ‘ignored’ part interested me, Deadmare that just ignored potential targets? Maybe there were other cyber zombies like me out there, ones that thought and had some memories. That was both inspiring and terrifying to me.

“I get it, I’m some special snowflake. And you’re a...Church Hippygrunt.’’ I huffed out, rolling my eye, ‘’Yes, I’m a tortured, withered soul, so lost and without cause.” I thought I sounded sarcastic, but as the words left my mouth they became more genuine than I’d intended.

Keena scowled, anger mingling in the bright shine of her eyes. She clicked her beak softly, “The Church of Eternia.” She informed me, “And it’s Hippogryph. Hippogryph!” She turned her attention to Gangrene, “So he’s helping us to redeem his past sins?”

The yellow mare laughed, once again tugging my collar against my protests, “Perhaps you missed his lil bomb collar. Motivations aside, he wants to save them kids as much as we do. So, you in or out?”

“Donate me a gun and I’m yours! We should recruit more help, if possible.” She chirped, wringing her talons together.

“Look no further ladies!” Squeaked the young blue earth pony colt, jumping out from behind a nearby ticket counting machine. Keena leapt up, letting out a startled squawk. It was that little brat, Rebel Riot from earlier. He had been hiding behind a nearby arcade machine, eavesdropping. He trotted up, making sure to stomp with every step to make himself sound bigger, “You need help. I’m the stallion to give it to you! Right, Gangrene? This time I should come with you! You said I could come next time last time!”

This had bad idea written all over it, for multiple reasons.

1.) He was annoying.
2.) I didn’t know where we were going but I knew it wasn’t safe.
3.) I could not stress how many nerves this foal raked with his attitude.

“Sorry squirt, we’ll take you next time.” Gangrene firmly stated, “I promise. Just this run’s too dangerous.” Thank you Gangrene!

“You said that last time! You need a REAL stallion to watch your flank, toots! Not this...” He shot me a glare, sneering as he spoke, “This ass pounding coward.” He snorted, nostrils flared. I was just going to ignore that.

“Dat ‘ass poundin coward’ is my partner, crotch fruit. And for as naive as he is, you don’t talk shit bout him, got it?” The yellow mare’s voice was stern and crisp, she hopped down from her perch on the skee ball machine and ruffled Rebel’s mane harshly, pulling him into a noogie. "Sides, you cried when you took a lil tumble playin' a game! Not ready for big times yet."

The foal whinnied and squirmed, spitting out a few half-hearted insults, his grey eyes narrowed. “Stahp! You crazy piss sniffer! Ahn whatchu mean partner, what happened to ass-stench?”

“Oh, he...retired. Permanent-like. He wanted to do somethin’ else.” She lied unconvincingly.

“He fuckin' died, huh?” He deadpanned, looking up to the mare with an emotionless expression.

Gangrene gave a weak smile and nodded, “Nothin’ gets passed you, kid.”

Keena, bless her, had stood in shock this entire time, beak held open in shock and surprise. She was stiff as a long dead corpse, stammering out short, broken syllables. “H-how’d yah learn to speak like that? That’s foul” She managed.

“You’re a fowl!” Rebel blurts, receiving a firm swat from Gangrene for his rudeness. “Ow, the fuck was that for?!” He rubbed his sore plot with a hoof, biting his lower lip.

“That’s for bein’ a brat. Now if you want to help, take this key.” Gangrene levitated the key off from her neck pouch and shoved it into his chest, “Take this key, get into my locker ahn get the Bloomberg rifles. Take em apart and get a workin’ one for Keena here.” She gestured to the still half-stunned hippogryph.

The foal bit into the key, grumbling softly, “Frine! Bhedder prey mreh freh thish...” He mumbled around the key-ring, turning to leave us. He slipped around a support pillar next to a pegasus racing game and vanished from sight.

“I didn’t know you were a mother, Gangrene,” I muttered to her.

“Huh? Me, a mom? Hah, no. I ain’t his mom. I just look after the local kids. Thas what Vipers do.” She spoke with a sly smile. “And that’s why this fat turd’s gonna die.” She waved a hoof in front of the still rather stunned Keena’s face. “Come on, gal, you hear worse shit spew out at them sermons you go to.”

Keena shook her head rapidly and blinked, “Yes, perhaps some of our pastors are a bit...Expressive, but foals should never talk like that!” She looked in th direction Rebel Riot had slipped off to, “Are you really trusting a child to fix a firearm?”

Gangrene gave Keena a dull look, reaching up with a hoof to slick back her sweat heavy mane, licking her lips, she chuckled. “Why not? Kid’s good at fixin’ and that’s what he does for us at the Rec Center. He really pulls his weight.”

Things began to click for me, the recreation center was where the Vipers lived, that was where Rebel Riot stayed. She watched over him. So the vipers were a family, loosely knit, a gang of survivalists. “Will any of the other Vipers be joining us?” I asked.

“Nah, they got their own shit. Maybe I’ll ask n’see, but if any shit happens and we die, I need someone to keep watchin’ Rebs and the other urchins.” She stated simply, “Course I’ll be visiting the Recreation Center today, seeing as we’re so close to the mall.”

Keena collected her tickets and wound them up, she walked off to a nearby group of foals all circled around a game called Fighting is Magic and handed the small spool to them, returning with her back turned to their cheers and excited smiles. “I wasn’t going to be needing those tickets since you’re giving me a gun. When are we leaving?”

“We’re leaving as soon as you tell us where they took the kids.” My words came as a surprise to Keena, her beak falling open.

“I thought you knew where they’d be. I don’t know where they are.” She answered, much to the fears that I held. We had no idea where to go and this lead was a dead end.

From bad to worse, everything was going to the dumps in a grand show of opulent failure. Sure, we had another ally which meant we had better chances, but we still didn’t know where the fuck that fat bastard hid in the Industrial Park. We played with the idea that Keena could try scouting for us, but that’d put her in danger considering the types of weapons the Muffincake raiders were said to have. Keena explained that the Muffincakes were enemies with the griffin faction the Whirlybirds, and as such made sure to have anti-air weaponry on hoof in case it came to taking down opponents that were airborne.

Everything was stacked against us and we had been dealt a poor hand. I didn’t know what the game Caravan was, but the analogy Gangrene used seemed fitting, ‘We got dealt blank cards in a game with stakes impossibly high’.

Our gear was unpacked and mounted on us, leaving nothing but the arcade behind, our next stop was the mall. I was burdened by my saddlebags again. Keena had a simple barding of cloth canvas and the empty sling strap that had once been part of her rifle. Gangrene had her armor back on. Rebel Riot was wielding a riot shield on his side, one that bore ‘It’s a Riot’ in bold red letters, except the ‘A' had been replaced by the anarchy symbol. We were probably the strangest group to travel these roads.

The loud mouthed foal needed his tools to fix the rifles, which were back at the Recreation Center at a high-rise mall called ‘The Blok’, which had been one of the biggest outdoor malls in all of Detrot during the war. Now, it was a community of scavengers and merchants, just far enough from Muffincake territory that they were unmolested. That’s where Gangrene and her Vipers lived, butted up between faction lines in a ‘grey’ zone. Constant tug of war over the mall had weakened the Muffincakes and Whirlybirds so much that they’d simply given up on the mall and declared it a loss, leaving it to a band of ex-raiders known as The Misfits. They ran a local freak-show and fighting ring known as The Rose Thorn. I was told I’d fit right in.

“That’s a lotta’ info at once, Gangrene. You’ll fuckin’ blow his simple lil brain tellin’ him all dat.” Rebel Riot sneered, having yet to warm up to me whatsoever during our short trip together. “And I can make it home on my own, you don’ need’a babysit me.”

“I ain’t takin’ chances, sides, save you the return trip. Don’t need you getting eaten by wild dogs.” Gangrene’s kept a stable pace, leading the way down a decrepit alleyway. The graffiti screamed ‘psychotic breakdown’ and the dented, warped trashcans were homes to larger than average rats. Gangrene stomped on a radroach that had dared to cross her path, twisting her hoof firmly into it’s twitching corpse.

“Hah, that’s a good one, Gangrene.” I chuckled softly. I watched as Rebel Riot tried to emulate Gangrene by jumping on a radroach, only succeeding at pissing it off. The foal screamed and began fleeing from it.

The yellow mare snorted, pulling her rifle off her back and blasting the radroach in one reflexive motion, spitting afterwards. “That ain’t a joke. Wild dogs eat folks alla time.” She cocked her lever magically and tapped the trigger casing against the spikes on her shoulder armor. “Trigger inside’s feelin’ wonky. Gonna need you to patch up Ole Gil.”

“You stole my kill!” Rebel growled, stamping his hoof as if some great wrong had been done to him. “And yeh, I can fix your crummy ole rifle.” He muttered, moving over to the Radroach’s corpse. “That’s what you get, twitch fuck! You get shot dead!” Done mocking the dead radroach, he jumped on it, sending a jet of bug goo to spray out the bullet wound in it’s abdomen, coating me and a nearby wall.

We really couldn’t go a single day without me getting coated in something gross, could we? The gross goo smelled of pungent garbage, even stronger than what was covered in buzzing flies in the nearby dumpster. “Oh, thanks. I was feeling hungry anyway.” I wiped my face off, wiping the residue off on a nearby discarded newspaper. ‘We Will Win’

Keens was circling overhead, keeping a watch out for us. She perched on the top rung of the nearby fire escape and whistled to us, “Hey, there’s a bit of an issue up ahead the next road--It’s blocked by Rangers.”

“Fuck!” Gangrene’s expletive made Keena wince. “They stoppin’ traders and travelers up there?”

“Looks like.” Keena replied, “Taking things from them too. Why would they be this close to Whirlybird or Muffincake territory?”

“No idea, maybe they’re gettin’ cocky since Chunky Salsa got done in. Those metal-heads’re robbin’ decent folk of tech. I ain’t ever surprised by those fuckin’ Steel Rangers.” Gangrene’s expression was cold and hard, her nostrils flaring. “Looks like we might have to pay a toll to get passed their pissant roadblock.”

“Wait, the same Steel Rangers from the recruitment posters? ‘Fight to protect’ and ‘For a greater Equestria’ are their oaths.” As soon as I said that, Gangrene began to laugh, as did Rebel Riot.

“Now, Steelgraft, that’s a bucking great joke!” The mare congratulated me, stomping her hoof and wiping a tear from her eye because she’d laughed so hard. Rebel was on his back, rolling from side to side.

“Wait.” Rebel squeaked, drawing an inward breath. He sat up, “Gangrene, I think he’s serious.”

The two shot each other a glance then let out boisterous, renewed laughter. I looked up to Keena, who shrugged, just as lost as I was in their humor. “This is over my head.” Keena admitted, “I mean I don’t see what’s so funny when Steel Rangers rob and shoot ponies for anything more tech than a screwdriver.”

“More tech than a screwdriver...” I mimicked to myself, looking down at my prosthetics. “This is,” I flexed the digits on my gauntlets, raking the stained concrete, “Going to be a problem.” Steel Rangers, big metal suit wearing ponies with high powered weapons. At least they’re not giant scorpions under all that armor... Do not think about it! Giant armored mechanical scorpions. Fuck you brain, FUCK YOU! With an entire Nimbus class airship.

“Heh...Ah, you’re too much Steelgraft. Oaths. Like they give ratshit ‘bout their oaths!” She stomped her hoof several times, tilting her head back to force air into her lungs. “Dayum.” The mare looked about the alleyway, clicking her tongue to the roof of her mouth, “We are gunna need to cover you up, Steel-butts. Can’t let them scrap you for your shiny bits.” She passed me, brushing against my side, whispering, “And I ain’t talkin’ bout the stitchin' in your dick~”

The stitching in my what?! I looked down, between my legs to investigate. No, no staples there. I shot her a glare, “Oh, funny, very funny.”

“Too...” She knocked over a trashcan with a sway of her hip, “Easy.” She turned her eyes to the dumpster. “Rebel, ready for some scav-work?” She opened the lid with her magic, looking to the foal expectantly.

“You’re not seriously going to make a child go through a dumpster, are you?” Keena was appalled, her beak open in what I assumed was disgust. Beaks weren’t as readable as lips.

“Am I ever?” The foal spoke with more enthusiasm than I would have used and bound for Gangrene, dropping his riot shield and leaping up onto Gangrene’s flanks before getting launched into the dumpster. The foal did a graceless bellyflop, scattering a sick collection of rancid trash into the air.

Several of the trashcans lifted up, floated over the dumpster, and emptied their contents out over it, burying Rebel in a stew of junk and debris, “Check this too, see if it has anything.”

“Ow! You stupid bitch, some of that stuff is heavy!” Rebel complained loudly, tossing out several pieces of junk, a broken radio among the pieces.

“Why are we having short-stuff rummage in a dumpster full of waste?” I said, trotting over to the yellow mare and looking over the assorted ‘goods’. Broken radio, mentioned before, a few pieces of metal scrap, a couple of dead spark batteries, and a dead rat. “None of this looks very valuable.”

“That’s because these’re peace offerings.” Gangrene explained, tapping the dumpster with her hoof, “That’s enough squirt.” She rapped her hoof against the dumpster’s rusted, battered side.

The foal’s head popped up, a small collection of grime and filth in his mane. Leaping out, he was caught by Gangrene’s magical aura and set down gently. Rebel looked around for some musty newspaper and began wiping himself off with it.

“You okay there?” Keena asked, having left her perch to give the young earth pony a small, ratty cloth to wipe off with. “You’re such a mess, little guy.”

“I ain’t lil!” He growled, snatching the rag and wiping the smears of grease off his face, “And swimming through trash’s one ah my many hobbies. Never know what goods dumbass pones just ditch.”

The hippogryph winced at the use of such language from the foal, turning away and moving to the end of the alleyway, “We could just go around, find another road.” She suggested, leaning her head out to peek around the corner.

“Nah, we’re almost there. We’re burning daylight, got only one more day to kill that slug.” The Viper’s words were met with a confused glance from Keena. “Well, Steelgraft’s only got one more day.” She elaborated, “He’s the one with the bomb collar.”

“Why would they do such a thing?” Keena demanded, rather appalled, “That’s terrible, worse than just slavery.” Keena seemed like the wholesome type that would have done well back in the Equestria I knew, she was a naive idealist. I liked that about her.

“Desperation, fear, maybe a bit ah good ole fashioned ghoul hatred.” Gangrene stated, lifting up the scrap and junk parts that Rebel had managed to find. She put them in her saddlebag, letting a part of the warped and cracked radio hang out of her bag visibly.

“You mean I might get to see his head pop? Fuckin’ sweet!” Rebel gushed, jumping up and down, “I’ve always wanted to see a slave collar go off!” I shot him a glare and he stopped, adding sheepishly, “I mean, when it wasn’t attached to a pony...” He squeaked, trying to save some face and passed with a C Minus.

“Cute, kid. It’s nice to know my impending decapitation excites you.” I mumbled.

“You gotta be good fer somethin'.” Rebel Riot replied with dark cheerfulness.

“What exactly is our plan?” Keena interjected, being about as lost as I was, “We give them the salvage we have, but that still leaves our friend here exposed. They’ll try to take him into custody.” She rubbed a talon under her beak, “He could find another way around while we go through.”

“I’d get lost,” I shamelessly outed my horrible sense of direction. Might as well be honest, I was new to this part of the city. On the other hoof, I was a redheaded half-blind ghoul with gauntlets fused to my forelegs that were fitted with retractable, magically powered fingers. I really stood out in a crowd and disguising me wouldn’t be that easy.

“I say we put him in a trashcan and carry him!” Rebel suggested, being rather unhelpful. “They’re too dull and brainfucked to think we’d do somethin’ oddball!” Gangrene was liking his suggested idea more than I liked, she was nodding in agreement.

“Actually, I got a better plan than that. Let me just empty these trash bags...” She upended a few more trash cans and tore a few rotten plastic bags from their contents, shaking the bags until they were a wispy shell of thin plastic. She was happy to find an old throw rug among the trash, a moth eaten, ratty old straggled mess, and added that to the pile of plastic and bits of cloth material she found.

“What are you doing?” I asked, wondering how this fascination with garbage was going to help us. Gangrene began knotting pieces of plastic together in places, tacking them to the tattered piece of rug. A belt off her own armor and the small project was complete--It looked like the ugliest cloak I’d ever seen, dripping with damp decay and smelling of mildew.

“I just made you a pretty, pretty dress, Steelgraft.” Gangrene chimed, holding up her small, horrid project in her telekinesis, “Come on, put it on!”

“I am not wearing that.” I deadpanned. “Ever.” The look Gangrene gave me said otherwise.

Okay, so I was now wearing that cloak I said I’d never wear. Gangrene can be very good at convincing others to do things they didn’t want to do. If this had been made of something less disgusting, it might make for good survival wear. The plastic and rotten cloth cloak was dripping, sticky, and smelled. I was grateful I could scarcely feel a thing, for if I could, surely my skin would crawl right off my body in protest. I just had to act natural, like a scavenger and let the fearless Gangrene handle talking to the scary metal suit wearing ponies.

Heavy metal hooves thundered up and down the road at our sides, their breathing heavy and deep through their helmets. I looked away, afraid to catch their gaze. They were larger than life, the suits had an oppressive power about them that was also awe inspiring. This was a small platoon of ponies, eight in total from what I saw, lined up along the road and patrolling up and down the length of the street in pairs. They left us alone for the most part, encouraging us to stop by the checkpoint at the end of the road. A billboard that once advertised Sparkle Cola, with a lovely butter colored pegasus mare with pink hair sipping from a bottle, now had the emblem of the Ministry of Wartime Technology on it. Seeing both the mare and the symbol of the ministry gave brief flickers of nostalgia and memories that were unrecognizable vapor.

What do you mean collateral damage? -- Justify the means with that -- I’m so sorry, I’m so very sorry! The voice in my head was soft, delicate, and on the verge of crying. I shook my head, dismissing the broken flickers distracting me. Keep your head in the game, soldier! I expect you to fly straight, even with only one eye! -- That voice I did recognize, it was my commander. I opened my mouth to respond and caught myself, closing my mouth quickly. It’s just a memory, she’s not here. I told myself.

The billboard proudly displayed next to the emblem;

Steel Rangers Chapter 25, D-Squad

“The ‘D’ actually stands for Dunce,” Gangrene whispered to Rebel, making him laugh. Keena shot both of them a glare and shushed them. That didn’t stop them, they kept going, “Or Doofus.” Rebel added. “Dumbass?” Gangrene returned.

“It actually stands for ‘Do not screw this up,’ “ Keena clucked.

The Steel Rangers had set up a roadblock across the main road leading into the mall, several concrete dividers and a shabby looking security shack had been erected, along with a traffic gate painted in the caution colors of yellow and black. At this checkpoint was the biggest stallion I’d ever seen, easily three heads higher than me, his broad shoulders and wide stance held all the authority he wielded. A marking on his shoulder marked him as a different rank from the others I had seen. His armor was dented and damaged, making him seem more rugged and battle hardened, on either flank was a phrase painted in bold stenciled letters; ‘Stand Tall’. He had a heavy looking gatling gun mounted on his side, the barrel gave an occasional low, lazy half spin.

Once we were stopped at the checkpoint, behind a small group of traders waiting their turn to get through, Keena began to get nervous. She tapped her talons to the cracked asphalt and looked around in rapid, jerking motions, eyes jumping from ranger to ranger. I was trying to keep my head down, covered in the plastic makeshift hood, tatters trailing and flicking in the stale breeze.

“Alright, you’re free to go...” The gate was raised for the merchants ahead of us, bringing us under the close scrutiny of the Rangers. The massive stallion stood at the gate while his smaller companion asked us to step forward.

“Do you have any technology deemed excessive for tribal civilian use?” Asked the ordinary looking ranger, armed with a rather nasty looking scattergun. The voice was a mare’s, which was unsettling considering that it was an expressionless metal suit with dull green glowing eyes.

“Uh, no, not anythin’ excessive.” Gangrene spoke firmly, “What the hay you upstandin’ coltscouts doin’ so far from your cozy lil’ bunker?” The pitch of her voice was artificially sweet, honeyed with venom and spite behind every syllable.

“I cannot disclose that information.” The steel ranger replied, she marched around us, heavy metal hooves pounding the ground deliberately. “So, what do we have here? You don’t look like caravaners. Travelers? Where from?”

“We just got done having an outing at Highscore’s Arcade.” Keena explained, her voice mellow yet cheerful, “How are you today?” Her polite tone was noted by the steel ranger, who paused at her side.

“You’re an odd looking buzzard.” The ranger quipped coldly, brushing off Keena’s kindness like one would pick at a scab, looking her up and down, “Are you with the Whirlybirds? Didn’t know they took half-breeds.”

Keena visibly bristled, her feathers standing on end, her beak grinding silently, the anger she held left her swiftly, she let out the air she had inhaled as a soft sigh, “No, I’m not. I’m from the Church of Eternia, a worshiper of the Goddesses of Celestia and L-”

“I get it, you’re a churchmouse. Guess that means you keep your beak clean. Good on you...” Her voice rumbled over her respirator and she cleaved the air with a hoof dismissively, bringing it down firmly, “Enough chit chat with you, lets see who else I’m dealing with.” She gave Rebel some unwanted attention, leaning in to look at him, “What a cute lil filthy runt. This your kid, ma’am?” Disrespect and mocking were baked into every syllable.

Gangrene turned to face the ranger, chuckling softly and drawing Rebel Riot into a loose headlock, “This lil crotch-fruit? Nah, I’m just his baby sitter! Try to not scare him too much, he’s skittish.” I could tell her demeanor was struggling to hold, both her and Rebel had an extreme dislike of the Steel Rangers. I wondered why.

“Stupid canned bitch.” Rebel Riot grumbled.

“What was that, foal?” The Ranger demanded.

“N-nothin’ ma’am, just mumblin’.” Rebel Riot squeaked, trying to back into Gangrene defensively.

“Silver Tongue, stop heckling the travelers. If they’ve got no level 7 Tech let them go.” The massive stallion at the gate clad in armor had a deep, rumbling voice amplified by his armor’s speaker. He shifted, taking a light step to begin lifting the gate.

“Yes sir, I was just getting to that, sir!” The mare half bellowed, half stammered while offering a stiff and rigid salute. She then looked over Gangrene and noticed the wires hanging out of her bag, “Ah, this one thought she’d pull a quick one!” She moved to Gangrene and placed a heavy hoof on her. Don’t you place a hoof on her! My mind screamed, I briefly entertained the idea of grabbing the armored mare by the casing on her tail and using her as a bludgeon to beat her superior, but dismissed it as a bad idea.

“You got me!” Gangrene whinnied, her acting needed work, but the wince and flicker of anger were genuine, “It’s just a busted radio! Go ahead, take it and the metal junk and sensor I got. No troubs here, mac.”

“You stupid tribals could never pull one over on Silver Tongue.” The ranger stated boastfully, eager to take the goods from Gangrene’s saddlebag, “Be glad we don’t detain you for obstruction, you’re free to go.” I think I knew why Gangrene and Rebel hated them, they were nothing like the poster said they were. They were a disgrace to their ministry and to their mare!

Tensions lowered, muscles relaxed, and our small party was leaving this ordeal behind us. I had to hand it to Gangrene, everything went according to plan, all we lost was junk we didn’t care about.

“Wait,” bellowed the large stallion known as Standtall, “You, the one in the plastic poncho, stop right there.”

A sense of panic ran through the entire group, Gangrene was already squaring her stance, Keena spread her wings, and Rebel hid behind Gangrene. I froze, keeping my head down, I turned to face him. What does he want? Nothing good, I worried. Clearing my throat, I kept my voice as mellow and smooth as I could, “What is it?”

“Take off your hood.” Standtall commanded, his suit hissing softly with every movement he took until he loomed over me.

I complied, shaking my head until the hood fell, not wanting to let him see my gauntlets. The pale pelt and stitching of my face was bare to him, as was the collar around my neck. I kept my head low, trying to limit what he could see, my single eye rolled up to meet the visor’s gaze.

After he looked me over, his head giving a slow up and down nod, he spoke, “Are you a slave to these travelers?” He demanded, his smooth voice held no contempt or anger. It was nearly impossible to discern his emotion.

Think! You’ve no idea what he’ll do if you tell him you’re a slave! I took an inward, rattling breath, briefly chuckling before I shook my head. “No, I am not a slave,” I lied, “I volunteered to wear this explosive collar in case I went feral.” That had some truth to it, the best lies alway did. “If I lose my mind it will go off. It protects my companions from ever having to deal with my cognitive degeneration.” I used the same vernacular that Undertaker had used, trying my best to emulate his speaking style and prose.

“Interesting. I’d never heard a slave collar being used in such a way. May I ask your name?” He spoke clearly, his voice rumbling and deep, “I’d like to add it to the guest records. Your name should be remembered.”

“Everyone’s name should be remembered.” I countered with an insistent tone, “But since you’ve singled me out, my name is Steelgraft. My companions are Gangrene, Keena, and Ass-Pain.” I spoke clearly, Rebel Riot let out a half stammered curse since that was not his name. Gangrene silenced him with a hoof over his mouth.

“Ah, good.” Standtall muttered, “Care to tell me what sector you’re from? Are you a Detrot local?”

“I’m from the Dead Zone.” I confessed casually, “It’s a dangerous place, perhaps you’ve heard of it?” Did I just really say that? I was reminded of those hipster ponies I used to make fun of at cheap dives where the coffee was stale and cost 8 bits.

“I have.” Standtall acknowledged, “That explains why you’re showing up red on my E.F.S.” The gatling barrel on his weapon began to gain momentum in a full spin. Gangrene opened fire, pelting the Standtall with bullets around his respirator and visor to disorient him. They didn’t seem to do much, just harmlessly pinging off his armor. The first arc of his spray went wide of me, tearing up the ground and scattering chunks of asphalt wildly, Standtall’s visor sparked, hissing out a short garbled noise.

Shit! I didn’t even know what E.F.S. was and already I was thinking the worse, red typically meant combatant. But I hadn’t done anything aggressive except...Thinking about bludgeoning him with Silver tongue! Was the system that sensitive to detect motive? That’s worse than a detect evil spell! That was a detect motive spell on par with a master unicorn. Also, I was pretty sure I wasn’t evil.

My party was already in action, Keena grabbed Rebel Riot and flew straight up to get him out of harms way and Gangrene had already drawn her rifle, the barrel blazing as she let off round after round at Standtall. “The fuck’s wrong with you rangers? Killin’ pones for spark batteries just ain’t ‘nuff anymore?!” She sounded very, very unhappy.

Standtall managed to recover, getting his barrel up to speed again. Silver Tongue crossed into his line of fire. “Let me handle these punks!” The mare ranger cocked her riot shotgun and fired, slamming me with the spread and tearing gaping holes in my black plastic cloak.

“Stand down, Silver Tongue!” Standtall bellowed, his underling did not comply. He had to maneuver to get a clear shot at me or any of my companions. They were militant, but disorganized. Had they fallen so far that they couldn’t even keep their soldier’s in line? Tragic and pathetic.

My gun was under my cloak, in the way. I couldn’t reach it, so I had to think of something creative. Might as well ditch this disguise and embarrass this eager maverick soldier charging me in one fell swoop. Acting on pure impulse, my digits in my gauntlets unfurled from their housings and took hold of the hem of the cloak, peeling myself free of it. Trash-bag cloak in hand, I moved forward, juking to the side to avoid another direct hit from the shotgun’s roaring fire. Sweeping the air like a net, I aimed to capture a several hundred pound graceless metal butterfly, tangle her up and grip my new weapon by the metal case around her tail. It just begged to be used as the handle to a flail, a flailing flail.

“Rangers fall in! A Steel Rangers rendezvous at me! Combatants!” The leader of the small band of rangers yelled into his own helmet. A cascade of hoofbeats, metallic in nature fell across asphalt and gravel, growing closer with tension raising quickness. ‘CLANK!’ I swung my improvised Steel Ranger flail against Standtall and staggered him, then struck him several more times, each time echoing the beautiful sound of metal striking metal. Silver Tongue was kicking, unwittingly striking out at her commander and firing her weapon. She screamed with each impact against her superior officer. In my final swing, I spun and let her go, sending both of them to go tumbling backwards, wrecking their security shack and collapsing it around them.

“You’re a disgrace to your mare and her ministry!” I shouted at my bested opponent. I had little time to gloat, we had to move, now. I would leave this stallion to lick his wounds and consider himself lucky he had well armed friends close by.

“Now that’s what I call takin’ out the trash, Steelgraft!” Gangrene whooped and chuckled, “Take that you metal husked fruit-fuckers!” Why...Why hadn’t I thought of that line? Damnit, I was really slacking on the zing today.

“We need to get moving!” Keena called from overhead, circling us at a low altitude, around sixty feet, Rebel was kicking his legs, screaming. Poor kid must have been afraid of heights. “Those rangers will get here fast!” Keena added, her point driven home by the bullets flying in our general direction, some hitting too close for comfort, tearing holes in my burlap duster and pinging off the sewn-in metal plates. How the hell are they so accurate at that range?!

Bullets ricocheted off the ground and all around us, I was struck several times in the flank and shoulder, but I was not slowing down for anything. Gangrene was in front of me so I could give her cover. I kept my eye straight forward, which meant I was staring at the muscled, sweaty curves of her armored flanks. I averted my gaze upward, seeing that Keena was doing just fine. Rebel had gone from screaming to cheering as the hippogryph began pulling aerial maneuvers to shake any chance for a round to actually strike her.

“A little further and we’ll out range their S.A.T.S.!” Gangrene wheezed, her pace was beginning to lag, her flank bumped into the side of my face. I pushed her to keep her going.

“What the buck is Sats and w-why argh! Gangrene, keep going!” I was not at my nicest moment, I was leaking black and red ichor in twin trails and couldn’t feel any of my injuries. I was sure that I was the only one injured out of our party, so why couldn’t Gangrene just suck it up? I briefly imagined E.F.S stood for ‘Easily Fucked Stallion’ and S.A.T.S. stood for ‘Super Asinine Tactical Squad’.

“This is fuckin’ t-ririn’, gallopin a mile straight!” The mare whined her excuse, “Runnin’ outta steam here...” She squealed as I bit her on the ass, “You buckin’ cheeky bastard!” I bit her again, she squealed and sped up, keeping her momentum going. “C-cut that out, you’re leavin’ marks!”

“Then don’t slow down!” I growled, “Just a bit further!” My mane was getting into my eye, I was having trouble seeing. I shook my head, blowing the matted, gnarled mess of red locks from my eye and tossed my head back, finally able to see where I was going. Everything was still just a blur of motion, one eye and no real depth perception limited how I could see. If my other eye worked, maybe I’d be able to see better!

The mall was just ahead, we could lose pursuit of the rangers in there, Celestia’s grace permitting. The large erected wall at the mouth’s entrance had two guards posted, both wearing attire not much different from what raiders would wear. Gangrene flagged them down, panting for breath, “Let us the fuck in! Tin cans! Buckin’ tin cans!” Keena landed nearby, striding alongside us. I wondered briefly why she hadn’t just flown in, but dismissed such wondering for the task at hoof.

The two guards atop the catwalk dashed over to levers on opposite sides, grunting with effort to engage the mechanism to open the door. Two large engines sputtered to life, belching out smoke from a towering set of chimney pipes, and eating a length of chain into a spinning winch to lift the door. “Them jerk asses, huh? Get in, we’ll tell em’ to fuck off.” One spoke, then the other added in a chiming, near melodic tone, “We’d love a tip though!” We made it inside and the gate slammed shut behind us.

Still don’t have your character sheet? You’re hopeless. Well, at least you LEVELED UP. I reward exp for speech successes and skill-checks, you know. Oh, lets not forget about when you bear-trapped a raider in the face. That was rather entertaining.

New Flaw!
Macro-Entomophobia

Character Progress Review

Level Up!
Level 5 acquired! Spend those skillpoints wisely...You don’t get a lot of them. Mostly because you’re mentally average. I’d say subnormal, but the skillpoints you gain per level say otherwise.

I still think you’re an idiot. Just my personal opinion.

Chapter 7: One Step Forward

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"One Step Forward"

To move forward, you must leave something behind.

Safe--I had slowly come to terms with the fact that no place was ever truly safe. Some places were safer than others, but no place was ever going to truly be safe anymore. I had just been chased by beacons of virtue and hope for a mile down a desolate, war-torn street filled with burnt out wagons and sky carriages still bearing their skeletal passengers into a den of avarice and sin. This was safer than being outside, with eight heavily armed several hundred pound metal encased testosterone driven trigger happy militant bullet jockeys, but it still wasn’t safe. I was just trading one danger for a different brand of danger. Which kind of danger I was still very unsure, but at any moment I expected something bad to happen.

Lock and Key, the gate guards that had let us in, barred entrance to the Steel Rangers on grounds they had no warrant, which was an indirect way to tell them to fuck off. Hearing them go back and forth about how that ‘civilized pokes’ always did things ‘by the law’ required the rangers to return with a warrant from a judge to enter for the express purpose of searching for us. No warrant, no entry. It took all of five minutes for the bickering to die down and the steel rangers to give up their pursuit, leaving to harass more travelers passing their checkpoint. Or they could just use a different entrance. We weren’t that important, they wouldn’t waste time doing that.

It was at this time that both guards left their scaffolding to come join us. I had to do a double take, two earth pony stallions, exactly the same. Slender and lithe, same messy black hair, same muddy brown pelt, and the same patched and worn security barding. They were even missing an eye each, except they were mirrored. One was missing his left eye, the other the right, both wore a gauze wrapping over their missing eye. They were twins.

“How’d you piss them off this time?” Asked the stallion on the right. He wore a wide smile.

“Did you throw water balloons filled with piss at em’ again?” Queried the one on the left. His duplicate snickered, “Let her catch her breath. She looks ragged.” “Are those hickeys on her ass?”

Gangrene was wheezing, panting for breath. With the exception of me and Rebel, everyone else was tired and panting. Rebel had been carried, I just never got tired. Gangrene was gulping great gasps, leaning her side against a nearby wall and alternating between sucking air and downing dirty water from her canteen. Keena was slightly panting, fawning over Rebel who was trembling, wide eyed.

“Give me...Ah...” She swallowed another deep mouthful, “A fucking second...” She downed another quarter of the canteen and then tossed it to Keena. The hippogryph caught it and dropped it, causing it to drop with a heavy thud onto Rebel’s head, making him curse fluently. The hippogryph spent the next half minute apologizing to the shaken foal.

“Ah, thas better!” The yellow punk wheezed, slinking from the wall to throw her forelegs around the twin gate guard’s necks, “Sup my two studly buds!” She planted a kiss on one of their cheeks in turn, making their tongue loll out and their expressions to turn mushy. “Thanks for pullin’ my plot outta the fire. They didn’t take too kindly to us. Still, worth it seeing a Crusader drop duce in his armor.”

“Heh, when do they ever take kindly to you, Gangly Gal?” snickered one brother. He sighed, rolling his single eye, “Now, our payment...”

“Yeah...” Gangrene began, smacking her lips, “A bit broke at the moment. Can I getcha later?”

The two brothers exchanged pensive glances and shook their heads simultaneously, “Afraid not! We want something from you.” The other brother quickly spoke up, “Something of value. It’s not like we turn away those colt-scouts for just anypony.” Seeing them speak was like watching one mind among two bodies, their motives and thoughts worked as one to finish where the other left off in their thought.

They both withdrew from Gangrene and circled her, speaking in turn. “Guns, drugs, caps, or ammo.” Chimed one. “Suck, buck, or maybe a lil fuck?” Hissed the other. They were sleazy, I was growing concerned. So was Keena, her eyes narrowed and she ruffled her feathers in agitation. These were dubious characters, con-ponies like them were easy to spot. They had a tell, a certain behavior they stepped forward with when they knew they had you, when they knew there was no way you’d refuse their sale. In this case, they’d already rendered services that they demanded pay for. Refusing to pay might mean they would just let in the super asinine metal head force to come tan our collective hides.

“Nah, I ain’t got time for you boys. Sides, dontcha prefer...Each other?” Gangrene rolled her eyes, she began looking through her saddlebags for something she could spare. She held up her issue of ‘Stud Buds’ which caught one of the brother’s interest. “How ‘bout this nice clop mag? This issue’s got a centerfold of some fancy pony too. Got a nice keister.”

“Oh, I’ve never seen this one before!” Exclaimed one of the two. He licked his lips and drew his eyes over the fine, clean stallion flank in the fold-out centerfold the mare had mentioned, letting it furl out towards the floor. “Hello tail donut! My, he’s a gaper!” He murmured pleasantly, a deep rumble in his throat. Keena covered Rebel’s eyes with her talons. I was just amused, sure they were shaking us down for things, but it was almost worth paying them for this entertainment.

The other brother wasn’t interested, his attention was turned towards the rest of our group. He tutted softly, “Gangy, I see two new mugs. No introductions?” He wore a feigned pout.

The yellow mare coughed, her throat rumbling with a mixture of spit, “You need an introduction? Fuck, alright...” Gangrene pointed a hoof to Keena lazily, “That’s just Keena. Hippogryph. She’s nice, pushover.” Then she nodded in my direction, “That’s Steelgraft. He’s one of them pre-war ghouls. A doctor, believe it or not. Certified hole doctor.” She turned her head, inhaled through her nose and spat a fat loogie straight onto the floor. “He’s a bit of a biter though. Dirty plot donut bastard...”

“That was just to motivate you to keep running.” I huffed, turning away from them and rolling my eye to the sky. “She acts like she didn’t love it.” There was a canopy above us, a net of sharp wires held aloft somehow. That must have been why Keena hadn’t just flown in. She would have been torn to shreds. It made sense, considering they had issues with a faction of griffins trying to take over.

“Why hello there pretty boy~” One of the twins whispered into my ear, starling me.I couldn’t feel it, but some pressure was moving me to the side, he was right against me. “You look handsome for a corpse. I think I know what I want now~” Every muscle in my body tensed and the urge to respond with violence creeped up along my spine and burrowed into my brain.

“The one pesterin’ Steelgaft is Key. The polite boy readin’ the porn mag’s Lock. They’re the gate guards for Big Top Blok. Decent boys, just watch out for key.” Gangrene’s words reached me, and the sneaking feeling of worry I had grew into a thick shudder. “He’s a bit of a corpse humper.” Gangrene cemented, thus putting all my worries into one package of ‘fuck’ and ‘no’.

“You forgot to mention they’re both fags.” Rebel blurted casually, “Course it’s fucking obvious. Gangrene, Key’s makin’ moves on your boy-toy.”

That poor meek church hippogryph, Keena, was struggling to tune out this colorful language, wincing at every foul word. It did little to stop her from coming to my rescue, sparing me the need to beat Key senseless. She pulled on Key’s tail with a deliberate and rough manner, “I don’t think Steelgraft appreciates you trying to mount him. Especially in front of a child.” She clicked her beak, “You have a deathwish, don’t you? Seeking relations with a Deadmare.” For once, maybe being an unholy eldritch abomination of science would come in handy. Heh, that’s funny because...Hands! Shut up, brain! We have to deal with getting mounted here, I’m just going to punch him! Not a good idea, they’ll let the Steel Rangers in. I wondered if everyone was with at odds with their own brain as much as I was.

“He’s a cyberghoul? Exotic!” Key left me be and turned to Keena, “That only makes me want him more.” He looked over to Gangrene, “I want a night with your slave. How much?” The fact Gangrene looked to be considering it worried me greatly. Mental images of stallion burritos penetrating stallion cornholes flitted through my mind--It wasn’t an unpleasant thought, I had already established I had been with a stallion before, in life. A handsome, sweet red pegasus whose name I could not remember. Romance and lusty sex were two horses, beaten to literal death since my own expiration. I had no interest in sex, and my only romantic interest was the mare from my memories, the kiss still fresh in my mind.

Convinced he was insane, Keena backed away, “And I thought raiders were revolting.” She hissed. It looked like she was ready to pounce, spreading her stance. “Gangrene, you cannot be seriously considering bartering your friend’s integrity for caps!” I was with the horse bird on this one.

“We’re pretty buckin’ broke, Keena. And we’re gonna need a parts kit for that rifle. It ain’t got no external trigger.” Gangrene justified this coming debate with ‘deed of evil by necessity’. “That and I owe Key a favor anyway, so two manticores, one auto-axe.”

“Everypony has a price, bird.” Key grunted in agreement, licking his lips. His foul breath could be smelled even when he was facing away from me. What did he did, make out with dead bodies or just chow on rotten garbage all day?

Keena took a deep breath, letting her feathers fluff and settle. She held the small medallion she wore around her neck and said a silent prayer for strength. I caught a short part about ‘save me from temptation to smite this foul fiend’. She turned tail and flicked it. “I have no part in this. There are other ways to make caps...” She looked to me, then to Gangrene and huffed. “I’m not happy about this. Reconsider.”

“This ain’t a democracy.” Gangrene rolled her eyes, “I think I got seniority here by experience. Trust me.” Oh, I trusted her alright. I trusted her to fuck me over, literally, right now, for a quick score of caps! “A thousand caps!” Gangrene barked, holding up one hoof. “But not today, he’s got work today. He’ll be free...Sometime next week? Course, to make sure somepony else don’t take up your slot, gonna need half up front.” This was surreal, unreal, it wasn’t happening. She was bartering with ME.

They bartered back and forth for a few minutes. Keena, Rebel, and I watched in half-stunned silence. Lock left, going back up the scaffolding to watch the street while reading his new clopmag. “Bloke can’t just go date a ghoulie like the more sane corpse humpers...” He muttered as he left. I think Lock was the more sane, stable twin.

“I’m not getting a say in this at all?” I interjected. This was not the kind of danger I was expecting here! I knew no place was ever truly safe, but some things were sacred! Like my ass, which was holy because it had a hole. My hole, that I used to use at one point in time for...Fertilizing fields. Now, well, it didn’t get any use because I didn’t eat at all. What happens to the beef jerky I’ve been eating? Maybe it’d come out eventually or...something.

“Nope!” Gangrene and Key both spouted simultaneously. They then came to an agreement, it would be 300 caps now and another 300 after he had his night with me no later than one week from now. Gangrene took his caps and added the sum to her saddlebag.

“I’ll see you next week, love corpse. Stay frosty~” The stallion slapped me on the plot with his hoof. I flinched, unable to feel but the thought of him touching me made my skin want to crawl off my body. I’d rather be in the cloak Gangrene had made for me earlier, at least that hadn’t had an interest in my hiney hole.

“I think I’d rather die.” I retorted darkly. Or kill you. That was a thought, kill him! That was sarcasm, you dolt. You’re really bloodthirsty. My own thoughts were taunting me now while my best friend sold me for sex. Next week. I might be dead then! See, silver lining!

“Now that’s even better...” Key cooed, winking at me before sauntering up the scaffolding’s rickety ramp to take up his position with his brother. He shared a kiss with his twin that no brothers should share and focused on his ‘work’ as gate guard. And by work, I mean going down on his brother, but the angle was thankfully too bad for me to actually see what was happening.

“Soooo that actually happened. I was hoping that was some surreal memory relapse involving some dystopian pony movie I watched a century ago, but I see you there with 300 caps.” I pressed one of my gauntlets against my face and brushed my mane back, giving a disgruntled groan, “I’m a patient stallion, but I’d really like a reason better than,” And I made an effort to mimic Gangrene as facetiously as possible, “We really need teh monahz!”

The dirty yellow mare rubbed under her chin in thought, pensively biting the piercing stud in her lower lip, a lightbulb of inspiration flashed in her eyes and she grinned callously.“That’s for bitin’ me on the ass. Think of it this way, I gotta walk round with your teeth marks on my plot all day today and you only gotta worry bout getting your donut frosted next week. A decent trade off.” She justified her actions as ‘back at you, ass-biter’. She trotted over to the directory to search the store list.

“I am sorry, Steelgraft.” Keena patted me on the shoulder, “Let us focus on saving the children first. This is a necessary evil to save them. Perhaps you can pay him back his caps and call it off later?” Her suggestion was valid, in the realm of reason. I preferred it to actually getting my ass rammed by Key. “Loving and Tolerating all life is difficult at times.” She added.

I let my ears droop with a sigh. “Maybe I’ll name my power gauntlets ‘Love’ and ‘Tolerance’ so I can love and tolerate things more thoroughly.” I was fine with loving and tolerating, but I didn’t want to tolerate having somepony loving my ass!

The horse bird chirped scoldingly, “You’re missing the point entirely.” I don’t think she liked my sense of humor.

Rebel was snickering, “Hey, think of it this way...” He pointed to the collar around my neck, “By the end of tomorrow that will go off an’ you ain’t havin’ a worry in the world.” That actually made me feel better for some reason, until the little brat finished his thought. “ ‘Course, Key would still bugger your corpse.”

I cringed. “Rebel, if I die, stuff my body full of live grenade and pull the pins.” Rebel looked excited at this request, and he promised me he’d do just that. And this one takes my sarcasm literally. “Lets just go get the tools and mod kit...” I grumbled, wanting to forget the past fifteen minutes of my life. Together, we rejoined Gangrene at the directory.

Welcome to ‘The Blok’, the directory at the entrance greeted us. The sign was a wide display jutting up from the floor, mounted in place by a bracket on the floor. It included a directory which had been customized by the locals, shops had been renamed or crossed out entirely. Caricatures of a pony and their family enjoying their time together with every desire, fantasy, or vice surrounding them in the forms of ice cream, cake, movies, and merchandise was displayed just under the greeting. Their eyes and smiles were now gaping pits of cigarette burns. A large bucket filled with sand overflowed with finished stems of foul, burnt cigarette butts. Crudely illustrated dicks, drugs, and alcoholic beverage bottles were imposed over the once wholesome activities in thick permanent marker.

The bitch of a mare that had gleefully sold me out for some caps was studying the directory. She couldn’t find out where she was on it despite the star declaring ‘you are here’ boldly. I pointed it out to her and she rolled her eyes. “Hey, squirt, where’s the mod-shop at?” She asked the pint sized Mr. fixit.

“Uh, the weapon mod shop? Bass n’ Mackeys. 5C.” The young foal spoke after a few moments of thought. He was squirming, swaying back and forth. “And if it ain’t too much trouble, I think I needa take a dump.”

“Right now? Can’t it wait?” Gangrene groused, struggling to find a heading on the directory to find out where she needed to go. “Buck! Been here for years, still can’t make heads or tails of this through all the porn scribbles.” Keena avoided making direct eye-contact with any of this pornographic pseudo art.

“I needed tah piss too, but high flier here got me to take care of that mid-flight!” The small foal huffed, now doing a dance in efforts to thwart his incoming natural bowel movements.

The hippogryph winced, in part because of the cursing and the ugly pornography littering the directory, and in other parts for the guilt she felt for making Rebel so terrified that he let loose mid-flight. “I am very sorry about that, little Riot. That was just to keep you safe.”

“Tell that to my breakfast. I lost that too, along with my spleen.” He shuddered, “Radroach tastes shit going down. Worse coming up.” His dance intensified along with his whining, “I needa go now!” The foal began to jump up and down, making all manner of frantic facial expressions. His little dance tightened and he wiggled in place.

Gangrene pulled the copy of Mare-Do-Well she had on her from her saddlebag and offered it to the foal, “Here’s some reading material kid. Steelgraft, could you go with him? Dunno what sickos might be shootin’ up in there.” She waved me away, hoping I’d get the hint to keep an eye on the foal. “Maybe you can suck a few dicks and make some caps for me while you do?” She taunted with a sour chuckle. Rebel snagged the comic from the air and began a mad gallop for the nearby restrooms, clearly marked by crooked signs over the doorways.

“Wouldn’t we hear gunfire?” Keena asked, her headcrest perking forward.

“It’s an expression. Means takin’ drugs.” Gangrene corrected her. “Th’ buck’s 5C at?”

I left after Rebel Riot, muttering as I did, “Oh, lets add foalsitting to my list of credentials. Steelgraft; monster slayer, bounty hunter, whore, and babysitter!” The little scamp was faster than me, I had to double time it to catch up. He was already through the door and had selected a stall.

This restroom had met a similar fate the the directory, littered with trash and debris, many of the stalls were broken or lacked doors. What was this fascination with the ponies around here drawing dicks on everything? Graffiti everywhere, and a sick smell I could hardly stand permeated the place. Several broken mirrors covered the wall opposite from the restroom stalls in front of shallow hoof cleansing basins, leaking water into ebbing puddles that lapped around my hooves. A few small candy wrappers floated about, like tiny boats.

“Rebel Riot, where are you?” I hissed, passing the first two broken stalls. I think I saw a gloryhole in one of the interior walls and quivered, grunting in disgust. “What a piss pot...”

“I’m laying road apples. The buck’re you doin’ here?” Came the colt’s voice from the fourth stall A soft grunt was heard and a series of ‘plops’ followed. “I’m loving this comic. Go MDW!” Yup. reading while taking a loo break, at least some pony past-times never changed.

“Well, according to lil miss slave driver it’s my duty to keep an eye on you.” I answered, moving my back to face the stall Rebel was in. I stared straight ahead, glancing around for any threat that could lurk here. Mostly, I expected stallions to be peddling drugs or soliciting sex. The lighting flickered dimly overhead, a loud flush was heard and a stallion came out of the stall next to me.

“Hah, you said ‘Doody’!” Rebel squeaked, letting out another short grunt.

“Yeah, real mature.” I replied. The stallion that had left his stall didn’t bother washing his hooves. He was a gaunt, ugly brown beast with beady eyes and a gnarled mane and tail in moss green dreadlocks. A torn cloth barding vest and a torn cake-mix box taped to his satchel pack was the only thing that really stood out. A single glance was spared my direction, he gave me a wide berth, moving around me quickly and glancing back before he left the stall. He was certainly skittish--at seeing me.

I had half a mind to pursue him, something in my mind urged me to investigate. Namely it was the baking goods box he used to decorate his satchel. Just like one of the Muffincake raiders. But they had used muffin boxes specifically. I briefly humored the idea of a feud between barbarian baker clans.

“Hello? Can you he---” A voice rattled out through static in my mind, “Operative...Operative, are you online?” The static faded and the voice became clear in my head. It was a stallion, an older one by the sound of it. “I have a tab on your condition. You’re damaged, but moving. Are you unable to respond?”

“I’m here.” I spoke softly, “Who is this?”

“My name is Head-Case, I am responsible for waking you up. I’m glad I was finally able to hail you.” The voice replied quickly. “What is your status?”

“You know who I am, tard! You made me lose my spot and scared a turd back inside!” Grumbled the foal from the stall, straining to let loose the brown ponies of war on the stall’s crapper. “If you’re going to mutter crazily to yourself, do it quietly, weirdo.” He was reading, having a conversation, and pooping at the same time. I think he was a bit weirder than I was. Well you are a gay robot zombie. Shut up, brain, you are not helping! I was not gay! If I were gay, it’d certainly help with the Key problem I have to deal with. No, it wouldn't.

“I’m just going insane. Yep...” I confided in myself, turning on the faucet to drown out the noise of my schizophrenic conversation with the voice in my head. After dousing my face with a few handfuls of water I looked at my face in the mirror. The reflective surface took the appearance of a faded computer screen, one with a distorted and static filled display, I could scarcely make out the shadow of a stallion’s head through the haze. From what I could make out, he was a unicorn ghoul wearing round spectacles, his face was torn and his sparse mane danced like underwater kelp.

"I promise you, your mental state is rather well, considering all the trauma you’ve endured.” The voice was weak, but clearly heard, “I can tell you’re not alone, so I will be brief. Again, my name is Head-Case, I’m the one that reactivated you. You were entrusted something important, the Pandora Pithos, is it safe?”

“Pithos? Are you talking about the Black Box? Yeah, it’s safe at Gre--” He tutted loudly, speaking over me quickly. So, this joker’s name was Head-Case? He introduced himself twice already, using a name fitting for a mental patient.

“No, don’t tell me where it is! This line isn’t secure. There are bound to be listeners--The warlords themselves could even be listening in. I’m sure you have questions, Penance.” Being called ‘Penance’ sparked a rapid fire crescendo of garbled, half-remembered memories of a sanguinary nature. That name was familiar but not one I enjoyed hearing aloud.

“Penance? I think you might have me mistaken for somebody else,” I replied softly as I could, “The name is Steelgraft, you whacko.”

There was a pause on the other side of my conversation, the image in the mirror shifted as he turned his head. “Using the name of one of my colleagues? That is just like you, incognito and still characteristically rude. That’s good, it means you must remember who you are!” He exclaimed.

I shook my head numbly. “I only remember that I was an airship pilot. My commander was Rainbow Dash. I had a wife and child. I think one of my own crew-mates got me killed.” I said, recalling that dark pelted mare that confessed to me in Necro-Net. “Do you know anything, Head-Case?” I asked, hopeful that he could help me remember.

“You must be suffering from memory fragmentation. Most of your file was either corrupt or classified beyond my clearance.” Classified or corrupted, just like the first 14 names on the Veteran’s Donor List in the storage room’s terminal. The stallion continued uninterrupted, “You are--or more accurately were, an operative for the now defunct O.I.A.--The Office of Interministry Affairs. You were somepony of importance, close to the director in some capacity.” He sighed softly, “I’ll see what I can find for you, but you’ll have to remember on your own.”

The O.I.A. sounded familiar, and usually when it sounded familiar it caused a memory relapse or it boded ill on my mental state. I began rapid firing questions at him, mostly to distract myself from thinking too much about what he had just told me. “Where is my family? Why was I brought back?”

He cut me off again, “There are no time for questions, ‘Steelgraft’, as you call yourself now, I am just checking on the status of your mission. Are you enroute to neutralizing your targets?”

My targets? I made a face of disgust, lips curling back and I gave a snort, gripping the basin so tightly it cracked. “That was plural, as in multiple targets. I’m just after one right now; Muffincake.” I answered. “My interest in multiple targets is zero. I just wanna do this one and be done. I have other plans.” Like, I dunno, maybe opening a wrestling school for radroaches. Something that didn't involve killing other ponies!

“Your ‘other plans’ come after finishing your assignment, Steelgraft, or have you already forgotten your oath? Wait, don’t answer that, you probably have.” The stallion in the mirror sounded very displeased. Using his telekinetic field he adjusted his glasses upon his rotten nose, tilting his head down. I could hear the clacks of a metal keyboard. “I’ll update your mission directory for you so you can keep track of your objectives.” He rasped raggedly, taking a brief pause to shuffle something around, “Since you’re already at the Blok, it’s the perfect time for you to rendezvous with Frisky Fritter and Miss Zone Control at a shop named Donuts Extreme in the food court. They have something for you that should make your little adventure a tad more bearable. See what you can do about getting your implants repaired.”

“What targets am I supposed to go after? I don’t remember signing up for this! This is a little unfair!”

“The wastelands are not fair, Steelgraft, and unlike you, the denizens of the city require nourishment, sleep, and medical treatment. In the interests of preserving life, follow my instructions before Hades chokes the last bit of life from the city’s veins.” I couldn’t respond this time, the feed cut and the stallion was gone, the broken mirror was back to normal.

You wanted to know more, now you do, Penance. That was not my name, that was some weird code name or something! Well you can keep using that dead surgeon’s name. It really doesn’t matter either way. I slumped against the wash basin. “Who the buck is ‘Hades’? Another one of my targets?” I sighed, probably another warlord.

I had to clean up the city. I was like some sort of robot cop or something. An operative woken up from the grave to prune the evil weeds killing the last few daisies in an otherwise barren garden. It’d be an appropriate analogy if it wasn’t for the fact those weeds were heavily armed, well organized warring factions, only two of which I had any knowledge of. Marble and Rolly are rotting in jail while those bad ponies roam free to slaughter others. Ponies are dying at Hopenharm Hospital when all it would take is a little medicine to save them. Everyone else was too afraid to act. Even I was a coward, acting to save myself from this death sentence around my neck. How was I supposed to do this? I didn’t remember how to fight, if I ever knew how.

“You know, some ponies just jerk off in the bathroom.” Rebel chuckled behind me, I hadn’t heard him flush, I was too focused on talking to the stallion in the mirror. “You got problems, talking to yourself in the mirror like that.” He turned on the faucet next to me and rinsed off his forehooves, taping the soap dispenser which spat out a cursory spatter of foaming hoof sanitizer. It was strange they had any soap at all, they were probably enchanted to refill automatically or generate their own fluid. Honestly, I was more surprised the foal was bothering to wash his hooves.

I turned off my faucet and broke the handle. I was unable to reattach it, so I set the broken handle in the basin. “I’m just a crazy, senile old ghoul talking to myself in a mirror. Yep, that’s me. Nutso-wacko.” I swirled the air around the side of my head with a forehoof to illustrate this point.

Rebel gave a sage-like nod, “The first step is admitting you gotta problem. The second step is merciful euthanasia.” He struggled on the bigger words, unable to pronounce them properly. He must have learned them from Gangrene, seeing that she was a medic, but euthanization wasn’t something medics usually did. The foal made for the exit, stomping in the water puddles deliberately, splashing me and the walls. It’d be nice to go one day without getting covered in some form of gunk or piss. I followed, rejoining the others at the directory. We found only Keena there, Gangrene was nowhere within my limited range of sight.

The hippogryph waved at us as we made our approach, “Glad to see you didn’t fall in.” She joked with a smile. Rebel groaned and rolled his eyes.

“The kid knows his way around a toilet port.” I joked. “Where’s Gangrene?”

“She went to take care of the shopping. The mare told me to escort Rebel to the Rec Center and to tell you not to stray too far from the entrance so you’ll be easier to find.” The birdpony folded up her wings neatly after stretching them out. “Are you ready to go Rebel?”

The foal snorted, “Doncha’ go thinking I can’t handle myself. I live here, bird brain. I’ll get there. On. My. Own.” He punctuated each word at the end with a little stomp of his hoof. “Gangy ain’t thinkin’, itta safe bet that letting Steelplot here to wander alone is just begging for trouble. You should stick to him, I trust you’re at least a tad bit smarter than his hopeless ass.”

Keena shifted uncomfortably, her headcrest falling back, she winced at every foul word the child used. I wonder how’d she handle killing raiders if she couldn’t stand coarse language. “Watch your language, young foal. I can see your point. I’ll stick with Steelgraft and make sure to keep him safe.”

Now I was going to have a foalsitter of my very own. Wonderful. I opened my mouth to say something snide and snippy but was swiftly interrupted by a chime that echoed in the base of my skull. A floating scroll appeared before me, warped and barely legible writing appeared on it, reminding me of a set of objectives.

Current Mission: Baking Bad
1.) Proceed to Food Court
2.) Rendezvous at Donuts Extreme
3.) Locate lead on Warlord whereabouts
4.) Eliminate Target

I waved at the scroll, trying to dismiss it. I struck it and it sailed away, but quickly returned. I swatted or tried to roll it up a few times to no avail. Keena and Rebel stared at me, looking confused.

“What are you doing, swatting at imaginary flies?” Rebel asked, face scrunching up as he looked around for an actual fly. Seeing none, he settled his gaze back on me.

“You don’t see the floating scroll with the writing on it?” I gestured to it, it was right there, plain as day. It reacted to my every touch, shimmering and crackling as it’s transparency shifted. “It’s right here, a magic scroll!” I’m just going crazy. The voices, the things I see. They’re just hallucinations. They might not be real at all. But they seem so damn real!

Neither of them could see it, Keena at least squinted her eyes and looked about for the scroll before giving up. “I do not see anything Steelgraft, perhaps it is just your imagination, my friend?” She had a more polite way of saying I might be crazy, but at least she wasn’t mocking me as Rebel was.

“He’s just buckin’ nutso, you see what I mean? Leave him alone for an hour and all of Big Top’ll be on him for a public hanging. His looks alone would warrant mass hysteria.” Rebel was very adamant about this, either that or he just wanted to ditch Keena and go it alone.

“I see your point, Rebel. I will keep an eye on Steelgraft. Just be safe.” She agreed finally.

The scroll was not leaving me be, it was hovering in my face and the directives on it were flashing rapidly, indicating what I needed to go. “I was thinking of going to the food court.” I grumbled, “I’m feeling hungry.” I wasn’t, but I figured they wouldn’t know I never ate. I just needed an excuse to go there.

The foal nodded, “Yeah, just follow the directory. I’ll come find yah after the guns ‘ah fixed up. Just don’t make a nuisance of yourselves. Avoid the plaza if you’re feeling squikish.” I took note of his advice, and soon he was already scampering off, his riot shield rattling in its sling, causing him to wobble as he trotted off along the stained cobblestone floor.

Rebel left us to wait for Gangrene at the Recreation Center, giving me some time to take care of my business of meeting up with my contacts to recover some form of aid. I sincerely hoped it was something useful, like a lead on where Muffincake was hiding, but that’d be far too convenient.

The outdoor mall had a similar appearance to the shopping district we had passed through to reach the Highscore Arcade, except all the shops were reasonably intact or had been refurbished into decent condition. I used decent loosely here, considering that a majority of the stores here had broken windows and were filled with the same debris I’d seen outside in wrecked ruins. The shops were faded, but at least colorful, and some of their windows were intact, old displays in the windows had been changed to reflect the new mildly oppressive atmosphere. One shop in particular was ‘Dress for Excess’ which was now a heavy armor shop, behind the glass a suit of power armor stood on it’s own, welded together and bolted to the floor, it was a battered ‘retired’ suit that was just a display now. I half expected the armored suit to leap out at me and attack us the moment we turned our backs. For this reason, I didn’t take my eye off it until we were a safe distance from the window, which made me quite popular with the merchant behind the stall I slammed into. Stall’s display toppled, scattering a collection of immaculately clean mugs and clipboards to scatter on the cobblestones.

“HEY!” The burly merchant shouted, reaching up with his hooves to stop his display from joining the merchandise on the floor. He bared his teeth, showing off his crooked, unwashed grin.

I went to collecting the goods from the ground, Keena helping me quickly. I wondered why none of the mugs were shattered, they sounded like they were just normal white-glaze ceramic but their resilience left them unscathed. Instead of getting angry, the merchant helped us clean up his stall and soon it was back to the way it was before my bungle into it’s side.

“That’s better!” He tweaked the sign next to the display, it read ‘Indigo’s Indestructibles, Guaranteed indestructible’. “Thanks for the clean up, chum, but best watch your step from now on. I’d tell you ‘you break it you buy it’, but you ain’t ever breaking my stuff.” he laughed, his pudgy belly heaving with every laugh. He straightened his thick handlebar mustache and wiped his greasy hooves on his apron. “How about you take a look at my wares, hmmm?”

“Yeah, sorry about that. I’ll pay more attention.” I promised, chuckling. The merchant wasn’t unpleasant. He didn’t even care about my appearance! “I really don’t have any caps.”

“Does it hurt to look? No! You need not pay for looking.” He waved at his happily wares, which included the mentioned clipboards, mugs, and other assorted ‘Indestructibles’.

“What makes these wares so durable?” Keena asked, which seemed to be what Indigo was waiting for.

“I am glad you asked! It is made of Stubbornite, a magical material that resists change. Virtually indestructible!” He went on a long list of uses for clipboards, most of which involved defense, and what was so great about reliable things that never broke. “They could be family heirlooms, never get old, stain, or even scratched. A little wonderglue, fasten together the best armor in the wastes! They make great souvenirs for the wastelander on the go!” He spun a good spiel, but I was skeptical.

“I really doubt a clipboard’s that durable.” I disputed his claim, turning away, “Sorry, but like I said, no caps, no interest.”

“Wait, I get it, you need a demonstration. Tell you what, take this clip board on the house, see for yourself how useful it can be! Then come back and bring friends to buy some clipboards and memorabilia once you see just how amazing Indigo’s Indestructibles really are.” He shoved the clipboard towards me, pressing it to my chest with a hoof. “and if you manage to break it and tell me how, I will give you a reward.”

Of course I’d try breaking it immediately, right in front of the merchant. Keena watched with interest as I tried to bend it in half, snap it, stomp on it, and pound it into the ground with no avail. The bird horse chirped softly, laughing as I frantically leapt up and down on it.

“Steelgraft, you’ll break the ground before you break that clipboard.” The bird horse chirped softly, laughing as I leapt up and down on the eldritch piece of office equipment that was seemingly unvanquishable.

Stowing the clipboard away, I vowed to Indigo to bring it back in splinters, just like his misguided dreams at becoming a ballerina. He only laughed and wished me the best of luck. Keena and I continued on our way, passing abandoned storefronts and other merchants shouting out to passing travelers. According to the directory the food court was near the old pony theatre down the left path once we got to the plaza, the same plaza Rebel Riot had warned us to avoid. It was blatantly obvious why once we reached where the plaza was.

Down a pair of escalators, which due to being out of order were technically stairs, leading to a subterranean lower floor filled with ponies, griffins, and the occasional minotaur or other odd rarity of wasteland fauna. Large reinforced streetlights fused together held a net of oppressive razor wire in place over the entire settlement, making it seem almost like a giant tent.

The plaza of The Blok was a hexagon shaped area created by the three branches of the mall coming together at an angle to create it. Large pillars held up the first floor walkway we stood on, the old stucco was battered and cracked, dirty with age. A large fountain sat at the center, instead of water there was blood sitting in the reservoir, there was no figure in the center spewing water, but a large and terrifying looking guillotine with a sharpened piece of sheet metal for a blade. There was even a set of gallows built into part of the overhanging walkway just behind it, several bodies hung on nooses, swinging whenever someone passing beneath struck them.

Keena winced, looking away, “It must be just past 6 O’clock,” She crowed through a retch, covering her beak, “They always hold their p-public executions around that time.” She explained through her little gags and horrified wheezes. She didn’t have the stomach for this, this called into question whether or not she’d be able to kill a raider when the time came.

“That’s gruesome. What did they do to deserve that?” I had to ask, didn’t I?

The hippogryph turned away from the sight, her painted flanks shivering. She trotted away from me, gesturing me to follow her. “Rape, murder, and slave trading.” She chirped with an inward breath, her dark plumage ruffling around her neck, amber eyes locking on me. “The world is better off not tolerating their ilk.”

The sight was surreal to me. This place was a calm shopping center where you once could bring a family, go catch a movie, maybe a sunday matinée, hit the arcade just down the street, or go out to dinner. Now you could more easily catch a disease and watch a prime time daily execution of raiders and criminals. Entertainment sure did change a lot.

We made it to the food court unmolested for the most part. There was one mare that stopped us, asking us if we had seen her little fillies. She had with her a small piece of parchment with their likenesses drawn up upon them and claimed to have been posting them around the area. Keena took one of the fliers, promising to keep her eyes open in case she spotted them.

The food court was what you would expect in any mall in equestria, it was a cul de sac of confection shops and eateries with a gathering of tables and booths in the center, flanked by overflowing trash bins. Food trays littered tables, ponies of all shapes and colors sat eating what the shops offered. Freeze dried funnel cakes, war ration pastries, barbequed vegetables and fruit. The air was alight with the aroma of all these flavors and smells against the backdrop of cheerful looking shops.

‘The Spit’ was one such shop that sold grilled veggies, worked by a mild mannered mare who had scorch marks all over her, a phoenix was fanning the flames of the grill’s rack which was fashioned from the side of an overturned shopping cart. Another shop was the ‘Wartime Rations Bakery’, styled to look like it was made of graham crackers and candy, complete with candy corn cannons and gingerpony soldiers, it also boasted a large inflatable pony on the roof, a pink mare with a grey stripe, effectively making her mane look like a candy cane. ‘Pinkie Pie Approved! All proceeds to Birthday Parties for Super Needy Poni--’ A banner tried to convey a message, but whomever had put it up had run out of space. It was as old as this mall, nopony had ever bothered to take it or the inflatable pony holding it down. The razor wire was dangerously close to the inflatable, and briefly, I wondered if it would fly about like a deflating balloon if punctured.

“This is...Unusual.” I’d expected something more depressing, honestly. I selected a table a stone’s throw distance from anyone else and sat down, brushing discarded wrappers off the tabletop. A chime echoed inside the base of my skull and the scroll appeared before me once again, automatically updating.

Current Mission: Baking Bad
~~1.) Proceed to Foodcourt--⌫~~
2.) Rendezvous at Donuts Extreme--⇦
3.) Locate lead on Warlord whereabouts
4.) Eliminate Target

This was an aggravation, the scroll would not go away, and the soft, subtle ‘ping’ sounded every dozen seconds, trying to remind me of my objective. I gritted my teeth, begrudgingly asking Keena, “Where is Donuts Extreme at?” The scroll rolled up, vanishing into itself. That irritation was trying to keep me on track, doing exactly what I was told to do. I did not like that at all.

Keena joined me at a table, she was considering which place she would eat at if she had the caps to do so. “Well, fasting is a meal in itself.” The hippogryph grumbled, then glanced to me, narrowing her eyes, “I do not like that tone, if something is bothering you, tell me. As for Donuts Extreme? Why would you want to go there?”

I drummed my fingers on the table, ears folding back, I hadn’t meant to get mad at Keena. “Sorry, it’s this...Overactive imagination of mine. It’s bothering me. I just got to meet some friends there.”

The hippogryph studied me for a moment, discerning if I was genuinely sorry or not. Satisfied, she smiled, “That is okay. I am sure you’re just grumpy in your old age.” Ouch, Keena, that was a low blow. “What kind of friends would you have there? Perverted ones, no doubt.”

“What?” I processed that for a moment, looking ultimately confused. “I just want to go to a donut shop, see some acquaintances.” I stirred the air with a foreleg, tilting my head back, “What, are donuts forbidden for Eternites?” I teased.

The hippogryph laughed, “No, no...It’s not my place to judge, I am just surprised. The shop is over there, past the pretzel cart, next to the Zebrican themed bar. I’m not coming with you, though. The owner always stares at me.”

“Well, to be fair, you do stand out.” I mentioned, at which she chirped and avoided my gaze. “I’m not leaving right away. I might stick around, chat with you a bit.” I added, “You said you wanted to talk to me, make your fellow church goers jealous?” Getting to know her didn’t seem like a bad idea, I liked her morals and how she had a decent respect for life and decency. I bet that made her unpopular.

“That would be nice, but not to make my sisters and brothers jealous, but to enlighten them that your kind can be saved.” She rested her talons on the table and clasped them together. “Would you like to hear about the church?”

“I can’t believe I’m saying this...” I pressed both my gauntlets into my face and brushed my mane back slowly, resting my forehooves under my chin to prop my head up, “Sock it to me. Tell me about your church.”

“The church of Eternia follows the teachings of the four gods. The ones we all know, represented by their avatars that have since moved on. There is Celestia, goddess of the sun, Luna, goddess of the night, Cadance, goddess of love, and Discord, god of chaos.” She paused for a moment, “Are you following so far?”

This was a recap on the gods of the world, my eye fell to the table. I knew this already, but it’d be rude to just tune it out. “Yeah. I get why you’d worship Celestia and Luna, but why the other two?” I asked boredly. “You said they moved on. What happened to them?”

Her expression grim, Keena lowered her gaze to the table, “It is uncertain, some say they perished in Canterlot. Others believe they ascended to the heavens. Some believe the goddess of love is still among us, somewhere. As for Discord, he is everywhere. Some claim he makes strange things happen in the Wastelands, giving signs of a strange, wacky nature.”

“What are their teachings?” I asked, my interest piqued. With the exception of Discord, I saw the ‘Gods’ as powerful, ageless rulers in my time with magnificent magical powers. The fact they had been turned to deities was a testament to their influence.

“Compassion, kindness, patience, humility. Though it depends on which of the great four you are most attuned to.” She chirped cheerfully, “Whichever your choice, it all ends with eventual enlightenment to join the Eternal Herd.”

“I bet those steel rangers could use some enlightenment. Buck, some lightening up would work too.” I groused, letting my face drop to the table, briefly admiring the names that had been carved into the tabletop. I let out a hard exhale, my upper lip flying about liberally, “This has been great Keena. You mind if I go meet up with my pervert friends at Donuts Extreme?”

“Yes, I agree with you. Those Rangers need a lesson in humility and kindness. Most just with to avoid them or fight them. It’s refreshing to see an outsider that thinks like we do.” The birdhorse of the cloth said sweetly, “I don’t mind at all. If you wish to know more about the church of the Eternites you should listen to Father Faith’s broadcast this Sunday with me.”

“If we live through this to Sunday I’ll come visit your church with you.” I said as I got up to leave the table. It would be something nice to look forward to if I survived. It gave me a bit of hope.

I would never be able to look at donuts the same way again, ever. Tartarus below, I doubted I’d ever be able to look at another pastry again without having vivid, inappropriately graphic flashbacks to this den of sinful delight.

From the outside, Donuts Extreme was an unassuming shop with blacked out windows and flickering, magically animated neon signs. The most predominant glowing attention grabber was a mare seductively lapping her tongue around a donut’s hole, her face was splattered with glazed icing. To top it off, it moved! Okay, a bit perverted but it’s probably just to attract customers. I thought to myself, surely the inside wouldn’t have been that bad. I was wrong, I was delightfully, sweetly wrong!

Through the black painted glass double doors a bell chimed, the modest shop was clean, the soft fuschia countertops scuffed with hoofmarks. Two poles ascended into the tiled ceiling overhead at either side of the service counter, each occupied by a pony dancing to the beat of bouncing, deep beats. There were stools right in front of the counter with a few ponies sitting at them.

“Hey there cutie!” Called the pinto stallion from his pole, grinding his back against it as he rested on his haunches. The handsome buck wore nothing but donuts on his...On his dongle. I tried to look away, but my gaze came back to him. “My name’s Free Sample, would you like a taste?~” He bucked his hips at the air. He wasn’t talking directly to me, but instead to the few customers they had in the shop that just happened to include me.

“Oh, these ponies enjoy something with a little more tart~” Cooed the painted mare from her pole on the other end of the counter. She was standing on her front hooves, her limber body lurching slowly, her spine curving elegantly before her rear hit the pole. She slid down, her rear hooves hitting the counter, she looked at me from between her spread legs. She also only wore a donut, a single ring of glazed dough held in the tension of her flank cheeks just below her short cropped tail. “Discount on the donut I’m wearing!” A mare sitting at the stool in front of her dancing pole put her forelegs on the counter and took her up on that offer--By eating the donut off her.

My mouth was dry, my tongue became cemented to the roof of my mouth. It was a stunned animal, twitching at the mouth of it’s burrow. I shook my head quickly, closing my eye. I sputtered dryly, skirting around to the counter to greet the pony behind the register.

“Welcome tah Donuts Extreme!” Chirped the ruddy tan stallion behind the counter, the smile dropped from his face as he got a good look at me, “Bucking buck fuck, what happened to you?! I thought I had a runna bad luck in the wastes, but at least I didn’t hit every single ugly tree in Everfree with my face like you did!” The tan stallion in question had a few scars, but he was average in appearance, his reaction to me was atypical. No fear, no suspicion, just crass and sassy mocking.

“I died,” I deadpanned darkly, “Then someone decided I’d make a great taxidermy project.”

The stallion gave a sour look and chuckled, “They did a horrible job, buster!” My livid expression was met with a weak smile from the buck. “What can I do you for? You here for Donuts or are you here for the Extreme?” He leaned against the counter, setting the short stump of what remained of his left foreleg and gestured to the menu with his intact foreleg. There were two menus, one for just donuts and one for donuts and sex at the same time. “Extreme’s double fer yah, ghoulie, it’s unfair tah make my employees buck something like you without a bonus.”

“I’d really enjoy it if you could get off my stitches.” I growled softly, “We could talk about how you lost your leg, how would you like that?”

The earth stallion chuckled, “Aw, aincha a cute lil rotter!” He turned his head, “Zone Control, we got ourselves a regular comedian! Couldja do your job sweety and show him the door?”

The mare he called entered through the swinging doors behind the counter, wearing a chefs hat. Dough and flour powdered her blue coat, her mane completely white. She looked a bit heavy, either there was a baby on board or she was just generous when helping herself to donuts here. “Harassing customers again, Fritter?” The unicorn mare said with brevity, levitating the chef’s hat off her head and setting it on a peg hanging next to the door.

“Nah, we got ourselves a smart mouthed rotter scarin’ customers with his ugly!” Fritter chuffed, waving his stump at me accusingly. “Ah toldja we should have put up a ‘No Ghouls Allowed’ sign! We don’t need rotters givin’ my employees the crabapple itch!”

“I’m used to you being a jerk, dear, but please stop.” Zone Control said through a strained yet glowing smile. She stepped up to the counter, taking me in, her eyes traveling up and down my face slowly. “I thought you said he was ugly.” The mare chided at Fritter, “I think you’re just jealous a ghoul could be cuter than you.”

Fritter flailed his stump at the air in my general direction, “What?! I am so much better lookin’ than that buck! Sure, maybe I gotta few scars but I’m still your studly bear!”

“That you are, sweetums, but you’re being awfully rude to our customers. We should have service with a smile.”

I was rather baffled, so, the three legged stallion called in his pregnant wife to...Throw me out the door. “You can stop wiggling your flipper at me anytime Floppy Fritter. I’m not that into you.” Might as well take a swing at the stammering tan stallion’s ego while I was at it, in front of his wife no less.

“I’m sorry for my husband, he’s a terrible flirt.” Zone joined me, further flustering the stallion until his face became beet red. “Since hubby is being grumpy, I’ll take your order.” She turned her head and called to the mare at the pole, “Glazed, would you mind getting the next batch out of the frier while I handle this customer?”

“B-but ah! I’m workin’!” The stripper mare ground her painted plot into the face of the pony eating the donut from beneath her tail. The donut was long gone, now the mare servicing her was just licking all the glazed sugar as sweat off her flanks. Donut hole has just been permanently redefined.

The mare dubbed ‘Zone Control’ rolled her eyes and sighed, “Free Sample, are you...” She didn’t finish her statement, her eyes glazed over and she averted her attention from Free Sample’s ‘work’ he was doing for a pair of stallions drooling in lust for his swaying caboose.

“Guess that leaves you, Fritter.” Zone Control said expectantly, “I’ll take care of our guest, you go into the back and try not to burn yourself with the hot oil.”

“But...I...UGH! Fine, I’ll just go.” The stallion donned the chef’s hat and stumbled off into the kitchen, cursing all the way. This was quickly becoming my favorite pastry shop of all time, mostly because of the plucky blue mare.

“Sorry about that, Frisky’s just real cautious around ghouls. Especially ones that have a remarkable resemblance to those stitchwork abominations from the Dead Zone.” Every syllable held knowing, her coy and playful manner laid her testimony bare. An ominous click of a gun’s hammer to the left of my head solidified my suspicions. Her horn had been faintly glowing with a soft opaque aura this whole time, why hadn’t I noticed earlier? The mare had floated a large riot shotgun around the counter into my blind spot and had it to my temple.

The dancers still danced, entertaining their guests, the door’s bell sounded, a short line of ponies grew behind me, and everything was proceeding normally for this quaint little shop. Turning a blind eye to the shotgun wasn’t an issue for any of them.

These two were my contacts, the mare was surprisingly polite for having a gun to my head. “Aren’t we friendly.” I croaked, my dry throat rattling every chord. My mouth, which was already dry was now a barren desert, my lips were sticking together. A majority of my body didn’t function normally, the parts that did were growing to be an irritation. It was my nerves or dehydration. My body was drying out, which meant I would need an occasional fluid intake.

“You don’t survive in the wastes long without earning a few scars or learning a few tricks,” Zone Control said while pressing the barrel against the side of my skull. “I’m giving you the benefit of the doubt.”

“So benefit of the doubt to you is a shotgun to my head?” I asked glumly.

“I haven’t pulled the trigger. I could be wrong about you. I want to be wrong about you.” Zone Control said gently. The mare beamed a smile to the customers that were getting impatient behind me, “Give me just a moment, I’ll be right with you. This stallion here’s a first timer, he’s just indecisive!” She gave them a friendly wave.

The stallion in the mirror hadn’t told me who to look for or what to say to find my contact. Instead of waiting and watching, I stupidly ran into a hurdle of passive aggressive resistance in the form of an interrogation at gunpoint. “You could just take care of the other customers first.” I offered, forcing a weak, faltering smile. I stood aside, the shotgun following me, the next customer took my place.

Zone Control began taking orders, flashing her gaze at me occasionally between accepting caps and ringing the bell for Frisky Fritter to bring more donuts, their glass display case was getting low. Fritter seemed to find glee in seeing the shotgun floating at my temple, giving a soft guffaw at my expense while he carried a tray of fresh, warm donuts on his back.

Once all customers were dealt with, taking their orders or getting in line to ‘partake in the extreme’ with the donut stripper of their choice, Zone Control’s attentions were once again upon me exclusively. “I can already tell you’re not here for donuts or sex, so what are you here for?” She tried to coax an answer from me, greasing my lips with the impending threat of a shotgun blast.

“It’ll sound crazy.” I confessed, my head drooping, crimson locks falling about my face, “But a stallion in a mirror told me to come here, saying that ‘Zone Control and Frisky Fritter’ had something to make my assignment more bearable.” I winced, expecting my life to end at any moment. All the hype about deadmare being difficult to kill did little to soothe my fears of getting my skullcap blown off.

Zone Control slowly lowered the shotgun, her eyes slowly widening from their once-narrowed glare. “Who are you?”

What had the stallion said? My name was Pestilence? No! It was...was something about petunias. My eye rolled towards the ceiling, my lower lip curling between my lips. I bit so hard that black ooze dripped out onto the floor. “I’m Operative P?” ‘P’ for bullet perforation!

The shotgun sailed back over the counter, sliding under to be stowed away, “You’re him?” She seemed surprised, astounded, almost a little bit excited. “You’re Operative Penance? I figured you’d never show up.” She was leaning down behind the counter, “It’s a good thing I stopped Fritter from selling your things.” She came back up with a moderately sized brown box tied shut with twine string. A heavy ‘Clank’ was barely heard over the music as she shut the heavy metal door to the floor safe she had fetched the box from. “Here you go. Just have a seat over at the booth, I’m going to tell Fritter who you are. Hopefully he will mind his manners.”

I picked up the box and gave it a shake next to my ear, nothing but a muffled, heavy rattle. Giddily I sat at one of the booths near the large blacked out windows. Red booth seats with patched and stitched upholstery, several wicked springs shot from torn, gaping holes as I sat down. “Cozy.” I muttered, settling down with a creak. I undid the twine laces and opened the box eagerly. It was like a birthday present! What was inside. A powerful weapon? An enchanted object that would always steer me true? A bomb disarming kit to get my collar off?

Lifting the lid revealed a pair of boots. Pony greaves fashioned out of hard leather, laced, and ending in heavy metal dome plates riveted over where the hooves would be. “That’s it? What’s supposed to help me is a pair of greaves?” I spat in disbelief.

I took the boots out and dropped them onto the table, overturned the box and shook. A few more items tumbled out. A small black ring box, a compass, an eyepatch with a winged equine skull on it, and a piece of paper fluttered out. It lazily spun, flipping in the air. I snatched it after tossing the box aside. It was a journal page, old yellowed parchment written on in intricate yet legible scrawl. I took the time to read it to myself.

What is a name? A curious thing, a name. A word alone, yet so much more than just that alone. It evokes images, beliefs, and thoughts. Even without knowing the pony, a name can tell much, right or wrong. Yet they are also transient things, subject to whim and device, to the plots of others. Twisted beyond recognition, a mere shadow of their original meaning and purpose. They become spectres of their former selves, no longer recognizable save through a warped looking glass.

Some names are strong enough to withstand the forces of others, for a time. Yet even the strongest names can be twisted and fouled. What hope do we poor ponies have when even the greatest of us can have their names smeared and slandered while they yet live? I shield myself with the cloak of anonymity. My name, while important to me, never shared the import that others did. I was alone, forgotten... but that also brought the security that when I passed, the memory of me would pass also. For you, Captain... they barely let the body cool before warping your name.

Most of us knew the story. Most of us were there. We watched your fall, your slow decline. I watched you die. You were a hero. A tragic figure with a heartbreaking end. It was dramatic. It was poetic. It was fitting. Your legend should have ended there. Yet others conspired against you. They could not just let you rest, they could not just let you die. I watched as they turned your story to one of revenge and fear, warmongering and death. I knew the difference, the truth, but stricken in grief and despair, I remained silent, and let them tarnish your name.

You were a statistic, a figure. Another tragic loss in the war. The memory of you was twisted from who you were into an empty shell, a meaningless number. You died that day, Captain, but even afterwards I did nothing. I withdrew. And thus, I finished my betrayal.
~From the Journal of Nevermore~

From the journal of Nevermore? This was the same pony from the earlier page I had found. I pulled the other journal page from my saddlebag along with the clip board, who knew it’d become useful, I put both pages on it and clipped them in place. The hoof-writing and signatures were identical.

The pulse of the music and the giggle, squeals, and whistles of ponies around the shop masked the approach of Zone Control. The mare captured my attention by setting down a set of cups filled with chilled water and a small chipped plate covered in several colorfully decorated donuts. “Reading Nevermore’s journal page? She left that with us for you.” The mare said in passing, offering me one of the cups.

“You know Nevermore? I didn’t think she was alive or involved with me. I thought it was just coincidence.” I replied, beginning to piece things together slowly. I never claimed to be the smartest stallion, but my hypothesis was that these journal pages were about me; hints to my past to help me remember. Tilting the cup to my lips I took a strong gulp, my mouth wasn’t so dry anymore, the rattle plaguing my throat vanished after a few swallows. I sputtered, forcing the water down, my body tried to reject it, some spilling over my lips onto the table.

“Yeah, she hasn’t fared well as you, she’s a ghoul.” She surrounded the donut covered plate in a quick shield spell, protecting it from the water I spewed when I coughed. “Careful there, you shouldn’t drink so fast!”

“So this guy’s it, huh? What a joke!” Fritter came over to join his wife, standing beside the table. He mopped up my spillage with a rag in his mouth and then slapped the dripping thing over his shoulder. “Head-Case madeja sound a whole lot more impressive. You kin hardly handle my wife holdin’ you at gunpoint.” Head-Case was mentioned, so these ponies knew him too? That meant I wasn’t crazy, that I did actually see a stallion through a mirror. I still wondered how that had happened.

“You can’t handle me at gunpoint either, dear. I doubt he was expecting such a rude reception.” Zone Control said, levitating a donut from the plate and taking a small, dainty nibble. She made a face and wrinkled her nose, “These don’t taste right with the artificial sweetener.”

“Yeah, I know. There ain’t any good trade caravans in business after the latest blockades.” Fritter’s expression soured darkly, his upper lip curled and he snorted out harshly. “Them no-good barbarian baker clans’re draining the city of sweetstuff. It’d be better if the cuppycakers hadn’t been taken over by em’ too.”

While the two had a more personal conversation, some of it regarding me as if I wasn’t there, I was going through the other items from the box. The compass was broken, it’s compass spinning madly in a quick circle over and over again. “You know what’s neat about this compass? A lot of ponies tell me it’s broken but it never steers me wrong. It always points where I need to go.” The echoes of a voice, my own voice, spoken to someone else in a memory. If it was true, than this compass would tell me where I needed to go, but it only spun madly in an aimless circle. The way the needle spun in the brass casing was hypnotic, the gem inlay on the compass’s face shimmered in the warm lighting of the shop. Peridot for North, opal for South, pearl for West, and a amethyst for East. “It happened in October, my life went South. I set this stone in my compass so I would never forget I lost you, my one true love. We buried you in a box too small to carry all the love we had for you.” The relapse into my memories at the graveyard became fresh in my mind, staring at the tombstone where my wife lay buried, my memories failed to be clear enough so that I could remember her name. What did the other stones mean?

“Hey, buddy, you even listening?” Fritter snorted out steam from his nostrils into the side of my face making my ear flick. “My wife’s talkin’ to yah.” He sneered.

I jolted, awareness crashing into me as the wet rag that Frisky wielded was slapped over my snout. He pulled the the rag back and I blinked my eyes several time to refocus them on the mare sitting in front of me. She was giving a very disapproving look at Frisky. “Sorry, I blanked out there for a moment. What did you say?” I asked, rubbing the back of my head with my knuckles.

Zone Control sighed and turned her gaze back over to me after staring daggers at Fritter, “I asked if you wanted a donut.” She pushed the plate to me in her telekinetic grasp.

I stared at her for a few moments before setting the compass down and reaching out for one of the donuts off the plate. I never felt hungry but I could taste just fine. I took a bite, the outer layer was crisp and the dough inside was fluffy, almost like cotton candy. The taste was tart and sweet. “It tastes pretty good to me.” I complimented with a full mouth of the sticky, sweet goodness. I finished it and took the next one, downing that in a few bites.

“Looks like somepony really likes your donuts, Fritter.” Zone Control giggled.

“About time somepony appreciated my donuts! Most just come for the ‘Extreme’.” Fritter grumbled, rolling his eyes, “Can’t blame em' though.” He glanced over to where the stripper mare was ‘entertaining’ her clients. He licked his lips and purred throatily, “Glazed Marshmellow is really something.”

“Ahem,” Zone Control cleared her throat, both brows raised. “Sweety, you’re drooling and staring. At another mare. While your pregnant wife is here.”

Frisky Fritter chuckled nervously, “I uh, you’re really something too! M-my something! The something I Like to glaze!” When Zone’s expression didn’t lighten by much he smiled wide, “I think I bettah check on the next batch!” He squeaked, leaving before he could capture his wife’s ire, shambling off to slide over the counter, tail flicking as he wormed over.

“Yeah, you go do that.” Zone Control giggled, shaking her head and taking another bit from her donut. She snorted, seeing me polish off the last of the donuts on the plate. “You don’t waste any time, do you? You eat like a feral ghoul, Penance.”

Washing down the rest of the sweet mush I wiped my snout on my foreleg. “Really needed some comfort food.” I reasoned, reaching out for the small ring box. I might as well check out what was inside. “You can call me Steelgraft, that’s a less silly name.“

“Suits you, too.” Zone Control agreed, “I’d hate to agree with Frisky, but Head-Case had you made out to be something more impressive.”

The content of the ring box was a small, silvery grey orb sitting in the middle of a stretched silver wedding band. The band was inscribed with letters that were not legible, tarnished beyond deciphering. “My reputation’s totally overblown.” I spoke lightly, frowning. “What is this thing?” I rolled the orb between my metal forefinger and thumb, inspecting it closely.

“I want to believe in a better future, one without Hades or the Warlords.” Zone Control confided in me, resting a hoof onto her swollen tummy, rubbing it with a motherly smile as she gazed to it. “A free Detrot for my baby.” Her gaze raised up to the orb I held, her smile still warm. “That’s a memory orb,” she told me, “That one holds one of your memories.”

Even when identified the object remained a mystery. “How do I use it?”

“It’s ah suppository.” Frisky Fritter chuckled, having came by to collect the soiled plate and set a new plate laden with donuts down. “Yah just pop it right into your bum!” He popped his lips and gave a quick nod towards his rear.

“In...My plot.” I uttered, shuddering, “There’s a better way? I could just swallow it.”

Fritter was laughing at my expense, Zone Control swiftly corrected him. “No, Steelgraft, that’s a memory orb, you use your horn.” The mare was glaring at Fritter again. “Maybe you should go back to the kitchen, dearest. Make some more donuts.”

“I only got three hooves and I ain’t no unicorn. It ain’t easy to work the oven and fryer!” The earth stallion whined, flailing his stump around dramatically. “I’ll end up with burns.”

Point made, the mare answered it’s call and rose from her seat with some effort, hefting her weight and settling onto her hooves. A short huff escaped her lips, she winced and felt her tummy. Fritter braced against her side and they shared a smile.

“You okay, honey?” He asked, worry in his voice.

“The baby just kicked a little is all.” She replied, giggling. “The baby is just as energetic as thier father,” She teased, nosing him lightly, “I’ll go take care of the baking, but you have to do the dishes when I’m done.” She said, overcoming her earlier frustrations with him so that her love was the only thing that showed through.

“That’s a deal, honey bunches.” He beamed in response, kissing her lightly. He watched Zone Control leave, his gaze lingering on her flanks and rolling all over her body. “I’m the luckiest stallion in the world.” He boasted, giving a soft, dreamy swoon.

“And yes you’re a complete jackass.” I remarked. I was focused on the memory orb, trying to concentrate on it with my thoughts. My horn sparked once, feebly, and went out. I gave the nut at the base of my skull a wrenching, painful twist and tried again to no avail. My magic just did not work.

The store owner’s limited good manners vanished the moment his wife passed through the doors to the kitchen. He turned on me with a snarl, “I wantchu gone before she comes back out.” He ordered, “Who knows what bad business is following you. I don’t want it here. Gather your things, take these donuts, and leave.”

“Your place, your rules.” I acknowledged him. He seemed taken aback, surprised and pleased that I wouldn’t fight him on this. “I’ll be gone in a few minutes,” I continued, “Just let me use this orb and put my boots on.”

Fritter became much more polite when he found he wouldn’t have to fight. Maybe it was just because I respected his rules, this was his ‘castle’ after all. “I guess it wouldn’t hurt tah give you ten minutes.” He offered with a somewhat bitter smile. “Just be gone soon.” And Fritter left me to my own devices. Overall he wasn’t unpleasant. I envied and respected him, he had a lovely wife he wanted to protect. I would have acted no different than he was, so there would be no hard feelings.

My saddlebag was filled with the contents the box once held, I gave one final glance to both of the journal pages before stowing them away. What I thought was coincidence was not, the journal was about me--for me, by someone that knew me before I died. Nevermore, she was alive as a ghoul, somewhere out there. She probably knew all about who I was. I would have to track her down. I placed the donuts in the small brown box and cinched it closed, it would keep the donuts from being crushed. This sweet delicacy and beef jerky were among my favorite tastes, I would have to eat them sparingly and share them. The boots I was going to put on before I left. The compass was slipped away next to the bear trap and chain, and lastly the memory orb. I wanted to use that now.

“Ah, Fritter and Zone Control, such pleasant ponies.” The voice playing in the base of my skull almost made me drop the memory orb, juggling it in between my palms before I managed to subdue it. “Oh, sorry, I must have startled you. It’s just me, Head-Case.” The voice revealed.

“How long have you been listening in?” I asked as I got over that sense of dread that hearing voices in my head kept giving me. I was definitely going to go insane at this rate.

“Well, seeing as you have a memory orb that you don’t know how to use I am here to help you use it.” The background of his connection to me was filled with beeps and mechanical sounds, meshing with the subtle pumping beats of the donut shop’s music created an odd rhythm between the two. “I’m going to need you to uncover your left ocular--your iSeeU implant has a memory recollector built-in. The orb you now have was reformatted into a Black Opal and was locked so that only you could access it.”

That just flew right over my head, everything he said made no sense to me. He wanted me to uncover my left eye? I shuddered, resting my palm against the left side of my face. “Way outta right field, doc. That’ll hurt like a nail to the skull or a punch to the horn.” I warned, not wanting to go through the lancing discomfort that came with exposing my left eye to light.

“Sounds like a very bad implant or degradation. We’re going to need to get that fixed.” He mused. “But right now I am going to ask you to bear with it. It will be much easier to speak with you if you can see me, you deserve transparency on my part. It is no small task I’m asking you to do.”

“See you? What do you mean see you?”

“Just uncover your eye and you’ll see. Literally.” He answered cryptically.

Steeling myself I removed the eyepatch, wincing as the dim light dazzled my senses. The brightness dimmed, a thousand screens of data streaming over my vision, blotting out everything I could see. A loading bar appeared, a slow rotating icon I did not recognize. A gear with an eye in the center, on either side there were three lines. advertisements for other things began to show up as I waited for whatever was supposed to show up--A pet robot dog from Robronco, a new high performance spell powered sky chariot, the latest and greatest innovations in maneframes for personal use.

==Login--Username: PP-013/\Pasword: *******==
[[Initiating bio-sync: 87% -- System Integrity: 23% Maintnenace Required]]
--Reboot Sequence Complete--iSeeU is online--

A small minimap was displayed on a screen floating in my vision, a bar for my status and integrity read positive, and a simple read-out for nearby items of interest appeared. Most notably certain objects that I could place into my saddlebag or take were highlighted and a cursor appeared on the plate in front of me. It was red and warned me that stealing was wrong. Cute. My good friend imaginary floating scroll also appeared, updating itself for me.

Current Mission: Baking Bad
~~1.) Proceed to Foodcourt--⌫~~
~~2.) Rendezvous at Donuts Extreme--⌫~~
3.) Locate lead on Warlord whereabouts⇦
4.) Eliminate Target

“This is really busy...” I groused unhappily, batting at the scroll floating in my vision with great distaste.

“I agree.” Head-Case said as yet another screen appeared with the others, this one was a simple screen that displayed the pony that had been talking to me. Head-Case smiled with his broken split lips from behind the dome egg-shaped glass of the tank that contained his head and neck. Bubbles drifted up in the light blue fluid filling the tank. The unicorn ghoul adjusted his glasses on his rotten muzzle , his smile wide, I could see his tongue and teeth through a gaping hole in one of his cheeks. “Perhaps we can find you a better mode for your HUD, but it works fine for now--at least while your left eye is uncovered.” He added cheerfully, waving a crab-like manipulator in a gesture.

“You’re a floating head in a jar.” I deadpanned. “I’m in a donut strip club talking to a disembodied head about things I have yet to understand.”

“Not bad for a Tuesday, no?” He chortled, causing another bubble to raise to the surface. “I believe you deserve transparency between us. No secrets. What I’m asking you to do is no small task.”

“You were pretty vague in the bathroom earlier.” I reminded. I shot careful glances about, making sure I wasn’t disturbing anyone. The dancers were good at keeping the attention of everypony in the shop. The HUD trailing in my vision and the pain creeping into my skull was making it hard to concentrate.

“Well, yes, there is little time. I have to juggle several responsibilities.” The head in a jar spoke grimly. “My promise is that I will answer your questions honestly.” He assured me. That’s what he meant by transparency. He’d answer my questions. It was too bad time was short, I needed to look at this memory orb, and my eye socket was on fire.

My digits curled into the table, teeth gritting. I wanted to cover my eye up again, so getting this memory orb dealt with quickly scaled to the top of my priorities, trouncing the large pile of questions I had prepared. “Tell me how to use this idiot ball before my head bursts into flames.” I gurgled, nausea and pain driving the food I had eaten to rise in my throat.

“You certainly don’t stick it up your bum like Fritter was suggesting. You just look at it with your left eye and maintain eye contact for at least fifteen seconds. Your ocular will do the rest. You’ll be helpless and unable to do anything while you’re experiencing the memory, just like when you experience a synaptic memory relapse.” He informed me crisply and quickly, most of his words melting together into unintelligible technobabble.

Just stare at it, my mind urged, see what’s inside. It could be anything, from one of my own memories to a host of many others. “What memory is in it?” I asked, locking my gaze with the orb. My ocular calibrated, warning me to not look away.

[[Target acquired; Memory Orb]]
##engage## S.M.I.L.E.

“Good intentions, Steelgraft.” Head-Case spoke sadly, “The road to Tartarus is paved with them.” His words faded away as the orb began to play it’s contents for me, tearing the worlds away in jagged smears of blended color until everything was muddled and unrecognizable.

“Who would try ahn do something like that?” A mare’s voice coming from me demanded the computer screen I stared at. The mare looking back at me from the screen was a young adult mare with a reddish gamboge mane in messy curls and a light olive pelt.

“Ah don’t know, cuz! Somepony tried tah hurt big sis an’ ahm really scared!” The mare confessed through a set of sobs. The lace holding her mane together was messy and unkempt, her bow drooped just like her ears did.

“Don’tcha worry, I’ll be out on the first train outta the Trot to come sees yah!” I promised, or more accurately, the mare I was seeing through promised.

I was seeing a memory through someone else’s eyes, someone who had a thick accent that seemed incredibly familiar. Tough and blatantly forcing moxy into every word. I couldn’t take in the surroundings because my host was so intensely focused on the mare in the screen.

“I’d love tah see yah, Babs, Ah really would! What about yer research an’ yer patients? Yah gotta responsibility out thar.” The mare in the screen looked torn, between seeing somepony she cared about and making sure my host was responsible. “Them’re veterans yah’ll treatin’! Big Mac would be mighty disappointed iffin’ yah left them hangin’.’’

‘Pfffft’, my host blew a lock of her amaranth locks from her eyes, “I got dat covered, don’tcha worry ‘bout it. Thing’re goin’ great for these vets. Robronco’s gotta lotsa great materials and even jobs for these guys once they recover. I’m not lettin’ anypone get fresh ideas, staying true to the vision, know what I’m sayin’?” My host reached forward and adjusted the camera on top of the computer, “But yous needs me, so I’ll be there soon, got that?”

Before the mare from the screen could protest further, the video feed was cut. “W-wait, whydya turn off th’ video?” The sad mare on the other end cried.

“Cuz you’ll be seein’ me tomorrow, Applebloom.” My host said warmly. I felt tears welling in my eyes, my host was starting to cry. Her voice was straining. She was just putting on an act for her cousin. She didn’t want her to see the crying.

There was a pause from the other end, then the mare replied, sniffling, “T-thanks Babs. I’ll see yah soon.”

The communication was turned off and the terminal shut down. My host scooted back and let her attention slide over her desk to the papers covering it. One of them was a document pushed before her by a withered scar covered white hoof. My host’s attention traveled up the foreleg and settled on a scared and sickly stallion with a gold mane and tail, his smile was gentle as it was calm. “Thanks for keepin’ it down durin’ my call with Applebloom.” my host said softly, wiping her eyes, “Yah ain’t gonna tell anypone I cried, are yah?”

“I would not dream of such a thing. I am here to help you, Miss Seed,” The white stallion spoke consolingly. “You’ll have all the time you need with your family, as a representative of t-th...” He turned his head to cough, his hoof flying up to cover his maw.

A stallion next to the one with the golden mane offered him a hoofkerchief. This buck was even more torn up than the one having a coughing fit. My host looked at this buck and lingered her attention on him. The buck was an ashen grey, splotches of white pressing out through the still healing burns that covered him. Bandages wrapped his head, over his left eye, he wore sunglasses over them. Indoors, how fashionable. Red mane, tied back into a ponytail, leg braces. This earth stallion looked like he was very unlucky. No, to my horror, there were vestigial remains to a broken horn sticking out of his forehead! He was, or more accurately used to be, a unicorn.

“See something you like?” The stallion croaked lightly. “You’re staring.”

“No, ah! I mean...” My host closed her eyes and I could feel her head turn. When she opened them she was looking elsewhere in her office, namely to a small figurine of the Ministry Mare Applejack she kept on her desk. She pulled it closer to her with a hoof. “You should still be restin’, you’re one of my patients.”

“You’re not the only one that has to be tough for others.” The stallion chuckling. “You alright there, Wheezy?” The buck patted the golden maned stallion lightly on the back. “You’re not allowed to die before me, remember?”

This made the stallion laugh through his coughing fit and he soon settled, handing the blood covered hoofkerchief back to the other. “D-don’t make me laugh, it hurts t-to laugh.”

“Should I call ya a nurse? I don’t needja dyin’ in my office.” my host’s spirits were low, I could feel the lump in her throat and every emotion she experienced.

“No, there is more pressing matters. Namely, you signing the merger so that the researchers I am representing can work with you on your project while you are dealing with family matters. This is a personal favor, seeing as you’ve treated my old friend here very well.” There was something about this golden maned stallion that made me like him. My host was indifferent though, but she appreciated this offer. With a hesitant hoof she signed it in the places she was told to sign. She didn’t bother reading it.

“There.” She said with a sigh of relief, “Here’s hoping we can work together. Dr. Stable is against it but he’ll come around. I won’t forget this favor. I just worry for the veterans, yaknow?”

“Duly noted, Miss Seed. I have no official capacity or authority in this, I’m only here because Fluttershy is where you should be, with her friends at Applejack’s side.” He said with kindness, bowing his head solemnly, “In fact, my friend here is one of the best Airship Pilots serving the Ministry of Awesome. He’s here to deliver you to your destination no later than this evening.”

Her heart leapt in her chest, eyes misting with tears, this time out of happiness. “Y-you mean it? I thought I’d haveta take the train or call in a favor! You’re making this real easy!” My heart, sank, the ballast to my host’s. Her joy rose as my indifference and curiosity became a lead weight and dropped me. That stallion that was in the room, the one next to the golden maned stallion was me.

“I owe you.” The war-torn me from a previous life said, “You’ve taken good care of my sister and injured crew. Family is all I have left. Let me take you to yours.”

Wordlessly the mare pushed her chair back and rose up, picking up her statuette of Applejack. “This is all I need. I can buy clothes and such when we get there. Lets go!” My host rounded the desk and made for the door like an eager little filly. The memory faded away to a mute smear of brown, muddled fog.

Back in Donuts Extreme, in my own body, once again mostly numb and unfeeling save for the burning exposure of my faulty eye implant to the light I began to make sense of what I just saw. “W-what was that?” I stuttered, my mind reeling in confusion, “I can’t make sense of it, why was that important?”

Head-Case was shocked to see me animate again, giving a startled grunt and hovering back in the screen’s feed so I saw him in his entirety. He was indeed just a head floating in a jar. “Oh! You’re back. Well, what you saw was the beginning of the end for Detrot. The mare running the rehabilitation project, Babs Seed, signed over her project to the O.I.A.--At the time it looked like she was just signing a joint effort between the Ministry of Peace, Wartime Technology, Arcane Sciences, and Robronco. The Office of Interministry Affairs handled the merger. As you can see by your condition, good intentions went sour.”

“I was there. I was messed up. I have a sister! M-my crew...T-this is a lot.” I clutched either side of my head and grit my teeth, I could feel the pain of resurfacing memories driving nails into my skull. Because of the memory I knew what it felt to want to cry but to hold back, everything was happening so fast. Take it in stride. Take it with pride. Keep moving forward. “Who was that stallion He was my friend, wasn’t he?” The golden locks, the nickname wheezy, I could hear his voice so clearly.

“Your son’s a natural, just like you were. He’s very bright.” The stallion’s voice was familiar, the same one from the memory, just less tired. “I’m glad to hear that. Recoil would be so proud.” My voice replied internally. “Say, how do you like chess?” “I like it with hard cider, Mister Goldenblood.” “Please, just call me Goldenblood.” It didn’t make sense to me, it had no consistent basis, he was talking about my son as if he was his pupil. Was that how I knew him, through my son?

“That stallion was your best friend, Steelgraft. It is why you’re in the condition you are now. When you died, he spared no expense to bring you back. His name was--”

“Goldenblood,” I interrupted. “His name was Goldenblood.”

“Yes. I’m glad you’re beginning to remember. He was the figurehead of the O.I.A. and he, like you, did what he could to ease the burden on the Ministry Mares. On the surface he was a charismatic, kind and unknown leader and advisor. Beyond that, he was a manipulator. Of the many projects he greenlighted or overtook, yours was by far the most grim and dark.” Head-Case’s synopsis was jarring and upsetting, Goldenblood was my friend. All I could recall were fond memories, at least now that I was starting to remember him.

“That’s a lie.” I argued, “He’d never let something like this happen.”

“Maybe you’re right.” Head-Case conceded, “It may very well be Hades’ fault this happened. That doesn’t change the fact that you and your crew suffered fates worse than death. The rehabilitation project turned you and all those other veterans into monsters.”

The rest of my crew? They ended up just like me? I gagged, the gurgling sick bile rising in my throat, I could taste the acrid mix of sticky mush back in my mouth. I swallowed forcefully and belched.

“Calm down, Steelgraft! Your mental state is out of control! You’ll lose soul cohesion if you do not calm down!” His mollifying tones did little to soothe me, I didn’t even understand what he meant.

“What happened to my crew?” I demanded, barely containing myself.

“Some of them made full recoveries.” Head-Case said soothingly, “I made sure they were well taken care of and released from my care. They made it to Stable 22 or 23, with the exception of your sister and the ones that ended up like you.” He took a shallow breath inwards, the fluid in his jar bubbling, “Those that ended up like you lost their minds and wander, serving Hades and slaughtering all those that dare enter the Dead Zone. You’re one of the few that are not thralls to that vile necromancer. You’re PP-013, Pony Prometheus. A prototype made before Hades became the problem that he is now.”

“What are my targets?” I demanded. “You want me to hunt down my old crew mates, don’t you?”

“Yes, you must act as the reaper and pass them on to Asphodel. Hades himself must be cut from the mortal coil. This project is long overdue to be shut down. If it isn’t stopped, Hades will expand his influence and defeat death--by making everyone a thrall to him.” He explained everything succinctly, in words even I could understand. I was brought back to life to slay the necromancer that had a hoof in creating me and to lay his pawns, my own crewmates included, to rest.

“And the warlords?” I asked, “How many of them do I have to kill?”

“They’re just a symptom, but slaying them will certainly help you on your way to dealing with Hades. Each warlord offers tribute and fights to impress the ‘King of the Trot’ hoping to gain his favor for power. Killing each one will weaken Hades’ resources and help the suffering citizens of Detrot.” He further explained, waving a claw, then the other, as if weighing something mentally. “So, what about your ‘other plans’ you had cooking?”

“My dream of becoming a ballerina that teaches radroaches to wrestle will have to wait.” I sarcastically replied.

“I have to say, your sarcastic wit despite circumstance is your best quality.” Head-Case was on the verge of ranting about how most ponies are so glum. “And that explosive collar looks good on you!”

“Did you have anything to do with that?” I grit my teeth, suspecting that he indeed had been in on this from the beginning.

“The collar? Faust blessed, no! That was Mechanic’s doing. The entire settlement is already dealing with disease and supply shortages. Try to be lenient and don’t hold that against them.” He replied simply, shaking his head, his sparse locks of hair rolling in the fluid in his tank.

A direction, a goal, and more of my memories returned. With them, a newfound appreciation for my curse. I wouldn’t be bumbling around like a moron, wondering what my purpose was or why I was here. I had unfinished business, the pony I was clashed with who I thought I was. “I don’t have any other questions.” I muttered, binding my eyepatch back into place, everything faded away and my vision was freed of the cluttered hud. The pain and discomfort was gone, leaving me to think clearly.

“Good, I’ll be here if you need me.” Head-Case chimed in the back of my skull. “Your ten minutes is almost up, you’d better get moving.”

Fritter was shooting glances at me from the register, he’d probably watched me talking to myself. Well, there’s another pony that thought I was nuts for sure!

The Memory Orb found a home in my pocket and I was set to don my boots, slipping on one and working the laces with my digits, pulling taught to make a firm double knotted lace. It was when I was getting ready to put on the other boot that the front door to Donuts Extreme was forced open so hard the ringing bell was shot across the shop, bouncing off the wall.

“What the buck’re you doing, you’ll break my door you stupid gits!” Frisky Fritter roared at customers in the doorway. My attention joined the curious glances of several others. In the doorway were some nasty looking characters, scarred and singed, covered in armor made from leather and industrial scrap, and armed with battle saddles mounted with makeshift industrial tools as weapons.

At the forefront of the pack was that ugly, beady eyed pony with the moss green dreadlocks I’d seen in the restroom. “I saw him come in here!” The ugly, beady eyed rat of a stallion shrieked, “The one that bumped off Chunky Salsa!”

This was bad--worse than bad, this was the reason why I should have left quickly. Hindsight 20/20 as usual. I crouched in my booth seat, hoping to evade detection.

“There are only my regulars here. No new faces lately.” Frisky Fritter lied, “So turn your ugly acne covered ass around and go bugger each other. You baker barbarian types ain’t welcome here.”

The Muffincakes? Great, I should have made the connection. That stringy, ugly stallion was in league with the merry band of muffin-themed industrial activists.

“We not welcome?” Grumbled another of them, laughing madly, “Is it...Is it time to help them make cupcakes?” That mare speaking now was something straight from a baker’s nightmare. Chef’s hat on her head she was covered in huge scars and festering wounds, her horn cracked and healed in an upward half spiral. “Pony...Batter...Batter.” She clucked madly, her horn lighting up to pull a nasty looking nailed bat out.

I don’t know who shot first, the customers or the sick raiders--Maybe the sound of a plate dropping was all it took to spook them all to action, opening fire on each other with deadly results. The Cuppycakers were wielding heavy rivet guns, lobbing superheated construction bolts a fair distance into their target. One of the customers ended up pinned to the floor, his blood boiling out from the wound.

My seat burst into flames, several bolts tearing through the back of the seat and narrowly missing me. I rolled off my seat, right into the crossfire and into view.

“Der he is!” Shouted the ugly beady eyed pony that had taken cover behind an overturned table. “Kill the ghoul!”

My first action as soon as I saw that stallion in particular was to throw what I had on hand--Namely the left boot I had been planning to put on. The heavy boot sailed and cracked the pony square in the nose, knocking him over behind the table, twin gushes of blood streaming from his nostrils.

The mad raider mare in the chef’s hat had taken a few rounds, but was swiftly moving to her first target. She brought a strange looking bladeless chainsaw to bear at the pinto stallion that had been dancing at the pole. A sizzle of heat and a blast of light fizzled through the base of his thighs and came upward, severing his masculinity from his body and peeling his guts open. There was now a gleaming, sizzling golden hot beam of energy coming from the device where a blade should be. The poor stallion’s wounds were instantly cauterized by the blade’s heat, he fell over, grabbing for his entrails as the mare brought her bat down on his head with a succession of meaty ‘thwaps’. Two more rounds sunk into her side but were brushed off by the brute of a beast. She leapt off the counter and came barreling at me next!

Frisky Fritter took behind the counter, screaming for his wife to stay in the kitchen. I lost track of everything else going on. The air was filled with gunfire, screams, and the sizzling smell of flesh.

‘CRUNCH’--’CRUNCH’! The mare baring down on me was as fast as she was brutal, pounding me across the face with her nailed bat, cracking me on the side and shoulder. I was knocked into the counter, breaking several stools from their mounts in the process. One stool became my bludgeon and was swung at the mare. She countered, her energy lathe splitting the stool just above my prosthetic hand.

“Think we can just talk about this?” I snarked, ducking under a swing with the energy blade that would have surely cleaved my head from my shoulders. A quick jab to her face split her lower lip and ruined her manic grin. This crazy raider wouldn’t quit, I wasn’t used to anything surviving this long against me.

“Schtupid ffffffuck!” She gurgled, spewing a mixture of blood and bile at my face, blotting out my vision. It’d really be nice to go a single day without getting shit all over me. This creative raider them pummeled me over the horn, rattling my senses, I was stunned.

“What’s going on Steelgraft?” Head-Case added to my plate another thing I could not keep track of. His voice was lost in the blazing heat of the lathe blade coming into my armor’s shoulder. “Steelgraft, your integrity is dropping to critical levels! Steelgraft?!”

“Busy getting my plot kicked.” I hissed dizzily, letting out a short breathless gasp as my senses became reacquainted to immense levels of pain.

The discomfort of having my left eye exposed to light could not compare to the burning heat of the magically projected blade. The armor did nothing to protect me, splitting at the contact with a sizzle of burning canvas and metal. I could feel a fracture through my shoulder and neck, as if my skin was made of living, feeling ceramic, chipping and cracking under the magical force. The blade left a jagged, burning crack over my shoulder and chest where it touched, revealing blackened flesh underneath.

Batter-Batter continued to assault me with her other weapon, slamming the bat into my back, beating me into the ground. More pieces of my skin came loose, shattering on the floor. That weapon made my skin like Porcelain, so brittle and defective.

The mare brought her energy bladed weapon at me again, aiming to stab me. I regained my composure and rolled to narrowly avoid that killing blow. I drew iron, turning my head to grip my .38 Cornhusker from its home. ‘BLAM’-‘BLAM’-‘BLAM’! I fired three shots rapidly. One struck her cheek, sending an explosion of gore and dislocating her jaw. The second went wide and clipped her ear. My final shot struck her in the dead center of the chest. She stumbled backward, her horn flickering. She wheezed, gurgling on the blood rushing down her throat. She raised her bat, giving a rattling cough and swung for me.

A shot from behind the counter blew the wooden bat to splinters. A follow-up shot blind-sided her, tearing a hole in her flank and sending her to fall into a booth table with a meaty thump. “Lets see her shrug that off!” Zone Control shouted, rising over the counter. “Steelgraft, get back here!”

I did not have to be told twice, I jumped over the counter and landed next to her, a set of rivet bolts slamming into my side as I was airborne. I tipped over after landing, pain lancing up my side. The heat from the bolts penetrated my armor, singing it and my pelt, bolting my armor to my side.

“This shouldn’t hurt. I shouldn’t f-feel this...” I groaned.

Frisky Fritter doused me with water from a plastic bottle, steam rolled off of me as the bolts cooled. “Poor baby got a buckin’ boo-boo?” He berated me while he did his best to help me, biting my coat and tugging hard to loosen the bolts piercing my side until they popped out. He fell onto his plot with a sour grunt. “And cuz you didn’t leave my shop’s getting wrecked!” He sobbed. and flailed his stump unhappily.

“Fritter, shut up! This isn’t his fault! The Muffincakes have been planning a hostile takeover of the Blok for some time and they want Steelgraft for some reason. With him here it makes sense for them to accomplish both at once!” Zone Control shouted over the sound of gunfire, raising up to pop a few shots at the remaining raiders. She pressed her back against the counter, reloading her riot shotgun with calm determination. “How are you holding up, Steelgraft? I’ve never seen anypony survive a hit from a Can Cleaver before.”

I spat the gun’s grip from my mouth, the Cornhusker dropped to the floor with a heavy clatter. “It feels worse than it looks.” I said, pushing myself up to inspect the damage. Both Fritter and Zone’s faces were contorted in fear and disbelief. A spiderweb of delicate cracks blossomed from the heart of a deep gouge in my chest. “Okay, scratch that, this averages out to feel about as bad as it looks.”

“Did Zone Control say a ‘Can Cleaver’?” Head-Case echoed ominously. He didn’t wait for me to respond, which was great since I was dealing with the matter at hoof. “Originally it was used to cut solid blocks of steel into sheets for fabrication, now it is used as a powerful magical melee weapon. You are protected against normal means of harm, but a magical weapon ignores your damage resistance! You need to avoid magical damage, due to your nature, it will--”

“Turn my skin into glass?” I interrupted him, gritting my teeth. “Thanks for the info dump, chump, but I have pressing matters to deal with.” Head-Case fell silent at that, the soft crackling static of the open channel vanished as it closed. The wound tingled, the cracks sealing themselves at a slow crawl.

“Who’re you talkin’ to you nutter?!” Frisky demanded, his eyes wide. sweat was pouring down his body. The smell of burning pelt and sick made him retch. When the remains of the pinto colt slid off the counter and flopped to the ground next to him he lost all inhibitions, depositing his stomach’s colorful pastry strewn contents all over the floor. “O-oh Celestia! F-free S-samp--” *Hrk*!

“I’m talking to a disembodied voice in my head.” I answered. “Head-Case says you’re swell ponies.” I said with a grunt, sinking several digits into the wound, stirring at the black, stringy gunk that was just beneath my stitched and cracked flesh. It didn’t hurt, the burning tingles subsided as the wound began to slowly recover. Ponies were dying, with each death a spike of pleasure pushed away the pain and improved the integrity of my crippled body. I am never going to get used to this, I thought, I wonder if Gangrene and Keena are having as much fun as I am.

Oh, we’re taking a break now? I suppose this session has gone on long enough! Oh, that’s right, you discovered a new flaw...That’s a lot of fun, learning about yourself? And no, you don’t get to level up. You gain Exp slower because of your starting trait, doofus.

Flaw Discovered!
Tit-for-TAT:
Character Progress Review

What? You actually have your character sheet? Good! Huh? Gangrene has one too? Hmm, alright, lets see em!

Steelgraft's Character Card
Gangrene's Character Card

These look good! You had help with them, didn’t you? Who did these? Oh it was, Nessy, I recognize that style. She’s a very good artist! And I suppose it’s time to give a shout out to my editors and readers, thanks for reading and sorry for taking so long with this update!

Chapter 7.5: War and Peace

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"War and Peace"

If you want peace, prepare for war

All of the ‘Big Top Blok’ was under attack, the Muffincakes had bided their time for months, gathering up tools and material from which they would send in their assault. It was no secret, everyone had figured that this would eventually happen, what had not been expected was the ferocity and quick movements of the raiders. Organized into baker's dozens, the combatants screamed down each of the three pathways of shops, forcing their opponents to retreat further and further towards the grand plaza.

Any and all plans of a counter-attack put in place by the Misfits fell through when the PA system came under control of the invading force, threats of mutilation and torture to those that offered any resistance quickly pacified travelers who wanted no part in the firefights between the Misfits and the Baker Barbarian Clans. This hostile takeover was a pitched battle, where the outnumbered Misfits slowly lost ground and morale against overwhelming numbers and ferocity.

A few pockets of resistance remained, those that would not lay down arms for any reason, those that would not surrender. Gangrene knew that there would be no mercy granted to any of them if they surrendered, especially not to the foals under her care. She had narrowly gotten back to her home when the fighting broke out. Her home was a Colt & Filly Community Center, a double wide shop that included a small indoor gymnasium repurposed into a dorm for two dozen tiny beds flanked by a few larger ones. There was a HelpingHooves Clinic right next door that she frequented, helping out the aging doctor that worked there when she had time.

It was a shame she’d never be able to volunteer to help out ever again, or even accept that job she had been contemplating. The small clinic was now in flames, billowing smoking choke toward the razor wire netting above. Superheated bolts flew over-head, sinking into walls and shattering the few remaining wide paned windows at the front of the recreation center. Once upon a time she thought they let in cheerful light, now those wide windows just exposed the interior to the raging bolter fire coming from outside.

“Come on out!” Called a raider from outside, laughing in mocking tones. They had taken to being cocky after taking out several of the Vipers. Several of them had abandoned their cover to stand in the open, strutting closer to the shop. The earth stallion raider lifted his welding visor to get a better look into the building, moving closer. “Huh, are you all dead already?”

“Nope.” Gangrene chimed, raising her rifle and popping up from under the window sill. She cocked the level of her varmint rifle and lanced a shot straight between the buck’s eyes. “I was just waiting for a clear shot.”

A set of hooves pulled Gangrene down just in time, only one of the six steaming hot bolts struck her, bouncing off one of her armor’s spiked pauldrons and sizzling across the floor.

“Don’t stick your head out, stupid twit!” Warned the only remaining Viper alive other than Gangrene. When the yellow mare smiled at him, he snorted, “And don’t smile at me like dat either, you almost got wasted!”

“Calm down, Bruise, we’ll get out of this.” Gangrene said with certainty, reloading her rifle. Sweat poured down her body. Shifting wind brought blazing heat from the burning clinic next door, trapping smoke under the ceiling and spoiling the air. She coughed, covering her mouth with a hoof.

“This is bad...” Bruise muttered. He tended to point out the obvious a lot, for as long as Gangrene knew him, he always had a thing for pointing at an obvious trap and saying, ‘Lookat that dangerous trap. We should avoid it!’ as if one of the Vipers would stupidly trample over it. It didn’t help that the chocolate colored stallion was the last one to notice what was going on.

“Gee, yah think? I kinda figured it started going bad when they nailed Blister to the door with those Smelt-Bolters.” The yellow mare sarcastically mumbled, raising her gun over the threshold of the window to blind fire a few times.

“It’s j-just me and you, Gangrene. The rest’re dead!” Bruise whimpered, his eyes trailing to the front door where the corpse of the mare he had been pining for had been bolted. “Maybe we should just surrender?” The scrawny buck was crying, wiping his face on his apron, his eyes clenched shut.

Bruise was by far the least capable of all the Vipers, which was why he had never been taken by Gangrene on any scav runs. No, Bruise was good with kids and cooking, so that’s what they used him for--He was the one that kept the place running while the gang was out. Gangrene wasn’t the least bit surprised to see him crack.

“The ones that were home are dead, moron. Not everypony was home.” She retorted, disgust in her voice. “We ain’t surrenderin’! They don’t do mercy. Sure, they’ll just kill us, but think about what they’ll do to the kids we watch over!”

That was all Bruise needed to hear, his crying stemmed, he convulsed. He was surrounded by dead bodies, several of them enemies, the rest were his friends, peeled open with those wicked steel carving tools or nailed to things by bolts. One of the raiders had even used a repurposed drill press mounted to them like a lance to rape one of their friends in the face, leaving a corpse with a mutilated mush filled hole where a stern yet scarred face once was.

The children had it worse, having heard it from the small gymnasium right next door to the entrance. Gangrene had ordered them to play hide n’ seek in the cramped storage room which now sang with the sobs and coughs of a dozen fillies and colts.

Rebel Riot was at his small workbench in the gymnasium, working feverishly on the Bloomberg assault rifle he had to get to Keena. No time to fiddle and screw around, taking all day like he usually did. The parts were laid out before him, his eyes darting from piece to piece as he studied their details, lips moving in silent words as he spoke to himself. A hot bolt sank into the wall just overhead, he yelped and ducked his head, his tiny mohawk singed, a dance of smoke trailing off the tip.

“Fuck! It’s hard to work without those candy asses screwing up my workspace!” He coughed, eyes watering from the smoke filling the air. With shaky hooves he began reassembly.

“How are you coming with that Bloomberg, Riot?!” Gangrene called loudly from the lobby, “I could really use some more fire power before we’re cooked alive in here!”

“Don’t rush me!” Rebel screamed back, pounding the table as he began to cry. “J-just shut the fuck up! You want this stupid thing to fire, don’t you?!”

“Aw, we just wanna pick up our kids from the daaaaaycaaaaare!” One of the raiders sang, “We just wanna teach em how to make cupcakes!” called a mare, cackling madly. “Our boss just loooves kids! So sweet and tasty. Come kids, don’t be too hasty!~” The raiders outside were having a blast, terrifying a set of mooks in a shop was great fun. What was most delicious was what reward they would get when they brought Muffincake some nice little snack cakes.

Hearing the calls from outside made the blood of those inside run cold, so cold that not even the hot, stale air blowing through the building could warm them.

“I need you to do something for me, Bruise.” Gangrene spoke grimly, giving the young buck a warm, sad smile. She reached out and pressed a hoof onto his shoulder. “Promise me you’ll do it?”

“I...You...” Bruise stammered, “You haven’t even told me what you wanted from me yet!” He was worried, was she going to ask him to charge headlong into the raiders to give her a chance to take out a few more? The mare had asked Curbstomp to do that a few times, but the hardy stallion had been a walking meat tank! He was just a scrawny thing!

“Take the kids and run.” Gangrene ordered. She pointed a hoof to the side of the building, “Use the back entrance, they might spot you but you’ll be out of range by then because they’ll be dealing with me.”

Bruise’s eyes widened, “I...I can’t leave you h-here.” He sputtered, coughing into his apron and wheezing, “They’ll kill you!”

“I know.” The mare said, her eye misting with tears, “Just promise me you’ll find Steelgraft, tell him to take you to Greenvale Heights. Find a better life for those kids and never let the wastes change you.” Gangrene was good with kids, but Bruise here, he was a model father. Gangrene never really told him how much she appreciated him looking after everyone, including the Vipers.

“Gangrene, I can’t!” Bruise cried out. “I can’t just leave you to di---” A hoof pressing to his lips silenced him, the mare leaned in, moving her lips to press a soft kiss to his lips. “W-wha--”

The kiss was brief and chaste, but left the stallion flushed and confused. Gangrene pushed one of his sweat matted hazel locks from his cheek and whispered into his ear, “Go, or I will shoot you myself.” When she pulled back, tears were rolling down her cheeks. “I’ll buy you some time.” She promised.

The stallion argued no further, turning tail at the threat of being shot to do what he had to do. He burst into the gymnasium, ducking down as several bolts clipped a cot nearby, setting it on fire. He threw open the storage room door and ushered the foals out, “Everypony out, come on, hide n’ seek’s over! We’re going to play tag now. Don’t let the bad ponies outside ‘tag’ you with their guns!”

It was a quick chore, making sure all the foals had what they needed. A little bit of food, their favorite toy, and Bruise made sure to get their favorite bedtime book as well. “Rebel, come on! We’re going!” The fire that had started with one cot was now starting to spread, they had to leave now.

“Do what you gotta do, I’m doin what I gotta do!” The colt shot back, sweating over his work. “I need to get this gun to Keena! I promised!” This had been the first time Gangrene had asked him for help with a serious mission, he was not about to let her down. He loaded in the trigger mechanism he finished and screwed it into place. “I’ll be right behind you, just gimme a minute!” The foal muttered under his breath unkind words about the terrified fudge colored stallion.

By the time it came to leave, Rebel Riot had just put the final touches on the rifle, making it ready for action. “There!” Rebel announced, holding the complete rifle up over his head. Now it could operated by creatures with hands! The mod kit was rather crude, but Rebel had done the best he could filling in the gaps in the design with some inspired jury-rigging between a discarded toaster and a few paper clips.

“We done?” Bruise asked, dancing in place, eyes darting around at everything catching on fire.

“Yeah.” Rebel affirmed, strapping the assault rifle to his riotshield, “I just have to get this to Gangr--”

“No time, kiddo! She’ll catch up!” It hurt Bruise to consider that that may have been a lie.

With the looming threat of burning alive growing ever closer to reality, the foal unhappily agreed to leave with the others, making for the back door through the gymnasium. It was none too soon, the fire was rapidly spreading and now their home was going to be engulfed in flames.

Gangrene levitated her rifle over the window sill and propped it up with a crate, the barrel leaning out the window. She used her telekinesis to fire the weapon blindly, trying to give the appearance somepony was there while she laid on her belly and scooted to the desk near the entrance.

Smoke trailed up the walls, dancing over brightly colored pictures the kids had drawn. Fire licked at these tender memories, wiping them into curls of ash that became airborne. The posters for the Filly&Colt Club baked into the walls, the image of a pair of foals playing with Fluttershy, the Ministry Mare of Peace, bubbled sickly as the magic protection on it slowly failed. Every fond memory the yellow mare grew here were turning to ash around her. There was still hope--Hope that the seeds of kindness planted in the children under her care would grow into something beautiful.

‘Blam!’ ‘Blam!’ She made sure to space out her shots. She knew she was missing, every round was sailing wide. Any hit she landed was going to be a coincidence, but her plan was to misdirect and buy her time for what she needed to do.

Behind the desk she found the safe she needed, behind a torn portrait of the founder of the club, a mare named ‘Hope’ that had been blind. She laughed, finding the coincidence fitting. A mare named Blind Hope that wanted to make the world a better place by opening a club for foals in a bad part of Detrot during the war. What Gangrene knew of her was inspiring, she also ran a soup kitchen and worked for the Ministry of Peace.

What was in the safe behind the portrait was far more sinister, at least to Gangrene. A part of her life she thought she’d never see again. She had held onto it mostly to remind her where she had come from and how far she had come after that dark time. A hot bolt sank into the wall a few feet from her, so close that she could feel it’s heat over the heat of the growing fire. She had to hurry.

The safe opened and she laid eyes upon her armor, her old armor. The armor of a Steel Ranger, modified to fit her horn in a metal reservoir. “I never thought I’d see you again.” She snarled at the emotionless visor, “It’s fitting that you become my coffin.” The armor was donned with practiced ease, despite the years she had gone without wearing it. The magic suit of armor’s heat regulators made the fire hardly an issue, the gleaming visuals as the old suit powered up at a dull hum. The emblem on her left flank had been scratched off, which had been the only indication of her rank. She laughed, finding how it fit so well to be most unpleasant. It made her skin crawl.

‘Blam!’ ‘Blam!’ ‘Click’ ‘Click’ ‘Click’--Her varmint rifle had run dry. The raiders would soon realize that either she was out of ammo or that they had been tricked. Gangrene quickly popped the panel on her flank open and loaded a drug cocktail into the auto-medication matrix, Med-X, Buck, and Stampede. Stampede already had Med-X, a powerful and widely used pain killer in it, but a double dose would ensure all her nerve endings were ice cold numb, and the Buck would give her strength and endurance that would push her body’s limits to the razor’s edge of breaking. A pain killer, steroids, and an aggression amplifier in a noxious blend of cranial poison. The yellow mare had used such drugs recreationally, and knew just how much to use for any given situation. Coming down off this would make her mind foggy, the thick syrup alone could kill her.--She didn’t care about overdosing, she was likely going to die against the swarm of heavily armed raiders outside anyway. She disabled the suit’s regulator on how much drugs it would pump into her and primed the system so that it would keep her going for as long as possible. Perhaps there was a time where she would have cut and run, but that wasn't her anymore. Steelgraft put his life on the line for total strangers, he was what every Steel Ranger was supposed the represent. That naive idiot will probably get himself killed without me, she thought. She hoped she was wrong, that he’d beat the odds.

The suit would buy her a few seconds against those improvised industrial weapons. Considering that those tools were used to cut and bolt steel together, there was little that would be good defense against that fierce offense. This also meant the Muffincakes never bothered much for their own defense, opting for mobility to get in close to set fires and kill their opposition quickly.

Gangrene had to arm herself--The downside to the weapons the Muffincakes used, they tended to destroy or warp anything their victim was using, reducing armor and guns to bent pieces of scrap or slag. The only things in the smoke filled, cramped lobby were burning sofas and bench seats, which would be useful if Steelgraft were here to hurl them, and a pair of ‘Can Cleavers’, magical saber chain-saws named for their ability to cut Steel Ranger armor apart in a single swipe. The rest of the weapons were warped, some still attached to their previous owners, some of which were friends. This home was now to be a tomb for their ashes. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust, all my memories are old and bust. That would have made a good zebra rhyme, Gangrene would laugh if this wasn’t so painful to see.

“Time to give them some medicine...” Gangrene muttered to herself, choosing those weapons and levitating them to her. She was unfamiliar, but she’d be soon acquainted with their use. She powered on the two ‘Can Cleavers’ and moved to the window. A plucky, greasy faced raider mare leaning in spotted the power armor clad medic. For her curiosity Gangrene gifted the ugly crimson mare a splitting headache by carving her face open with the magical chainsaw.

“Oh, damn! Looks like we get seconds!” Laughed one of the raider, watching another of their number fall. Of the thirteen of their dozen, eight remained. “Crumbs! All crumbs!” The mad cackle of them was more like the made laugh of carnivorous hyenas, high in pitch and maddening. When Gangrene leapt heavily out of the window with a hard ‘Whud’ she received several whistles. “Canned meat! Canned meat! Cut her legs, make it ground beef!”

“Shut the fuck up you psycho pastry pansies!” Gangrene roared, all the drugs in her system drove her into a rage and she lowered her head to charge into the group, splitting one of the cretins down the center into two equal halves. The raiders scattered, flanking her and making themselves harder targets. Heavy hot bolts pelted Gangrene, making her stumble as her armor buckled inward from each hit, leaving a hot dent. The Med-X dulled any pain she felt, but the mare could smell her pelt bubbling and baking inside the armor already.

Her Eyes Forward Sparkle tracked the location of every target--She engaged her targeting system, which just came online and aimed for the raider charging her with a Drill-Lance, selecting his forelegs. His legs left his body with a hot sizzle, his body tipping forward, the drill sinking into the ground. The rotation of the drill began to spin the raider around at a rapid rate, flinging him off his saddle harness to a unicorn raider wielding a Can Cleaver of her own. Without hesitation the raider cut her ally in twain as he sailed at her. “I like my stallions like I like my creamer! Half and Half!” The raider snickered madly.

“What’re you doing?!” Called one of the raiders to the left, a raider so mange covered that his pelt’s original color could not be determined. “What did boss say about playing with your food?”

“He said to make it scream!” Roared a beefy grey stallion that charged Gangrene from the side, his enormous bulk sending the mare bouncing off the floor, leaving a crack in the stained tile.

She recovered quickly, the mare groaning as she came to her senses, a warning prompt on her heads up display warning her of an incoming attack. The floor where her head used to be sizzled, Gangrene narrowly avoiding a killing blow. Sparks danced in the air as two golden hued magical blades collided, spark driven matrix engines humming madly as the impact put strain upon them. Her opponent was more experienced with the Can Cleaver, and even though Gangrene was wielding two in her Telekinesis, this wickedly grinning, mule ugly unicorn was gaining ground on her.

“You must make out with your boss’s ass to be that ugly!” Gangrene mocked, her drug-addled rage blossoming through her mind. She had been in a few scraps in her day, but being in the center of a free-for-all was not what she was accustomed to. She promised herself she’d never do something this stupid or crazy again, no, she would leave that to Steelgraft. She laughed, imagining how he’d be flailing around the battlefield, somehow managing to be effective and deadly despite his reservations.

Against the backdrop of two raging infernos a duel to the death waged on, many on one, long shadows tangled in a hypnotic dance against the vacant stores. The crackle of the raging fire was the music with the screams, howls, and insults of the raiders as the chorus.

Eventually, something gave--A lucky shot from Magma Bolter cut into a joint on Gangrene’s armor, disabling one of Gangrene’s back legs. An incoming downward swing from her opponent’s Can Cleaver sunk into the brow of her helmet. Gangrene twisted her head away, the armor was scalded with burning heat--the impact of a super hot bolt caused half the armor on her face to shatter outwards. Driven by blind fury and rage, Gangrene gave one final swing of her Can Cleaver, the blade finding purchase on an unfortunate raider who may have survived had he been four inches shorter. The top half of the raider’s skull rolled across the ground, the twitchy eyed creep let out a half-roasted laugh as the remainder of his brain cooked and he fell over, giving a final twitch.

On her own she almost did it, she almost took out a baker’s dozen worth of Muffincake’s heavier hitters. It was quite the accomplishment, something she’d be able to brag about if she wasn’t certainly about to die. The mare fell with a weak groan, her watering eyes taking in the sight of her blazing home. Her armor struggled to function, to keep her alive despite the extensive damage the suit had sustained. In the wasteland game of ‘Rock, Paper, Dynamite’ the Muffincakes countered Steel Ranger defense almost poetically with their hot, unforgiving weapons.

“Take a good long look.” The vicious raider mare rumbled, sinking the blade of her Can Cleaver into the ground right next to Gangrene’s exposed face. “Look at it...” She hissed, pushing a hoof down on the back of Gangrene’s head, “We turned your home into a little oven. An oven full of screaming little buns.”

Gangrene laughed, tears in her eyes from the growing pain filling her body. On her failing EFS she could see a whole group of little green blips moving away swiftly. “Hehehawhawhaw,” she snorted, the laughter was infectious among the raiders that joined in for one reason or anything.

The mare stomped on Gangrene harshly, “What is there to laugh about, you stupid Viper? We killed you and all your little buns! Boss is going to be very happy!” She then stopped, considering something else entirely, “Are you happy for us?”

“Heh, no, it’s just you’re so stupid!” The broken mare exclaimed, “Nopony was home when it went up, you got four of us! B-but...The others...They’re far away by now.”

“You think you can make me look like an idiot?!” The ugly mare roared, raising her hoof to stomp on Gangrene several more times.

“Nah, you already look like an idiot.” Gangrene slurred, defiant until the very end. She closed her eyes, ready to die. She wanted her last thoughts to be of the foals and of her closest friends. If only she believed in an afterlife, then maybe she’d be blissfully at peace in this moment.

The raider edged the Can Carver’s blade through the floor and closer to Gangrene’s face, so furious that spit oozed from between her rotten, jagged teeth. “Squirm you stupid bitch, because when I’m done with you, I’m going to fuck every one of your pint sized hump buddies with my lathe!” Her threat reached deaf ears. The blade rose slowly, like the blade of a guillotine, the shadows cast on the face of the unnamed raider was her executioner’s mask.

‘Clank’-’Clank’-’Clank’-’Clank’--The raiders had been caught unaware, for in the right place at just the right time the Steel Rangers appeared, as if summoned by the plight of a sister in arms. The whir of a gatling-gun barrel gaining speed soon filled the air with the sharp cry of raining steel. It was rare when it happened, that the heavily armored Steel Rangers ever got the drop on a group of raiders, but when given the chance, the heavy firepower of a ranger would strip raider plights from the wasteland like weeds from a sickly garden.

Eight Steel Rangers stormed down the cobblestone street, blazing the air with gunfire, lead by Standtall Stillshot, the Crusader tasked with the security checkpoint on the highway nearby. The very checkpoint Gangrene and her friends wrecked when they fled. Why would they come here? Still pursuing Steelgraft for his tech, finding another way inside to do so? The explanation was far more simple than that.

The remaining raiders had little chance to mount a counterattack, the baker’s dozen was polished off under the heavy ordinance of minigun fire and a few grenades from another ranger’s battle saddle. Gangrene’s armor held up against the incoming shrapnel and bullets, but the lightly armored raiders fell to pieces, littering the floor with their broken bodies.

“Are you alright?” Standtall rumbled as he trampled over the still-twitching corpse of the raider that had nearly taken Gangrene’s life in order to reach her. “You did quite a number on these raiders alone. Where is your squad?”

Gangrene never thought she’d be happy to see a Steel Ranger, or maybe she just felt relief that she wasn’t about to die. “What the hell are you doing here?” She grumbled, weakly pushing herself up. Her armor rattled, the automatic repair and medical systems were already fixing her up. They were slow, but it was the next best thing to sitting inside a working auto-doc or having a real physician.

“My squad was searching for a group of travelers that had unauthorized tech.” Standtall replied, waving over to his team’s medic to come administer aid. “That is when we saw the Muffincake raiders rushing in here. We were ordered to fall back to base, but I saw your distress beacon when your vitals were dropping.”

Saved by her armor. Gangrene let out a weak laugh, wincing as her everywhere hurt. “The buddy-beacon, huh?” She’d forgotten about that feature in her armor. Had she remembered, she would have disabled it. Her oversight just saved her life. Also, Standtall failed to recognize her, saving her from a most awkward situation.

“Yes, that is how we found you. Now, where is your squad? Identify yourself.” Standtall ordered. He held a very authoritative stance, widening his shoulders and leaning down at the mare’s head while the medic assessed her injuries.

Her numb, slow to recover mind processed his demand, and she found an adequate, albeit rude response for the unwelcome savior. “I work alone, you idiot! I don’t answer to you!” Gangrene hissed, giving a soft cry as the medic extracted the metal bolt out of her leg. She cursed, slamming her head into the ground. That pain was something she would later associate with childbirth, popping something out of a small hole as it clings to your insides and stretch a wide gash open in your body.

The large metal-wrapped stallion had never met such arrogance or fortitude in anypony except superiors and subordinates! But after seeing that she handled all but four of Muffincakes men had him believing the former. “You work alone...I...I am sorry ma’am, I didn’t realize!” Standtall sputtered out, offering her a salute. “Forgive my insubordination!”

Gangrene was confused, why was this crusader saluting her and acting like that? The rest of the squad was just as confused, Silver Tongue, a familiar rude mare trotted up and took a glance at Gangrene, looking at her damaged armor and half of her exposed face. She failed to recognized the yellow mare. “Uh, sir, why are you saluting her like that? She’s probably some AWOL patsy!” The mare chuffed.

“Silver tongue, watch your mouth! We’re in the presence of a Star Paladin!” Standtall barked.

A collective ‘what’ spat from the helmets of a half-dozen confused Steel Rangers. “Sir, you can’t be serious! A Star Paladin? There’s no way we wouldn’t have known!” Many of them were in agreement with Silver Tongue that Gangrene was indeed an AWOL patsy that they should bring in for discipline.

If their superior officer believed she was a Star Paladin, Gangrene would act the part and convince them to do her a little favor. She pushed the medic away, “Get offa me, I’m fine!” She began with one lie, she wasn’t fine, she was in an immense amount of pain and was coming down off a wicked cocktail of combat drugs that had probably nearly put her into cardiac arrest. Once she was on her shaky hooves she shouted out, “You got me!” She confessed, stamping her hoof onto one of the fallen raiders, causing the corpse to gush a small fountain of red, “I am indeed Star Paladin Daisy-Chain of the great Steel Ranger’s 44th Division from Phillydelphia!” Certainly it was a lie, but it was something that would take them forever to check up on. Daisy Chain was actually the name of a rather once-popular food joint that she had holed up in years ago during a raid on a slave caravan, not that these Rangers would ever find out!

“I knew it!” Standtall gasped, losing his composure and trotting in place, “It’s no wonder you beat all those raiders unarmed! And your modified armor! I really like how the horn got worked in there...” He was starting to gush a little, and coming from such a large stallion that dwarfed Gangrene several times over made it even more strange.

“If I wanted you to lick my flank cheeks I would have ordered you to, CRUSADER!” Gangrene shouted, snarling. Standtall resumed his ‘at attention’ stance. “Why is Standtall the only wiggly PONY AT ATTENTION!?” Gangrene shouted again, if she was going to be a Star Paladin, she was going to be the boss here. All of the Steel Rangers fell into line, save for a very indignant Silver Tongue.

“Is there a reason why you’re not falling into line?” Gangrene asked, though internally she was sweating bullets. If even one of them saw through her act she’d be worse off than when the raiders were about to behead her.

“I don’t buy it! So what if you took on a group of these chowder heads, you still lost and we had to save you! I expect some gratitude, chain of command or not!” Silver Tongue spat, rearing up to stomp both hooves down in disgust. “Who do you think you a--Augh!”

Gangrene had heard enough, the unicorn lifted the insubordinate ranger into the air with the grip of her telekinesis. A painful exercise for the unicorn, given her current condition that her suit had yet to rectify, but something she took great pleasure in. “I am your superior officer and unless you want to get demoted to battering ram, cut the sass!” Gangrene said, barely suppressing a giggle.

“No! No! Anything but that!” Silver Tongue wailed, her legs wagging at the air, her armor clanking and shifting with her ambling air kicking. “Put me down! Put me down!” Silver Tongue cried, remembering her run-in with a particular mad stallion that had used her as a mace to beat Standtall senseless.

“Ma’am, permission to speak freely, ma’am!” Standtall barked.

“Granted.” Gangrene replied, shaking Silver Tongue in her magical grasp.

“I don’t think Silver Tongue meant it, ma’am, also, she’s still sore from being thrown around by somepony earlier, ma’am!” Standtall informed her, still saluting. He was quite a polite Crusader when he was addressing a superior. Just like every brown-nosing Steel Ranger, Gangrene thought bitterly.

“I‘ll be lenient this one time.” Gangrene promised, setting the terrified Silver Tongue down. The Steel Rangers moved to make space for her and Silver Tongue took her position. They all saluted, waiting orders from Gangrene.

“I know you were all ordered to fall back, perhaps you’d offer to take me along.” She rattled, half-pacing, half-limping back and forth in front of them. “I am here on an important mission! You see, there’s a VIP--Very Important Pony to my branch in Phillydelphia here. With the attack going on I am sure they’re in danger! I know I owe you a great amount of gratitude, but I need help to complete this mission!” She lied shamelessly, leading a group of Rangers into the grinder didn’t bother her, she was going to put their skills to use saving the mall from those pastry loving loons.

“If you require any further motivation other than my order overriding your current standing order, if you gaze to your left you’ll see a burning orphanage.” She added, giving a nod to her once somewhat decent and comfortable home. “This home for the needy was next to a clinic run by a kindly elderly mule that still stayed true to the practice of handing out lollipops after giving shots!” A few of the rangers exchanged glances, but indeed they did look where she was pointing. Gangrene continued, “I know that our chief priority is to relieve tribals of technology they are not responsible enough to use for themselves.” She said with forced and false honesty, the words were bitter in her mouth and it made her want to vomit into her slowly self-repairing helmet. The self regenerating and self medicating armor was the only thing she missed from being a Steel Ranger. Too bad the only real good perk came with mandatory military service for life in an oppressive regime she hated.

The mare turned around, pacing back along the line of troops at attention, continuing her charade in belting tones that made her throat feel hoarse and scratchy. “I do not know how you Branch 25ers handle things, but in Phillydelphia we do not stand for raiders murdering lil kids or elderly good doctors! I am going to ask you to follow me into battle to teach these feral pastry fuckers a lesson in bullet etiquette! I am going to retrieve my VIP, and we are going to do our Ministry proud! Are you with me?” The mare knew how to act, having listened to her fair share of speeches from her own blow-hard superiors. The former Steel Ranger put on an act so convincing, she figured she’d even be able to fool Elder Haywire of the local chapter!

A collective ‘Hoo-RAH’ came from the ranks before her. Gangrene’s little act had worked for the most part, save for a less than excited shout from Silver Tongue. As much as she hated the Steel Rangers, she hated the Muffincakes even more at this moment.

Giving her home one sad lingering look, the yellow mare clad in steel ranger armor left it behind, moving out with her commandeered squad to go put some hurt on the Muffincakes ravaging the mall. She would be in fighting shape in less than an hour, time she didn’t have. Good thing Standtall looked sturdy! She had the massive stallion take point, leading the pack.

Silver Tongue glared daggers at the wounded ‘Star Paladin’ through her visor. She didn’t trust her, she may be the only one that Gangrene could not convince.--And that would become a problem later.

The foodcourt had fared no better, it was a hot zone of activity, mostly due to the resistance put up by the patrons of ‘Donuts Extreme’. The other shops had been ransacked, raided for foodstuffs and sweets, and any sign of joy that had once been felt here died under a hail of insults, horror, and shattered dreams. The only shop that stood unmolested was the ‘Wartime Rations Bakery’ that sat unmolested. Unbeknownst to all those hiding upon it’s roof, that building was to not be damaged, for once this place was conquered, that building was to be the main hub of the Muffincake’s business in this sizeable outpost.

“Hello everybody! My name’s Cradle Robber! I am here to demand total and complete surrender of all Misfits, Vipers, and would-be heroes in the next few moments or I’ll be forced to start executing our prisoners at the plaza! But feel free to take your time, we have a surplus of delicious little prisoners.” The Public Announcement systems blared a sick threat from the vocal cords of an insane, twisted raider. The old megaphones rattling dusts over the high pitched wail of static.

This was worse than Keena had thought. The whole place was swarming with groups of those vile raiders clad in welding masks and industrial tools, spreading fear and death. The Hippogryph shushed a few shaking ponies she had brought to safety with her when she had gone into hiding. The massive inflatable Pinkie Pie on the ‘Wartime Rations Bakery’ was as conspicuous as you could get for a building styled after a military surplus store done to the theme of gingerbread houses. The inflatable display’s large size covered the back half of the roof, keeping those Keena brought with her out of sight and hopefully out of mind of those vile raiders below.

Her beak set to a grim frown she could only watch as the raiders began rushing into the donut shop in a long stream of cursing and violence. She knew the settlers of this mall would not go down without a fight, having watched several of those brave souls getting pinned to a wall by those terrible bolt launchers.

“Just huddle up and keep quiet.” Keena chirped soothingly to the small throng of ponies. She was sad to see she couldn’t even save half of the ponies in the food court before it became so swarmed she could not risk another attempt to scoop up another pony. She flexed her stiff, sore wings, still trying to catch her breath. Some of those ponies had been adults, bigger than her! She was very winded.

“T-thankyou misses birdy lady.” One young foal was just one of the many thanks she received. The soft keen of the phoenix that had used it’s fires to power the grill the ‘The Spit’ was among the grateful whispers. Keena had saved the elegant bird’s master since the phoenix could not carry her.

“It was the least I could do.” Keena clucked, offering a half-hearted smile to them. She watched the carnage below. Her talons tugged at the strap of her leather shoulder satchel, making sure it was still secure, the reassuring weight of her carbine was gone from her sling’s strap, reminding her how helpless she was to do anything. She prayed that no matter how many raiders they threw at Steelgraft, he’d come out on top. She knew he would, for she was helpless to intervene without a weapon. “I wish I could do more with my talons other than pray, but it is all I can do for those still fighting down there.” The world seemed so unfair and suddenly dark for the follower of Celestia’s Divine Light. She almost felt as if she had been forsaken, that all light was to fade to blackness for these people.

The PA system crackled to life and blared over the battlefield that had once been a home and place of business for so many. “Well, I still hear gunfire! Unless it’s our boys shooting for the hell of it? Is it?” Cradle Robber had a brief discussion in the background with another, soft that it was scarcely heard over the speakers. “Oh, it’s not our boys? Alright! Guess that means I introduce our first lovely executie! And my oh my is she an executie! Come ‘ere lil filly, what’s your name?”

“M-my name is...It’s Twist-Top.” A young fillie’s voice came over the speakers.

“And how old are you pumpkin?~” Cradle Robber’s voice asked with mocking sweetness.

“S-six...” The terrified foal replied, starting to cry.

“Well, Twist-Top, good news! You get to be first on the guillotine ride! As much as we’d love to just make your name relevant to how we remove your head, we’re a lot more interested in seeing this toy in action! Isn’t that right, boys?” The roar and cheers were so loud that several speakers blew out, spitting sparks and groaning weak static. “There is some good news for you little Twist-Top...I’m going to make sure you don’t die a virgin!” A mad cackle heralded the screams of the little filly, the PA system was filled with cheers, hisses, and the most heart-wrenching cries of a little filly begging for it to end.

Keena’s heart sank, her faith was tested, and the darkness to come overwhelmed her to tears. The hippogriff bowed her head and pulled the pendant she kept under a fold of her cleric barding. She always felt safe in the white cloth with golden trim, as if the cowled vestments of her faith was all the armor she ever needed. It wasn’t enough for the end of this waning day. She stroked the medallion of the sun with a gentle stroke and held it to her chest. “Would any of you care to pray with me?” She asked, ever hopeful for fellowship as the morale of the group took a heavy toll to the sounds of the filly being abused.

Some nodded, some vomited, and others just broke down and cried. Keena prayed to her goddess, the one that brought life and light. “Celestia bless this day you grant us and hear the cry of your humble friends and loved ones. As this day turns to beautiful night, ushered by your sister Luna, may your light stay with me always. Grant us the power to vanquish the darkness in the hearts of evil and plant friendship in it’s place. Deliver me from---” She broke down, crying, this was just so hard for her to bear. “Please, Celestia, hear me!” She begged. “Give me a sign you’re still here, that you can hear our plight!”

The ponies she had saved would have questioned Keena’s sanity if it wasn’t for the sound of the little filly being raped weren’t driving them to shuddering tears and retching gags to vomit. The emptied their stomach and let despair wash over them, soaking their very natures to the bone.

“Was that good for you baby? No? Oh well. She’s quite the lay! I think I’m in love!” The PA announced Cradle Robber’s pleasure at having his way with a helpless little filly. “I think I’ll keep her fo--woops oh no, my hoof slipped!” Cradle laughed, it was obviously no accident. The PA speaker caught the tail end of the firm sound of a blade meeting flesh and the cheers that echoed afterwards. “Wow, her head rolled pretty far! Next executie goes in three minutes!”

The sign Keena asked for came as her faith almost died with that poor filly. Though it was an unexpected sign! The front of the store Donuts Extreme exploded outwards, turning tables, stools, and even the once animated neon sign on the exterior into deadly shrapnel. The raiders that had been funneling into the store were eviscerated in a display of carnage unmatched!

The concussive force of the blast flowed through the area in a wave, causing the inflatable Pinkie Pie to wobble and quickly deflate as several sharp objects pierced it. Everyone took cover, laying flat on their bellies to avoid meeting the same fate as the inflatable display.

‘Fweeeeeeeeepbbbtts’--The Pinkie Pie display flopped over the front of the store, letting out a single, sad, long fart of stale air before it hung, lifeless and empty. Then one final, tiny little ‘squeak’ of air before it was completely shriveled and empty.

“W-what kind of sign is that?” Keena groaned, lifting her wings off of two young ponies she had sheltered beneath them. She gazed at the devastation, her beak agape. In the center of the storefront wreckage, wreathed in a settling cloud of smoke was Steelgraft, wielding a blade of golden sunlight, victorious over the raiders that had beset the foodcourt in one inspiring move.

“Celestia...” Keena muttered, her head crest perking forward in astonishment. Her sharp amber eyes wide, processing the imagery she saw before her. “He struck them down with sunlight and fire...With her sunlight and fire! Is that my calling, goddess? Is this champion to be redeemed in your name?” She was speaking to her medallion, holding it close in trembling talons. Celestia still listened, she still cared! A single drop of sunlight had illuminated the fear in her heart. “Even in the coming night, your light shall reach us!”

So that’s how the rest of the party is faring? I don’t buy this ‘Blade of Sunlight’ for one moment! It’s obvious that you’re just wielding that stupid energy chainsaw! Oh, but I am curious how you blew up the shop! Argh, fine, here’s some damn EXP, but I expect a damn explanation for how you pulled that off for the next chapter!

I am swiftly becoming the most disgruntled Game Master in all of PnP gaming history! No, you do not get to level up! This was a sub-chapter! A Shortie! If anything, your party members leveled up!

Chapter 8: Harvest

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"Harvest"

Time will separate the wheat from the chaff.

“What the fuck were you thinking?!” Frisky Fritter screamed from behind the counter, covering one of his sore, ringing ears with a hoof as he sat on his haunches, coughing at the smoke and flour that clung to the air. He looked like a ghost! The entire store was in shambles, everything that wasn’t on fire or blown to bits was covered in a fine layer of flour and uncooked dough.

“I was thinking we were out numbered and I wanted to try something.” I answered smartly, blinking a few times, rubbing my eye to get the flour out of it. It was completely a fluke that my crazy idea had worked at all in the first place.

“You threw my oven at them!” Frisky spat, fuming mad. Not only was his shop wrecked, but he was confused how the hell the stallion had turned his oven into a bomb in the first place. Fritter looked around for his wife, coughing, “Where’s my wife? Zone?!” He called for her, shaking his head to dismiss the ringing in his ears.

Tossing my grenade belt into their large oven with all their flour as a combustion accelerant had been a stroke of brilliant improvisation. It was so crazy I doubted it would end in anything but my untimely demise! Still, I could at least scratch killing a large group of raiders with baking supplies off my bucket list.

Frisky moved over to a flour covered corpse, looking it over. It was a mare, crushed and battered, he feared the worst and clutched to it, sobbing. “Oh darlin’, sweety pie! Why?! Wai’dya have tah go ahn play hero?!”

“Frisky...That’s not me.” Zone Control huffed, sneezing as she popped out of a small pile of dough and wooden debris. The mare was unharmed, fortunately for me, Fritter would have rightfully beaten me to re-death if she was injured in my insane gambit. The mare was in surprisingly high spirits, giving a small giggle at her husband, “You look ridiculous, Frisky! You’re all covered in flour! Did anypony else make it?”

The now embarrassed Frisky was probably grateful he was covered in flour, thus hiding any shameful blush. He dropped the unidentified corpse like a bad habit and rushed to embrace the love of his life. “Thank Faust yer alright! Iffin’ anything happent tah yah I’d be so lost!” He bawled, reaching down to stroke her tummy. “Th’ babe, is yer tum-tum a’right?” While I imagined he was surely pissed I wrecked his store, the stallion had his priorities right--His wife was number one, for that, he earned more of my respect. My only hope was that he wouldn’t beat me stupid for blowing his store up.

While we had won, it was a pyrrhic victory, where the raiders were completely wiped out and of all the customers and employees, only four of them remained. Frisky Fritter and his wife, Zone Control, the stripper, Glazed Marshmallow, and one lucky customer that had taken cover under a table that had not been blown to bits. The painted mare was between shock and mourning her co-worker, nudging the still, mutilated corpse that had less than half an hour ago danced and seductively swung his hips wearing nothing but donuts. Frisky and his wife were hugging, both grateful to still have one another; the shop could be replaced, but their love for one another could not. The single customer was a bit too shaken to do anything other than clutch his rifle to his chest and tremble, his wide eyes darting around at every sound like it was a threat. The deaths of the other ponies did not weigh too heavily on my mind, that in itself bothered me, but as Gangrene had said, this was just the nature of things.

There were hardly any spoils of the battle, almost everything was destroyed by my improvised explosive oven. The magical chainsaw, a ‘Can Cleaver’ according to Zone Control, that had been used on me sat beneath a broken slab of countertop granite. I hefted it up and found the control lever that had to be depressed to activate it. The device must have originally been mounted on a mechanical arm or mounted swivel, the pump lever attached looked poorly grafted on and was obviously from a petrol pump. The blade came to life in a golden hue of sunlight and softly hummed like the beating of a hummingbird’s wing. “This weapon’s beauty is deceptive of it’s raw cutting power,” I thought. How long could this thing go until it needed a new battery, if it ever needed one at all? It was going to come in handy against these raiders, permitting I got close to them without getting torn to pieces first.

My other boot was missing, leaving me with only one. In fact, among the bodies, there wasn’t a single hint of the dread lock sporting beady eyed stallion anywhere. Either he slipped away or he had been obliterated. Either way, the twin to my boot was missing.

“Well, damn, and that was a decent boot, too! I hate mix matching my attire...” I grumbled, taking a seat on a pile of rubble to begin unlacing my boot. Then the pile of splintered tables and wall began to shift, a rasping gurgle alerted my attention to something lifting me. A head breached the surface of the pile and sent me tumbling end over end to land face first into the floor.

“B-batter...Batter...Pony batter.” Groaned the die-hard raider mare Batter Batter, getting up from beneath the pile of junk I had just been sitting on. Her bleeding wounds were caked with flour, shrapnel sticking out of her in absurd angles. She spat, giving a husky groan and reached for me, the magic of her horn flickering, trying to grab her weapon back from my saddlebag.

“How the buck is this one still alive?!” I cried, stuck on my head and looking at her upside down. I rolled onto my back, trying to get to my hooves. She pressed her advantage and tackled me, laughing madly and spitting thick globs of spit and phlegm over my face. She activated the Can Cleaver inside my saddlebag, splitting open the top flap and tearing it free. It took all my strength to keep her from sinking that blade right into my neck.

The bomb collar gave a sharp cursory beep as the magical blade began to bite into it--I struggled, the collar was sensitive, if it went off I was going to die! Ponyplucking horseapples of GAK! “Gah, get the buck offa me you rancid breathed reason to always wear a condom!” I sputtered, fighting back against her. How was she stronger than me? She couldn’t be! ‘You need to recharge for a bit after hurling something heavy, you jackass!’ My mind screamed at me. She was stronger right now because I was spent! The same thing happened in the hospital with the metal table, I had pushed myself too hard and had yet to recover! Hindsight 20/20...

“Hold on, Imma comin’!” Frisky shouted, clearing the counter and rushing the mare to tackle her off of me. The most one-sided hoof fight I had ever seen followed Frisky’s reckless gambit. A three legged pony was no match for a drugged up raider psycho! Frisky was getting his chops slapped by a flurry of angry, hormone and drug driven hooves that left him slobber knocked and woozy. The raider had forgotten everyone else, focusing on brutalizing the now bloodied Frisky Fritter.

“I’m gonna geld you and use your balls to decorate a cake!” Batter-Batter hissed through broken, twisted teeth, rearing up on her hind hooves, intent on smashing Frisky’s head like a melon. Her attack never landed, her rear legs were taken from under her. Without her back legs she toppled back and landed with a grunt, her wounds sizzled shut. Even then, the mare was working to keep fighting, her horn flickering once before I fed the golden hued blade through her chest, dissolving her into a fine rainbow colored powder. It was eerily like PNK-3’s confetti. If that aggravating orb of pink were here, she might find the confetti making sword amusing, then again she had a magical laser, didn’t she? Oh, so she makes her own...Confetti, I concluded bitterly.

“I don’t think she’s getting back up from that.” I chuckled whimsically, waving my off hand at the sparkling powder that lingered at the air. The raider mare’s back legs still stood where they had been severed, smoking from the edge of the wound. She had been built of stern stuff, that was for sure. Now, she was just confetti.

This magical chainsaw could turned ponies into rainbow confetti. That was just insane. Turning somepony into a pile of party glamour! Some of the bodies hanging from the walls that still stood had cascading streamers of entrails. This was just a party, wasn’t it? A party for stark raving lunatics.

Frisky held his bleeding face, coughing and sputtering flecks of blood. He looked beaten up, but nothing too serious from what I could see. His wife ambled over, her face a thousand word picture of worry. “Frisky! That was really brave, stupid, but brave!” She leaned down, looking over his bruised and battered face, stroking his cheek as she asked him if he was alright.

The wounded buck spat out a tooth, giving his wife a wide, gap-toothed smile, “Ahm fine pumpkin. I just need a lil off the top this time.” He mewled dizzily, Batter-Batter had knocked him senseless. As long as there wasn’t permanent damage, I would be grateful, I wouldn’t need to hear him whine about how the store got wrecked.

A small winged beast landed outside the curtain of settling dust a short distance from the gaping mouth of the ruined shop. The surviving customer jerked, raising his rifle reflexively, shaking like a leaf. The old prospector’s mustache and beard moved like a quivering bush. “C-comp’nee!” He rasped, trying to arrange his rifle into the battle saddle he wore quickly. He pushed a table up to give himself cover. I moved forward and crouched, readying the Can Cleaver to attack. Zone Control acted quickly, pulling herself and her mate behind a small pile of rubble. She trained her shotgun on the figure moving to converge with us.

I squeezed the handle and the magical energy blade buzzed to life. I was ready to charge at a moment’s notice--I suspected that the Baker Barbarians had some flyers on their side, this one was stupid to come alone.

“Wait til they’re closer.” Zone Control whispered, “If they find out we’re alive, they’ll run off and get reinforcements.” She was right to worry, we were all out of ovens. “Steelgraft, see if you can take them out, I’m really low on ammo!”

“You’re low?” The old buck with the mustache and beard grumbled shakily, “I think I’m out!” He gave a bite to his battle harness lever and tugged, the gun let out a hollow click. “Yup! Dry firin’! Jus loik my own piece.” Had the gun been loaded, he would have shot a round, alerting our opponent to us! Not to mention with my horrible luck he might have accidently hit me! That old coot wasn’t thinking.

This was going swell--We were all pretty low on ammo collectively. Most of us were injured, though I was certain I could push on, the aches and pains my living companions felt would tax their endurance. I had plenty of .308 ammo in my saddlebags! Except my Cornhusker Revolver was still behind the counter somewhere. I wanted to slap myself in the forehead for how stupid it was to forget my sidearm so carelessly! I’ll just retrieve my piece after this encounter was dealt with.

We waited, the tense seconds melted away, I could hear the shallow breathing of my companions quicken. Zone Control rested a hoof upon Frisky’s side, reassuringly rubbing the dazed stallion while she kept her bulky riot shotgun at the ready. The soft, hollow sound of clopping hooves over brittle pavement and splintered particle board drew closer, the dark figure obscured by the smoke paused, looking around. They were just a short distance from me, I’d say only about four or five meters.

The timing and distance were perfect, I vaulted forward and closed the distance quickly. A brief, weak squawk echoed from my target as I gripped them by the throat and slammed them backwards, raising my golden blade to silence them forever. A flourish of russet feathers hit the air, I squeezed the handle of the blade and mindlessly brought it to bear.

“Shhtahp!” My opponent begged, her amber eyes entreating mercy.

I stopped just in time before I made a horrible mistake. The magical teeth of the Can cleaver buzzed an inch away from the warm amber eyes of my companion, Keena, my hand was wrapped tightly around her throat, cutting off her air. She struggled against me, looking terrified. My feelings matched her own, I was scared that my own actions had nearly driven me to slay a friend in confusion. It was even worse that I did not withdraw once I recognized her. My mind urged me to eliminate my target.

The hippogriff gripped at my hand that clutched her throat, her eyes wide, the longer I held her the more she struggled. It was like a trance, I had decided to not kill my friend, but my body fought me, insisting on following through. Kill your target, my mind urged me, Terminate target. Cannibalize remains. She looks delicious. Something was wrong, terribly, terribly wrong.

At some point the smoke settled enough so that Zone Control could see what was going on. Her shouts were muffled and drowned out into unintelligible background static. There was me and my target, that is all the world boiled down to. Hooves grappled me from behind, trying to pry my frozen stiff form from my victim. Thankfully, Zone Control had thought to disarm me of my magical energy blade, using her magic to pry it from my unresponsive digits and tossing it off into the food court where it clattered heavily over the cobblestones. I couldn’t keep track of so many things happening at once, it was a struggle just to keep myself from crushing the struggling hippogriff’s throat! I wanted to stop, I did, more than anything I wanted to be in control. I did not want to kill her. She was not a combatant, she was not a raider, and this was not for survival!

“Steelgraft, let her go! It’s not a raider! Steelgraft!” Zone Control shouted at me. She could just shoot me--Right in the side of the head, she had ammo. She could shoot me and stop me, I knew that. When the threat of my own expiration reached me, my grip loosened enough so that Keena could breath, her rattling coughs and tear-filled eyes piercing my into mine, seeding my heart with guilt.

After a brief period of shared terror, the three other ponies trying to peel me off the helpless cleric were able to tear me off. Breaking my iron grip snapped me out of my bloodlust induced stupor, returning my faculties to my control, leaving me confused and frightened. I had no idea why I could not stop, why I was driven to keep acting in a homicidal manner. Frisky now stood between me on the others, I had barely regained full awareness of my own actions when the donut maker began to spit and shout.

“Th’ buck’s wrong with yah, you crazy sunnoffabitch? Yah nearly kill’t this here gal!” Frisky spat, his face a bit puffy from the earlier pummeling he had received. He was sweating, panting, and generally very displeased. I didn’t blame him. He braced a hoof square on my chest and pushed, shouting so hard that spit and blood flew between his busted split lips, “Check yer major malfuhnshun’ you piece o’ junk afore you go gettin’ will buckin’ nilly with friendly fire!” He gave his shop a glance over my shoulder and gestured at it with his stump, “Or we might end up with more shit like that!” He added, just to drive an necessary point home.

“This damn buck’s a problem fersure. Ain’t he just onnah them Cyberghouls? All it needs is tah get hungry fer our meaty bits ahn we’re all chowder!” The old prospector huffed, looking to Frisky for support in such a decision. “I says we pop his collar afore he decides to lose his grip!”

“It’s your nature, that’s all. You thought she was a target--Targets are to be eliminated. You were just protecting them,” muttered a dull, heavy voice in the back of my head. This thought was so backward that I would never draw a conclusion even remotely similar. I would never hurt an innocent for any reason.

The prospector and Frisky were soon in a short, heated argument about how to deal with me. The prospector wanted to trigger my collar, fat chance I’d let him, while Frisky wanted to let me live mostly so I could pay him for damages to his shop.

Zone Control was seeing to Keena, who seemed to be alright. I leaned over to get a better look at Keena, worried that she might be hurt. She was rubbing her neck with a talon, coughing while Zone Control calmly rubbed her back. Keena’s once white poncho-like gown was stained with ash, that was probably my fault as well.

My actions spooked the twitchy prospector, his ears flicking in my direction, rearing up in half-startled fright. “Doncha dare move a tail flaggin’ muscle!” The bushy bearded teal earth stallion ordered, training his gun on me as he came down to set his heavy hooves down. His bushy eyebrows covered his eyes, but I could still somehow feel that heavy hateful glare from him. “Move an inch and Oi’ll--”

“You won’t be doing anything to him!” Cawed a very unhappy Keena as she muscled her way between both Frisky and the older stallion. She placed herself between me and the two stallions, facing them with a stern glare. “It is I he wronged, and it was an accident. It is my fault.” She was defending me. I didn’t feel relieved, it made me feel worse somehow, like it was a write-off for my actions.

“How th’ buck’s it yer fault? That stitched up tin can’s a few rocks short of a rock slide, sure, but he’s still buckin’ destructive!” Frisky argued soundly. I agreed with him, there was no excuse for what happened, none that I found reasonable at least.

“He was confused.” Keena insisted, “It goes against his very nature to show mercy. He still stopped, I could tell he was fighting with himself. I saw it in his heart.” As naive as that sounded, she was right, I had been fighting myself and in the end I would have lost if it wasn’t for the three ponies working together to pull me off. I doubt she knew that and I did not want to tell her how close I came to doing something horrible to her.

“His ‘heart’? What malarky’s that? He got as much heart as ah filthy lil toaster!” Frisky roared, turning to gesture at his wrecked storefront, “Ahn look what that fuckin’ thing did tah mah shop! Sure, ah dunnot think he should be shot fer it, but he owes meh! By n’ large he owes me fer dis shite he left me. No way tah have a home when half it’s busted!”

The air was rife with shouts, name calling, and curses. Keena drew back, letting Zone Control, Frisky, and the old prospector have at it with one another. She winced every time a curse word was used, covering the sides of her head with her talons, sitting next to me as she watched helplessly. Even I was at a loss, wallowing in whatever it was ponies wallowed in due to the massive guilt fed to me by multiple parties. I didn’t even feel comfortable in my own skin, as if it had taken on the same disgusting texture as that garbage bag cloak.

“Well if you hadn’t insisted on blacking out them durned windows, we wouldah seen them raiders organizin’ outsahde!” Came one retort from Frisky to his wife.

The pregnant blue mare’s response was equally heated, “Oh, so all the passing ponies and young ones could see your customers licking sugar off flanks while you watched, drooling like an idiot?!” She stomped a hoof angrily, her lips curled in a snarl.

“Lotta good it did, gettin’ all mah regulars taken by surprise loik dat! Lookit, darl, the place’s gone!” Frisky growled, flailing his stump in the general direction of the store that once was Donuts Extreme.

The prospector interjected, insisting that I should most definitely be shot, though without ammo he had no way to follow through with such a threat.

“You’re firing blanks, just like your saggy dick, you old pervert! I’m the one with the loaded gun, and I say we’re not shooting somepony on our side!” Zone Control’s earlier cool had completely vanished, I knew not to mess with a pregnant mare, but the old prospector hadn’t learned this lesson even though he was grey in the mane.

They argued while we sat there amongst the ruins of a once- lively locale. I shifted my gaze away from the trio of shouting foalish ponies to take in the full scope of the damage to the Food Court. Smoke curled off eviscerated remains that dotted the mall’s grounds, a mixture of raiders and innocent townsfolk in varying state of mutilation. Several bodies were nailed to walls by heavy metal rivets, hanging like portraits of their own likeness, framed by blood splatters seared into the wall behind the victim. Further out, raider bodies lay in pieces, torn apart by shrapnel launched from the store with deadly effect. Not a single table was still standing in the food court, all of them lay broken on their sides, trash everywhere. The giant Pinkie Pie inflatable on top of the once cheerful gingerbread house themed bakery was limp, deflated and dead, coiled over the front of the stoop, blocking the store’s entrance. All the joy was dead, and the kindness in the hearts of others died with it, reducing it to a game of blame between three survivors.

I couldn’t stop them, they probably wouldn’t listen to me anyway, even if I felt like saying anything. Keena sighed and left to go into the gaping entrance to Donuts Extreme. I decided to follow, if only to get away from all the screaming going on. They were too absorbed in their screaming match to notice me follow Keena back into the shop.

Sliding over the remains of the broken counter, the search for my sidearm eventually lead me to check under the mangled remains of the cash register. I left the caps alone, in case Frisky came in to gather the contents of the register. I didn’t need to add theft to my charges of vandalism, pony slaughter, and assault. My gun wasn’t too badly damaged, just a few new scuffs from when the broken register crashed on top of it. The iron found it’s home in the holster on my shoulder, after a quick reload of course.

It became clear why Keena had come into the shop with me when I saw how she had treated the bodies. Most of the intact remains were arranged peacefully, as if they were sleeping, an old bit coin on each eye lid. I never expected to see such an old custom still observed, it was uncommon when I was alive to do such a thing. The coins were payment to Charon, the ferryman, so he would carry you across the river Styx to Asphodel in the afterlife. How I knew that instinctively was another question entirely. I could remember some things, it seemed.

Keena was seeing to the comfort of the painted mare whose name escaped me at the moment. Her face was buried into the russet ruffled feathers of Keena’s shoulder, crying over the loss of the once lively male counterpart to her career as a combination donut and smut peddler. She was wrapped in talon and wing, but not even the fluffiest of hugs could quell her grief.

Of all the bodies, Free Sample was the most sickening to look at, mutilated into an obscene display of carnage yet still identifiable. A pool of red lapped around the body, slowly growing in size and merging with a smaller puddle of bile, likely from the painted mare. The side of his face that was still intact was curled into an expression of sheer agony, eyes shut tightly, his mouth agape in a silent, eternal scream, forelegs crossed over his chest in a vain attempt to keep the ribbons of innards from spilling out. The Pinto stallion’s once proud masculinity lay with him, still covered in donuts now soaked in blood and sprinkled with pasty chunks of sick. I realized for that to be with his body meant the painted mare had carried it to him.

It might be best to wrap his body, to spare the mare the constant reminder of the gruesome end her loved one experienced. With no linen wrappings available, I made due with the moth-eaten drapes I found hanging off a broken curtain rod on the crumbling wall behind them, covering the body and tucking it underneath. The old drapes took on the stains of the body, marbling against the original brown color of the ugly, singed drapes.

“Thank you,” the painted mare muttered hollowly, pulling away from Keena to look up to me. Her cheeks were streaked with tears, her black mane a clumpy mess. The flour that had been coating her had flaked off in curdled chunks, stubbornly clinging to to her pelt and mane.

“Oh, the drapes? No, I just thought he’d appreciate being covered for decency. I doubt he’d want you to ever see him like this.” I replied, unable to return even the fakest of smiles, I simply bowed my head and made a motion of straightening my eyepatch. “I owe you an apology, if anything...” I added, feeling guilty over my inability to act in her friend’s defense earlier.

“No, thank you for saving us from the bandits. He’d thank you too, if he was here. For saving me.” She was choking on her cries, “They took him away, just like that. How could t-they enjoy doing that to somepony?” She choked back her tears, her lips trembling, she was struggling to speak, still shaken by everything that had happened.

I took a glance at the devastation my improvised explosive had caused, a forward propelled explosion that caused parts of the store to somersault into the food court. I sighed, how could anyone thank me for causing something like that? “That’s not really something to be proud of.” I admitted, feeling withdrawn. “I caused a lot of damage...”

“You saved lives, Steelgraft.” Keena interjected wisely, “There were many of them ready to rush in, I saw them. Whatever you did, you did it to preserve life, not to take it.” Her words were soothing, but did little to quell what guilt I felt. I had tried strangling her less than a ten minutes ago. She reached out with a talon and hovered it over my shoulder, a brief flicker of fear in her before she drove herself to touch me, “You’ve acted to protect, Steelgraft, for that I will not fault you, you have done me no wrong.”

To protect, that was something I remembered. My oath, the one that Head-Case had asked me about. One part of that oath was to protect. “I solemnly swear on the light of the sun and the crest of the moon I shall protect Equestria from threat both foreign and domestic. I will uphold the...The...” I recalled a brief fragment mentally. It died almost as soon as it flickered through my mind. “I didn’t want to kill anyone.” I muttered numbly, the full impact of my actions were dawning upon me. I had lost track of how many lives I had taken at this point. But then again, I had saved lives, and many lives were depending on me right this very moment.

“I just wanted t-to work here with my cousin. I loved my job here. They didn’t care ‘bout that and now only I care that he’s gone. Everypony else is just...” She choked, unable to express her feelings without breaking down again. We could still hear the others arguing outside, the same topic, whose fault it was and Frisky still bent out of shape about his shop and customers. The customers were an afterthought though from what I could hear.

“I’m sure they care.” Keena chirped, stroking her talons through the mare’s hair, preening some of the gunk from the clogged locks carefully. “They’re afraid, reacting with anger.” She guessed, adding on further “I know I care, and so does Steelgraft.” The hippogriff gestured to me with her other talon, I offered a fabricated smile with forced feelings that seemed genuine enough.

“Look, it isn’t safe here,” I explained, “We need to get moving, somewhere, anywhere but here.” I worried that the explosion and the loud arguing outside would attract more attention, and soon. It wouldn’t take long for reinforcements to arrive, if any were coming.

“I don’t want to leave him!” The sullen mare rasped, her eyes brimming with tears. “Please, we just can’t leave him here like this!”

“Steelgraft is right,” Keena agreed, “We have to go. We’ll take care of your loved one’s arrangements after you’re safe. He would not want you to be in anymore danger.” Her sound argument won her over in the end, and though she was hesitant to leave her loved one’s remains behind, she agreed that it would be best to get someplace safe. The church going hippogriff took one final glance around the store, her attention lingering on the two stripper poles that appeared to be unintentional load bearing supports for the remaining half of the ceiling. “We should move his body out from under this crumbling awning, I feel what’s left of this store will collapse at the slightest provocation.”

So that’s exactly what we did, with some help from Keena the body was completely wrapped in the drapes and laid over my back. I was sure to get many stains on my tattered duster, but that was the least of my many worries.

The arguing outside had slowed to a dull, bitter fight between just Frisky Fritter and the old prospector, Zone Control had been reduced to silent tears. I wondered what words had been said that would get such a reaction. I was getting rather fed up with the two stallions that continued to bicker, about what to do next and who should lead. They both had different plans but wanted to stick together for safety. Two want-to-be herd leaders clashing, neither of them had a clue.

An unfriendly dark sky loomed outside the razor wire netting, a pitch black veil of hopelessness. It was dark and with the failing lights of the shop behind us and the vacant, dark shops all around, there would not be much visibility once the scattered fires went out. I knew we had to move, before we lost all light and were left playing blindpony bluff with psychopathic pastry chefs.

“Hey! What were yeh doin’ in thar? What were yah doin in mah shop?” Frisky started at me the moment he noticed, accusing me of sinister acts. He probably wanted a distraction from his losing battle of wills against the older, yet equally clueless stallion.“Didja steal from mah register, huh, think ah owe yeh fer thah damage yeh did?” He growled, condemning me with a sharp glare.

I set the body down gently, then Frisky’s karma came crashing down behind us, his shop collapsing just as Keena had predicted. It was bound to happen, most of the building’s support was gone, all it needed was a little bit of time to settle completely.

“W-what did you do in thar?! You finished it off, didn’tcha?! You low down no-good monster, ah never shouldah done no favors fer dat crackpot doctor tah wake yer sleepin ass up. Shoulda juss dumped yer rubbish n’ fergot ‘bout it!” He went off on me, which was to be expected. His frothing lips and twitching eyes were filled with deep, hateful anger. “Yer an omen, yeh took everythin good bah juss showin’ up!”

Done, this arguing, this blame game, this pointless circular chasing of our own tails, it was over. I reached out and snatched the buck by the front of his stained apron and brought him close, pressing my face to his. “Shut up.” I hissed darkly, “There was no fixing up that wreck after I blew the store, what, did you think you could rebuild? Know any good restoration spells? It’s just a crummy little building that was once filled with happy, lustful little ponies. But you don’t miss those little ponies, do you?” He struggled against me, trying to pull away as I laid a verbal beat down on his overgrown ego. “You have more to mourn and celebrate than you let yourself realize. You have a mare that needs you and all you’ve done is shout and yell at her. You make me feel guilty about saving your lives...” I released the stallion and pushed him over towards his wife. “You still have your whole world. Don’t you dare throw that away.”

Frisky was speechless, either humbled or just reeling from my little ‘pep talk’. His wife looked to him expectantly, still choked on her own tears. She was emotional and pregnant, Frisky should not have yelled at her like he had. Their embrace was touching and hopefully that was the end of the blame game, or at least for the moment any conflict the group had was forgotten.

“Ahm sorreh, darl, Ah fergot mah head thar a moment.” He managed, holding her tightly. “Please dun crah no more. Ahm sorreh. Ah didn’t mean what ah said bout you gettin’ preggers, honest...”

Wow, that made me glad I had missed a large part of their argument, seems like Frisky had said some off-color things that had caused the water works to act up. That crusty old prospector was giving me a mean look, even now. I offered him a snort and a roll of my eye, growling at him. “Still want me shot? Go ahead.” I said, unholstering my iron and holding it out to him. “It’s loaded, pretty sure you’d kill me with a well placed shot. Go ahead.” I held it by the short barrel, offering the mouth grip to him.

Keena had been happily watching the two lovers reconcile before she snapped to attention at what I was currently doing. “I do not think it is a good idea to tempt him to sin!” She warned.

Her warning fell on deaf ears, I wanted to see how gutsy this old stallion was. The aged buck licked his dry lips and weighed the offer. He took a step back, his ears falling back.

“Take it! What, are you all talk? You’ve got an empty rifle, you damned idiot! Here’s a loaded weapon. Are you going to take it or not?”

“Thas mighty generous of yah, but in light ah yer...Actions, maybe oim a mite harsh n’ all.” The buck conceded, swallowing with nervous fear. He was a coward, one that spoke without thinking. He wasn’t going to be any good in a fight.

“A coward. No wonder you’ve lived to be so old.” I stated, holstering my side-arm in it’s home and turning to Keena. “That takes care of that problem.” With the arguing diffused, we could get some traction, a plan of action. We couldn’t just sit around waiting for something to happen, we had to act. “What’s the safest place we could go right now?” I asked noone in particular, really, any of them could answer this question.

It was Zone Control that spoke up, after drying her tears the mare had calmed significantly. She was soon back in the game, brushing her platinum mane from her face with a hoof, breaking away from her husband. “The safest place? Right now, I’d say the safest place is anywhere but here...The exit it’s--”

The old prospector interrupted her, “What’re you suggestin’ woman? Outsahde? Neh, too risky, t’ey gotsa curfew har fer a reason. Ah reckon dem raiders know dat too. S’why them raiders planned it loike dis.” The aging bruiser wiped his beard and mustache on his foreleg and turned his head to spit, rumbling darkly, “It’s a rock inna hard place, y’hear?”

“That’s mah wife yer talkin’ to like that, watcher tone!” Frisky snapped, pulling a convenient 180 in his personality, going from an argumentative husband to an overly protective one. Still, this extreme was better in my opinion.

“Hush,” Keena squawked, “We must build ideas and work together! We need a plan, not more arguing!” The poor hippogriff had more patience than me. I would have resorted to threats of violence by now, I probably wasn’t the nice pony I thought I was after all.

“These raiders don’t seem the planning type. Their tactics are sloppy and reckless.” I noted to them, rolling one of the raider bodies over. Like all the the Barbarian Bakers they had light armor, made from leather mantles and heat protective gear that did little to protect them. They had box art of pre-packaged baking goods taped over their armor. “They charge in without thinking, hit hard, and die quickly.”

“Yar methods are plenty reckless, rotter, what makes you so sure you know anything bout tactics?” Frisky asked, giving a dismissive snort. “If anythin, it don’t matter if they thought it up or had help, it don’t help us one bit tah know either way.”

“Maybe you’re right. That begs the question, what do we do now? What’s this curfew?” I asked, urging them to answer my question so I could make an informed decision.

“The curfew,” Zone Control began, “Is when all the magical engines that operate the gates lock down and turn on, diverting their power to operate the electric current through the razor netting above, the gates themselves, and power the interior lighting.” She aimed a hoof overhead, “It’s like a massive bug zapper, keeps the real nasty beasts out. There’s enough current to fry even the sturdiest of Cyberghoul. It’s the only reason Big Top ever survives the night.”

Glazed Marshmallow spoke up, wearing a solemn yet warm smile, “Me and my cousin would toss apple cores at the gate when the guards weren’t there...They’d explode.” Her revelry was touching, but all I could picture was those apple cores being ponies. A giant bug zapper, the applications of such a defense seemed brilliant, but in this situation it was bleak.

“When does that happen?” Keena chirped, tilting her head in Zone Control’s direction.

“8 o’clock, every night, the curfew comes into effect. No one in or out, it’s only a problem if you’re stuck outside. Never thought we’d ever get stuck inside before...” Zone Control sighed out, rubbing her temple with a hoof, “Last time I checked the time, it was...About Seven-Twenty. The whole fight’s a blur. No idea how long til we’re stuck in here.”

“Ah says we take our chances, run out der into thah night n’ find a good spot tah hide, let it blow over, run tah another town come morn.” The old prospector suggested.

“What about the other survivors? There are others that need help, a group of them are at the Wartime Rations Bakery, captured survivors are being held at the plaza.” Keena gruffed, ruffling her feathers as she spoke, pointing a talon at the old crusty stallion, narrowing her eyes, “Are you suggesting we abandon those we can save?”

“Oim suggestin’ we survive. Take only those that won’t slow us down. Ones that kin fight.” He wheezed, giving a dull cough, sweat rolling down his brow. “Too big ah group n’ we’ll get spotted by beasties. Too few n’ we get overwhelmed. Stay light, move fast, leave stragglers behind.”

“Only those that can fight? Guess that means you’re the first odd pony out, short straw.” I chuckled, causing the stallion to scoff at me. “I don’t need deadweight suggesting suicide.”

“Yeah, I’m agreein’ with the rotter, seein’ as me an mah wife ain’t fast movers, Ah ain’t trustin’ no snake in the grass tah not leave us tah save hisself.” Frisky said, nuzzling against his wife’s side. “Thar ain’t no way in Tartarus we’ll make it far. Too risky.”

“Yah’d actually leave me behind?” His voice was cracking, his pupils shrank. “Serussly?”

“You’re free to go it on your own, but I’m not about to abandon anyone, here nor there, foodcourt or plaza.” I said, making my intentions known. “You can shut up and help me, or you can go be a lone wolf. Don’t expect me to throw away anyone else for your security.”

“It seems to me that the one without a beating heart has more heart than you,” The hippogriff scolded the old fool, clicking her tongue sharply. She extended her wings and gave a single flap, circling around us twice. “I’m going to signal the other survivors to come down here, we should make haste for a location in the mall we can secure ourselves for the night.”

Our plan was quickly put together, we had only minutes to organize it. Frisky was incredibly helpful after he’d been brought down to Gaia by his wife’s needs. The closest location to the food court that was at all defensible was the ‘Cinemane Cinema’. According to Frisky Fritter, the building was mainly constructed of concrete and rebar, with narrow corridors and several large theater rooms it had plenty of places to set up positions with adequate places to fall back to and plenty of places to hide. Keena mentioned she had not seen any raiders make it out past the food court, due to their staging on Donuts Extreme in order to take me out. They had wanted revenge for my killing of Chunky Salsa, but to come at me with such fervor made me suspect ulterior motives.

We gathered what we could from the nearby shops, food, water, and a few medical supplies to treat the wounded we had. Frisky Fritter spent a few minutes digging through the rubble of his store with his wife to get to their floor safe. The items inside would prove useful, a medical box, some spare ammo, and Frisky Fritter’s old battle saddle and sub machine gun.

“Spray n’ pray ah always seh. A thousand tiny holes, you’ll hit somethun vital eventually!” He boasted, giving a soft squeak when Zone Control tightened his saddle a notch too tight.

“You took the same approach to getting me pregnant, you dolt.” She huffed, “Lots of tries, one success.”

“Hey, it was fun! Ahn admit it, you liked all them tries!” He groaned, “Too...Tight.”

“I’ve heard that before...” She giggled, “Plenty of times...Just make your shots count, we’re low on ammo and we’re not out to pick fights.”

The old prospector never did give me a name, so I just took to calling him ‘Crusty Crab’, seeing as he was always grumpy and crusty was a good description of his looks. He didn’t like it. I didn’t care. Though he did prove useful in gathering supplies, his experience looting ruins allowed us to outfit a few more of our group with some form of self defense, be it rolling pin or vegetable knife.

To top it off, the singed mare that ran ‘The Spit’ had her companion, Pilot Light, a phoenix that would work as a light source until the interior lighting came on. I just hoped the mythical bird wouldn’t be a massive beacon giving away our position.

It was to be expected that many of the survivors would be wary of me, or frightened by my appearance. Most avoided looking at me or flinched away when I came near them. They didn’t feel comfortable around me, not that I could blame them, not that it made me feel any better.

Retrieving my Can Cleaver, I moved out from the food court, shoving one of the burning tables out of my path. Keena followed me, beak dancing in the direction of even the faintest pop of a crackling fire, her eyes searching for any hostiles. She was jumpy. A sharp shriek of one of the nearby megaphone speakers mounted on one of the street lamp poles holding up the razor netting made her jump.

“Zrrk--Okay, so about me killing a pony every three minutes?” Began the voice of a stallion over the speaker, I could hear the cries of what must have been several dozen captive survivors in the background of his broadcast. “I’ve been slacking, and for that, I am truly sorry. You see, it seems that a group of wannabe heroes have come thundering with heavy metal hooves to wreck this little party. I was a bit busy diverting forces to take care of them so I really had no time to choose the next executie.”

A sense of unwellness swelled up inside of me, something about the voice of this creature made me grit my teeth in anger. The entire food court fell into silence as everyone there listened in, eyes full of fear at what they might hear.

“I’ve kinda changed my mind about just killing them one at a time, you see, as much as I love this guillotine it isn’t much sporting and it’s time consuming. Sure, it’s a magical machine that turns fillies into candy, but it’s over too quick and after the last executie, I’m bored.” He made an exaggerated yawn, smacking his lips loudly into the microphone, causing an echo.

“I’m going to give them a chance to free themselves.” He offered, taking a pause to laugh, “I’m going let them out five at a time and they get to fight for their lives against Tauros. I’m sure you have heard of him...If not, well, let me just say he’s going to teach you savages to pay your respects to Hades. Now, now, I know, I know what you’re going to say...” He cleared his throat, and he mocked in a deep, yet pleasant voice, “Cradle Robber, you handsome deviant, noone could ever beat that beautiful beast of burden! That is just uncouth of you!”

By now, everyone was either angry or frightened, this disembodied voice was talking about ending lives like it was just a game, like they had little value or worth. Driven to tears and fuming anger, they said a thousand things in silence, their pacing, crying, and pained expressions telegraphing their helplessness. I stood frozen, listening to every word, ears perked. My emotional response was null, I could not describe or understood what I felt, it was a quagmire of conflicting emotions that could not settle with just one state.

“You’re absolutely right, that’s why the last one breathing at the end earns their freedom. I think that’s generous, and seeing as those tin cans are trying to step up Tauros will need a warm up before he crushes every last one of them.” He drew in a shallow breath and rumbled, “Give up, lay down your arms, and die with what little dignity you have.”

I stopped listening, the mad monster was going on about his choices, exclaiming every time he chose a victim to go up against whatever champion Tauros was. The survivors began to panic, mutters and cries of distress fluttered about, some wanted to take their chances and flee into the night while they still could.

A fierce roar of gunfire silenced the nearby megaphone, exploding it in a shower of sparks and smoke. Zone Control blew the curling smoke from the end of her shotgun’s barrel and spoke loudly, “Now listen here, all of you! There is still hope to be had, because we have one thing these raider punks don’t have, and that’s community! This is our home, our turf, and we’re all neighbors! Everything’s going to be alright as long as we stick together!”

“We can’t fight them!” Spoke one neigh-sayer, “We’re out-matched! We’re just a bunch of shop owners and a few towns ponies, what can we do against one of the Warlords?”

“Ah dun think mah sweetums was suggestin’ we go runnin’ in thar an’ picka fight wit em, ah think she’s jus sayin’ we kin survive as long as we stick tahgether in this.” Frisky clarified, trying to be supportive of his wife as well as appeal to the other’s desire to survive.

The time to act was now, the plan had to change, there was no time for me to go with them to secure the cinema. The captive citizens at the plaza needed help. Against my better judgement I was going to lend a hoof to the Steel Rangers that Cradle Robber had mentioned, the enemy of my enemy was my casual truce so to speak. I hoped it’d go that way, after my last encounter with the Super Asinine Tactical Squad I wasn’t going to let my guard down.

“Zone Control, Frisky Fritter, you guys gather up all that’ll go with you and secure the theater, now!” I called to them, over the rising mutters of the other survivors scattered about. Not all were keen on sticking together anymore, I had no time to convince anyone otherwise. I was already leaving the foodcourt, securing my gear and making sure I was ready for any encounter between here and the plaza.

“You’re not coming with us?” Zone Control asked incredulously, looking at me as if I’d gone mad. “We need you, Steelgraft!” She called after me.

“The ponies in the plaza need help right now! Get to that theater, I’ll be sending anyone I find along the way to you so give them a clear path, got that?” I called back as I left the survivors to their task. I had to trust them to stick to the plan and make a safe haven in the mall, one that other survivors could flock to. There was no other choice, the only alternative was to wait until that mad monster had slaughtered every resident he had captured.

I started out alone, with limited provisions and weapons, and moderate damage. I could still feel the tingle in my chest where that magical blade had turned my flesh to ceramic. I didn’t know how to fix it, how to reverse the effects. Not only that, but I had no inside information on anything, I was charging blindly into a fight I knew nothing about.

There was a distinct difference in my thoughts now, between survival, revenge, and my idea of what justice meant. I had spent a week staring at the posters of the most wanted ponies of Detrot, memorizing their faces, wanting to dole out punishment to them for the ills they spread in the world. Only then it had been a thought exercise to keep myself sane, I never actually thought I was capable of making a significant difference. Killing the Warlords and their pawns had been a fantasy.

It was different now, seeing their cruelty with my own eye removed all reservations I had towards taking the life of a raider. They were irredeemable monsters, Cradle Robber being the worst offender I’d had experience with up until this point. I was going to kill him, it was pre-meditated murder, not a job, not an assignment forced upon me to save my own life--I was going to kill him because I wanted to, because his life wasn’t worth the lives I would save by ending his. What kind of pony did that make me? Was my behavior new or just resurfacing traits from my previous life? I had more questions than answers.

“You know, I am a bit impressed by you skills of leadership, captain,” a voice spoke into the back of my mind. I’d almost forgotten about the good doctor hitching a ride in my own grey-matter.

“Head-Case? I thought you ran off somewhere to give my sanity a break,” I responded, plodding along the cobblestone at a light trot, keeping my eye open for any raiders that might be skulking about. “I was a captain for a reason, handling a crew is part of the job.” I mentioned, putting one hoof forward into the realm of common sense.

“Oh no, I was just waiting for you to be alone. Ponies will think you’re crazy if you talk to yourself, seeing as they can’t hear me,” The wise old head-in-a-jar said with a light chuckle, “They don’t need more reasons to shoot you.”

“Right, are you here to just chit-chat or are you going to give me a...hoof?” I asked, rolling my eye. He had no hooves, from what I saw in his floating projection. I just wanted to poke fun at him a little, lighten the mood, the tension was thicker than an illiterate dragon at a spelling bee.

“A hoof, you say? Well, yes and no. Strictly speaking I have no hooves to give, but I do have some advice about your FAP.”

I stopped in my tracks, arching a brow, “You’re going to give me advice on rubbing one out? The dead bodies everywhere and the constant screaming over the PA system’s kind of a turn off. I’m not about to go squeak one out of my hose.”

There was a short pause, then laughter in the back of my skull, Head-Case giving a hearty, long laugh, “Oh, my, I just, no! Hahaha. I haven’t given advice on how to clop since I was a medical professional some ninety years ago! What I’m referring to is your ‘Field Action Plan’.”

“I should give you a lesson in unnecessary and confusing acronyms.” I grumbled sarcastically, resuming my slow trot down the cobblestone street, passing several shops along the way.

Most of the stores were wrecked and looted, old ads in store windows advertised the lowest prices all season, ‘Shop more, pay less!’ Beside the old ads, bodies were bolted up, gutted of the organs and eyes, leaving nothing but empty shells of ponies and griffins. Old ads and a new massacre, for some odd reason, they meshed seamlessly into a heavy blanket of dread. I wondered why they would take the eyes and organs, the phrases ‘Cupcakes’ and ‘Sweet and tasty’ were the only clues as to why they harvested their victims.

“It’s short-hoof for saying it, to save time.” He replied.

“You wasted more time explaining that stupid acronym that you did if you just said ‘Field Action Plan’.” I replied, passing the remains of the stall of Indigo’s Indestructibles. The stall was not as indestructible as the wares sold there, which were scattered about unharmed. The fat stallion was nowhere to be seen, he was not among the harvested bodies. I assumed he’d wisely fled, at least I hoped as much.

“Point taken, Steelgraft, I’ll keep it in mind next time you’re coming up with a FAP to refer to it as it’s proper name when applied to you. It’s a suicide mission.” The jar-headed irritation chastised, “You’re trotting right into a trap, you know? You’re no match for Tauros in your current condition. You should leave while you still have a chance to escape. Most of the Warlord’s forces are here, soon they’ll be trapped here by the defense grid leaving their boss mostly unprotected. You should take advantage of that, this is the best chance you have!”

“You want me to run away? That’s rich, say I miraculously do find where lard ass is hiding and turn him into a meatloaf, what’s to stop the raiders her from electing a new king of the fatness here in Big Top?” I countered, “Not only that, but I wouldn’t find Muffincake and I’d be leaving my friends to fend for themselves.”

“Sacrifices will have to be made for the greater good. As for finding the warlord, one of the raiders ran off with one of your boots.” Head-Case rambled, “It’s an enchanted item and I can track it from my lab, it seems that raider is heading straight for the Industrial Park.”

“Good, that means I can head straight there after I take care of business here.” I stubbornly replied, insisting on this course of action. “What kind of enchantment’s on the boots?” I asked curiously, wondering if the single boot I now wore would be of any use.

“The boot is enchanted with cloud walking, a common thing for airship captains to have back in the day. They were your old boots.” Head-Case informed, letting out a long sigh with sufficient strength to push a galleon from port. “You’re not going to be happy until you’re dead again.” In short, the boot I was wearing was completely useless, since clouds were in short supply on the ground level.

“I’m not making any compromises. Are you going to whinny and knicker at me for not taking easy street or are you actually going to be helpful?” I asked, rounding another corner.

“Fine, I’ll give you some real advice, in your current condition you’ll break to bits. You’ve got several crippling injuries. To recover from tissue damage you must replace the organic components. Any source will do, a blood pack, dead body, or even a living opponent can be consumed to regenerate.” The doctor wisely informed me of a method to repair the damage I had sustained. I have to eat other living things or drink blood. What the hell was I, a vampony?!

“Your advice is ‘take a bite outta crime’, really? That’s it?” I muttered, ducking behind a cluster over trashcans in a small alleyway between two small shops. Distant singing floated on the air, it’s tone was dead and hollow. I was getting close to someone, and their song was haunting.

‘Cupcakes so sweet and tasty’
‘Cupcakes, don’t be too hasty’
‘Cupcakes...Cupcakes’

“You need to recover from that damage somehow, and your organic parts have suffered extreme damage. There shouldn’t be any shortage of bodies when dealing with raiders.” The crazed doctor advised me, seeming to have no issue with recommending me to cannibalize another pony. That advice was going to be ignored, no eating other ponies for me! Sure, I think I’d rather go with a blood pack.

“Head-Case, I need to go silent,” I whispered, “I’m getting closer to the plaza, there are raiders nearby.”

“Good luck, Steelgraft,” Head-Case replied, “I’m going to trace the fleeing raider’s whereabouts, I’m curious why he took your boot in the first place.” With that being said, Head-Case terminated the connection.

Peering around the cover I saw the source of the singing, a young bubbly mare, her pink mane flat and sharp like a razor’s edge. She didn’t seem like a raider at all, just a sallow, grey mare with a bored glaze over her eyes. The earth pony wore no armor, a whole range of weapons floated about her somehow, I searched the group for a single unicorn but saw none among them. That didn’t make a lick of sense, without a unicorn how were those objects floating like that?

The unassuming raider mare had a small chainsaw bladed knife, one of those rivet guns, a large drill press fashioned into a lance, and a whole set of kitchen utensils, knives in the majority circling about her in a lazy orbit. She was singing a song about making cupcakes, while she was getting ready to harvest a victim, sliding the blade of two knives against each other.

The poor chocolate colored stallion struggled, his forelegs spread and bolted into the outer wall of the shop behind him. He was begging, not for his own life, but for the young kids surrounded by the rest of the mad pastry chef’s group. They had been caught while trying to flee, and they were making an example of the oldest of them, a colt that could hardly be considered a stallion.

“Please, d-do whatever you want to me! Just let the others go!” The buck cried, gritting his teeth, tears rolling down his face, his choked cries only made the bored looking mare smile wider.

The crazed mare with the flat pink mane appraised her victim with a lick of her lips, pulling one of the older foals from the group. “Oh, I’m going not going to hurt them, silly! I’m teaching them how to make cupcakes...” She cooed, giving a wispy, rattling giggle.

“Lemme go you ugly blue waffle!” The foul mouthed foal with the red and black mohawk roared, fighting against the force pulling him to the mare. It was Rebel Riot! I grit my teeth, counting the raiders there and assessing their collective firepower. I wanted to dive in, but rushing in and getting vaporized wasn’t going to help anyone.

Thirteen raiders in total, too many for me to take on with my paltry firepower. Some of them had Can Cleavers, and were decently burly, their stout legs dwarfed my slender limbs. They were bigger, uglier, and certainly better armed that I was. I might be stronger and more durable, but in a direct assault I didn’t like my chances. I was curious about how much more damage I could actually take, if I was really in bad shape or if it looked worse than it actually was.

**iSeeU online--Damage Assessment_##%**
//System Integrity: 27%\\_//System Error!\\
==Maintenance Required==

27% integrity? That sounded bad, imminent failure bad. I really was screwed and needed a pick-me-up. I had a couple healing potions, it’d be really convenient if those worked for me. I could grab a raider and recharge, drain their bodily fluids. They could be walking vending machines...filled with blood. No, there wasn’t a need for me to start eating raiders, it’d terrify those kids! I could get the drop on them, surprise them, take them out quickly before they knew what hit them!

“N-no, gerroff! Yah can’t make me!” Rebel screamed, capturing my attention. I peeked out again to see what was going on now. The grey earth mare was forcing Rebel Riot to grip the small chainsaw knife between two hooves and inch closer and closer to the exposed belly of the helpless stallion.

That was all I could stand, it was now. Forget planning, forget everything, it was time to charge and pray! I couldn’t leave the alleyway, the moment I tried, something grabbed me from behind.

I turned on my assailant, who flapped their wings to escape my reach. They perched on the edge of a dumpster, warm amber eyes piercing the dark alleyway. I hadn’t noticed her, hadn’t heard her, the hippogryph had been behind me, watching me. She was like a ninja, that or I had the senses of a dead fish rotting in the sun.

“No, do not go out there!” Keena warned, “They’ll eat you alive in your condition!”

“They’d eat me alive in any condition, they don’t seem to be picky eaters.” I huffed, rather glad to have someone with me at least. “How long have you been following me?”

“I’ve been following you the whole time.” She answered, preening the feathers of one of her wings briefly. She folded them up on her back and ruffled herself up, making herself appear larger. “I heard you talking to yourself, I didn’t want to interrupt. In case you were praying.”

Great, so she heard me talking to myself. Well it was better her than anyone else, the hippogriff was unlikely to judge me for my one-sided conversations, seeing she partook in plenty of those herself.

“So, charging in head first’s a bad idea, what else can I do?”

“Create a diversion, draw some of them into this alleyway. If you can take some of them out, all the better for us to take on that mare.” She sounded hateful, her eyes narrowed into sharp slits. “Leave that witch to me. I will handle her.”

“Without a weapon...” I reminded her, “You’re unarmed.”

“Celestia has shown me the way, this is how it must be. Her plan favors our victory. Now, make haste and we shall meet them with justice.” She said, a single flap of both wings sending her airborne over the building’s rooftops, just under the razor wire netting.

Okay, time to improvise, quickly! Bear Trap n’ Chain was going to be used as an actual trap this time around, I set up the trap and laid an unfolded newspaper page on top. I baited the trap with something none of those raiders would be able to resist; one of the donuts I had in my saddlebag. The trap was set, and my next step was to get attention. I grabbed the nearest trashcan and rolled it into the cobblestone street, making as much noise as possible.

“What was that?” Grumbled one of the raiders. Success! My distraction had drawn attention! “Go check it out.” Ordered another.

The dumpster made the perfect cover, it kept me hidden when the raider came to inspect the source of the sound. He kicked the trash can back into the alleyway, squinting into the darkness.

“Anyone thar? Come on out,ah won’t hurtcha...Much.” He sniffed at the air, wetly coughing at the stench of the rotting garbage overflowing from several trash cans. “Mustah been a rat...a big rat.”

He finally noticed the bait, it was a sweet donut, baked recently, it had to look out of place sitting in the middle of an alleyway. He smacked his lips, lumbering over to it, his ponched belly swaying on his wide frame. The rough looking stallion licked his wet lips and went for it, his hunger rewarded with the hard bite of metal jaws sinking deep into his leg. Had he gone for the donut face first, his end would have been swift and mostly silent, but with that trap on his leg, he howled in pain and pulled. There was no getting the metal stake out of the ground, I pounded that eight inch stake into stone.

His cries drew even more attention, a flurry of hooves heralding the arrival of no less than four more of the raiders to investigate. When they saw their ally had fallen victim to a trap they set to freeing the blubbering buffoon from it.

“Jeeze, Butterball, yer such an idiot, fallin’ fer a trap like this. You got idiot written on yer ass.” Giggled one of the raider mares. “You’re lucky I like yah, you know what usually happens when a horse busts a leg like this?”

“I know what happens to a lame horse!” I answered loudly from behind my cover. I put my gauntlets on the dumpster and pushed, the wheels squealed. A fierce buck with all my force sent the full dumpster sailing into the closely-packed raiders, dragging them across the cobblestone path, turning their collective mass into a splattered smear of pain through a display window of another shop. “They get sent out to pasture.” I finished my answer to the now deceased mare.

A soft tone inside my mind sounded before an internal display read-out displayed an increase in my overall integrity. I had natural healing afterall, that was neat. It was just taking forever to do anything useful. ”You’re still in denial, aren’t you, deatheater?” My mind asked, which was unnerving. I think it was a sign of insanity to ask yourself questions unintentionally.

**Damage Assessment_Update##%**
//System Integrity: 32%\\
==Maintenance Required==

Distraction, check! Optional one liner while dispatching vicious raiders, also check! Five raiders down, and the attention of all the remaining raiders was homing in on my position. All in all, that was exactly what Keena had wanted me to do.

The bear trap had stayed behind, the leg that fell victim to is stuck in its teeth. I tore up the stake and reset the trap. I threw a trash can out into the open first, it exploded in a screaming fireball as it drew fire from the twitchy raiders. I followed soon after, thrusting the bear trap out to strike the nearest raider, only to have to trap trigger prematurely, set off by a super hot rivet shattering the pressure plate.

I just really wanted a day where everything went my way, the sun shining, the birds singing, and the only horrible beating I would receive was from a stiff breeze. That wasn’t today, since it was nighttime and the raiders about to overtake me were not singing cheerful tunes.

“Keena, give me a claw here! I got their attention!” I shouted, taking a quick step back to avoid an attack from a drill lance. I beaned the raider in the head with the broken jaws of my now useless bear trap. I snagged a nearby trash can, it made a very poor shield against the saddle-mounted Can Cleaver swinging at me.

I’d made the mistake of letting them get in close, where their accuracy and weapons could make short work of me. I’d been hit several times by the blazing rivet gun, the metal plates sewn into my jacket getting bolted into my side. A hiss of sparks and heat kissed the air in a golden shower of light, in a fit of desperation I had thrust my gauntlet forward to intercept a follow up swing from the Can Cleaver wielding raider. My gauntlet was holding, the magical pulsing blade hissed angrily but did not burn through. With my other gauntlet I drew my own Can Cleaver and forced my opponent back, narrowly blocking a charge from another foe wielding what looked to be hoof mounted jack-hammers. A geyser of dirt and rock kicked up where his hooves had landed, that weapon really packed a kick!

“Keena! I’m dying here, the buck are you?!” I shouted upwards while keeping mind on the incoming attacks. There were too many to dodge, the rivet gun hit me several more times, searing hot pieces of fractured flesh and boiling black ooze spilled from my wounds. I was losing and Keena was nowhere I could see.

“Your friend left yeh here all alone?” Mocked the rough looking burly raider, “Smart cookie, too bad, that’s just how they crumble.” The jack-hoof wielding raider delivered a swift strike across my snout, staggering me. He didn’t let up, once he hit once, he just kept coming, again and again.

“Fuck, you can really take a tenderizin’, can’t yeh?” The stallion huffed, laying into my side with a firm blow that knocked me into grouping of trash cans, scattering them. My weapon flew from my grip and skid out of reach, the magical blade flickering off. The raider was panting, his chest heaving, he was catching his breath.

“My tenacity is one of my selling points.” I wheezed, my vision swimming. I was hurt, that stallion rang my bell hard, the ringing was nearly deafening. Black goo streamed from my nose and dripped from my lips. That beefy bastard had tree-trunk legs each ending in a damn jackhammer! Points for creativity, I never suspected the art of sadistic baking and construction tools would ever find common ground.

They circled me like vultures, watching me slowly get up. They were just playing with me now that they thought I was beaten. They were playing with their food. Not a few shops away from me I could hear the pitiful sound of a pony falling victim to the sick harvester, his cries growing weaker as his life waned.

“No, no! Stop! Steelgraft, you lazy fuck! Get over here! Help me!” Rebel Riot begged, fighting against the grey mare. His cries reached me, in my cloudy vision I could see that sick mare forcing the foal to sink that blade into another pony.

“Now, now, don’t get distracted. Pay attention. You can help me make cupcakes or you can become cuppycakes...” She cooed dreamily, withdrawing the blade from her victim. “Now that he’s open, we have to get the parts before he dies, then we get to take his eyes.”

Through blurry, swirling clouds of haze I could see what was going on, the mare was forcing the young colt to disembowel the gurgling buck a few shops away. She had him at gunpoint, the rifle at the back of Rebel Riot’s head was the same Bloomberg assault carbine that we had asked him to repair for Keena. The young nearby were huddled near a pile of boxes, supplies looted from nearby shops by the raiders, one among them was a minotaur calf.

I still couldn’t wrap my head around how that crazy mare could levitate those objects without a horn. Then again, I had been having trouble wrapping my head around the jackhammer piston that had been slamming into my skull in the most literal interpretation of that expression.

A swooping shadow dipped in the distance, yawning in a graceful arc. The rifle was snatched from the air like a fish from a river, silent and quick. My senses adjusted just as a second blow sent me sprawling, splintering an old bench and crashing me into the outside wall of the shop behind it.

“Looky here, he’s all tuckered out! No fight, yah black-blooded freak? King Hades lettin’ his little fuck-toys be out on longer leashes, now?” The buck clicked his tongue to the roof of his mouth and looked down at me apprehensively, raising one of his hooves, the piston giving a low hum as it primed. “Any last words?”

“About time...” I replied, chuckling. He didn’t know what I meant, but my meaning was driven in when Keena’s rear hooves cracked into the side of his face as she landed.

Keena raised the rifle in both talons to fire off a quick burst of fire. The raiders scattered, surprised by her sudden appearance. There was no fury or malice in the amber eyes of Keena as she delivered justice to the wayward souls of the raiders. “Sorry it took me so long, I had to find help.” Keena apologised.

“It’s all good.” I replied in utter disbelief.

I had my doubts about her, the modest, well meaning church going hippogriff seemed so reserved, so calm, and too kind to ever harm another another. What I was seeing now was going to destroy every judgement I had passed on her. Her application of shooting games from the arcade was applied in a method that aspired to be divine deliverance.

The rifle blazed in rapid fire, three shot bursts at each target she readily saw before her, each went down as the tightly knit grouping tore through vital areas, dropping them instantly. In the span of five seconds she had killed three of the raiders, her wings still beating the air, her sharp eyes just tapping that iron sight as she flicked from target to target.

I drew my own iron in my mouth and shot across from Keena several times, my rounds were not nearly as accurate, but after firing four times rapidly, I downed the raider that had charged Keena with his drill lance. I made sure he’d never rise again by popping the final two shots into him, just to make certain he wouldn’t be getting up.

“I thought you were all love and tolerance,” I said, spitting out my revolver and reloading it as quickly as I could. My prosthetic digits made reloading this weapon easy, how earth ponies and pegasi would ever reload a firearm like this without magic was beyond me. It really did suck having a useless horn. “I was afraid you got lost while waiting to ambush. Where’s this help? Did it get lost?”

Flicking a switch on the side of her rifle, Keena delivered a single round to the dazed raider underneath her, then took flight a foot off the ground. “No, they’re just slow. Steel Rangers inbound,” She answered, “Another group of Raiders are on their way too. I’ll share my love and tolerance with the witch and secure the children. Do what you do best!”

“Yeah, sure.” I groaned, rolling myself back to my hooves. I wasn’t even sure what she meant by what I did best. I was decent at not dying, but mostly that was because I routinely ran away to take cover. Killing was just a natural reflex that just happened when I did things, and perhaps she just wanted me to test these reflexes. Out of the remaining combatants, the only one witch-like was the crazy grey pastry chef. So Keena wanted me to handle everything else, possibly including the new hostiles converging on our position! Oh, and lets not forget that there was the off-chance the Steel Rangers might try shooting me once they showed up!

“It’ll be fun! That’s why it’s called friendly fire!” My mind echoed in it’s unending attempts to usurp my sanity.

My luck wasn’t holding out, I was suffering damage while the raiders dipped and slid out of my reach as soon as they came in range to strike me. They were mobile, quick, and deadly, pressing advantages and attacking me from opposite sides. I could not take on more at once, it took all my wits just to stay ahead in this prolonged battle.

This situation further tested my meager abilities, pushing me to improvise and make use of my environment. I couldn’t let the enemy get too close, given their weapons would effectively tear me apart, but the issue there was that I was most effective at closer ranges.

Since this had been an outdoor mall, there had at one point been living trees here, in breaks between the cobblestone surrounded by a circle of bricks. Loose soil allowed for the blackened dead trunk to easily be uprooted. I found it to be an effective melee weapon with decent reach. The only downside to using the uprooted tree was the mare with the Can Cleaver could whittle my natural mace into steaming kindling.

Keena wasn’t faring much better against the crazy psychic mare. From what glances I managed to steal between barely avoiding death blows, I saw that the mare’s attention hadn’t broken from the task of mentoring a very unwilling Rebel Riot in the art of murder. Keena was dipping, swooping, and diving to avoid hurled knives and shots from the crazed mare’s weaponry but her own attacks were deflected by hovering cutlery.

“Fight me, you witch! Answer for your crimes and seduction of innocent souls!” Keena roared, her righteous anger was felt in every word. The hate in her voice spelled out a personal vendetta.

“Oh, you’re so silly little bird. I always win. I’ll break your toy again and leave with all your little friends.” The grey mare replied in a dreamy sigh, the weapons dancing in the air about her ringing as the ran their sharp edges along the partnered edge of a nearby utensil. History between the two existed, I suspected that this aloof mare was the one at fault for kidnapping the kids at the arcade.

I was useless against these high damage dealing, quick raiders. They had no protection but it didn’t matter if I couldn’t land a punch between suffering staggering blows. I couldn’t even aim to get a shot off at one without getting hit from a different direction! We were poorly matched, I was dealing with too many opponents that countered me too well while Keena was fighting an opponent she was useless against. Fighting either sucked, running away was starting to sound appealing.

“If you want easy street, the alleyway is over there. I hope it ends in a dead end, you’d deserve that if you’re going to abandon those kids to psycho mare’s deadly daycare,” the little voice in the back of my head chimed. Why did my psychosis have to be right at a time like this? I was going to add ‘Not being a coward’ to my mental list of things I enjoyed if I was still alive after this.

I backpedaled incoming swings of a golden hued blade, moving to my own discarded Can Cleaver, I armed myself. Golden blade against golden blade, sparks kissing the air and scattering the darkness. “Keena, we need to switch! I’m getting torn up against these guys! I can’t even hit them!” I shouted, pushing the rancid breathed mare back. An explosion of fire caught me off guard, a bottle shattered again and a fire blossomed at my hooves.

“Burn, pony, burn!” squealed another one of the dancing, yapping aggravations.

“I am not going to lose to her!” Keena snarled uncharacteristically. Her rifle fired off another rapid rata-tat-tat of fire that was deflected once again by the floating cutlery. Keena was nimbly twisting and jerking, circling over her opponent, trying to pierce that solid defense. It was impressive to watch her fly with grace and precision, but the grey mare hadn’t broken a sweat.

“Lose?! Keena, this isn’t a game! I’m getting shish-kebabed here!” Alas, my plea did not reach her. She was too focused on her fight with the grey psychic.

How the hell were we supposed to fight her if we couldn’t touch her? And how was I supposed to fight these raiders in open conflict? I was getting desperate, asking Head-Case for help was my only option. “Head-Case, I need a bit of help here!” I cried, taking cover behind one of the few dead trees along the street. A few bolts punched through the frail trunk just above my head, halving the tree at the middle.

“What is it that you need?” Head-Case asked, establishing a call connection with me. “You do realize that at this juncture, I must tell you ‘I told you so’ and that you should have just run away.”

“Real cute, I need combat advice for these raiders and their psychic commander!” I shouted, antsy for assistance. I had to abandon my cover as another molotov set the tree ablaze.

“Raiders, well that’s easy, but a psychic?” The voice of the doctor asked in a questioning, disbelieving tone. “Psychics aren’t real, that’s just a myth. But I’d imagine you’d fight a psychic the same way you’d fight any unicorn, naturally, something big to overwhelm their shield spells.”

“That’s an idea! Why didn’t I think of that?” I grunted sarcastically, managing to barely parry an incoming attack only to suffer a strike from a flanking opponent. I stumbled, brandishing my weapon with amateurish, undisciplined swings. Not one hit their mark, my dancing targets escaped my reach every time! “She’s not using a shield spell, she’s levitating a ton of weapons and blocking bullets with them! She’s not even paying attention! And these raiders are hopping around like they can read my mind or something!” I shouted, getting steadily more frustrated.

“That sounds odd, care to give me a visual? Take off your eye-patch.” He ordered calmly.

“A little busy dying here, doc!” I spat. This wasn’t going well at all for me. “Psychic or not, I know what I’m seeing and these raiders are too damn fast!”

“Of course you can’t hit them, your agility parameters are suffering due to the extensive damage! You need to feed or you won’t survive much longer!” He yelled angrily, “You’re so stubborn, had you just left you wouldn’t be in this situation!”

“No time for your lecture!” I growled, steeling myself as the follow-up swing from the mare with the Can Cleaver carved over my face. There was no avoiding it, it clipped me as I tilted my head back and skid, separating the eyepatch from my eye. Sizzling smoke curled off my brow and pain soaked through my now brittle skin, blossoming a small field of cracks over my complection.

“I have a visual! That looks like an ordinary raider. A bit of a butterball. You can’t hit them? That’s a bit...Sad.” Head-Case criticized, bemused that I was getting my ass kicked by some deceptively fast stocky ponies. “No armor, risky, near suicidal charges. Hmmm, the Barbarian Baker clans do like to live and die fast.” He observed. “Where is this ‘psychic’?”

I turned tail and ran from my assailants, toward the psychic mare so that my prosthetic eye could get information for my in-house informant. It was uncomfortable but I wasn’t dazed since the lighting was so dim, thankfully it wasn’t 8 o’clock and the interior lighting hadn’t come on yet. “She’s there, surrounded by all those knives, weapons, and screaming kids. Notice the fact she has no horn?” I said, diving into a shop nearby for cover from ranged attacks coming from behind. The shop I had chosen was a store called ‘Gently Used Toiletry’ that sold used toothbrushes, plungers, and old septic tank supplies. Possibly the worse decision I could have made, since the molotov wielding lunatic outside began lobbing his fire jars into the shop.

“Time tah pre-heat the oven!” He giggled madly.

“That is very intriguing, she’s no psychic--I’m getting a reading of magic, she’s a Harmonic user. Odd, usually Harmonics are only used by the Fallen due to their adverse effects.” Head-Case rambled into my skull, going on about how such a magic worked. I didn’t pay too much attention, the store around me was on fire, starting to smell like burning manure. The stench was unbearable, and so was the rambling about magic soda that gave mystical powers for reasons I could care less about!

“Just get to the part where you tell me how to kill her!” I shouted, I could barely hear myself over the sound of gunfire outside and the crackle of fire in the shop. I was going to have to leave my cover soon, the fire was spreading, overtaking the store.

“No need to yell, I already told you, just overwhelm her telekinesis by throwing something big at her.” Head-Case huffed indignantly, a display screen leapt up and I could see his disapproving scowl. “I would hurry, it looks like your party member is not particularly effective, a Harmonics user like that is immune to smaller caliber ranged attacks. Those raiders you’re fighting on the other hoof? They abscond armor to stay mobile. The Whirlybirds are very good at dealing with them due to their use of longer ranged weaponry. Switch targets with your party member and see how that works for you.” He said in so many words what could be said in few. Why did he feel the need to explain everything to me in the middle of a firefight?

“You know, that was actually helpful.” I realized. I had something else I had wanted to say, but my conversation was cut short when the blazing heat behind me reached the sealed septic tanks. An eery squeal of gas expanding in the thin shell of the rusted iron containers thundered before belching a heated explosion that sent me sprawling out the front of the store. A reeking scent of burning gas and manure spread, and the sky rained with blazing horse apples!

“Just one day...One day where I don’t get covered in something gross...” I groaned, pushing myself up. Karma had been unkind to the stallion that had been throwing the molotovs, his scorched corpse smoldering a few feet away from me. I felt lucky to just be alive after that.

“Steelgraft, get up!” Head-Case pestered, his projected screen flickering in the corner of my vision, “Pay attention to your EFS, you have more raiders incoming!” Hoof-falls in a disorganized march, rapidly approaching like wall or raging water in a flood. More were coming down a nearby street.

My EFS? I didn’t give a pony feather about my EFS right now! I didn’t even know what the buck my EFS was! There were too many flashing gizmos floating in my vision and none of them were within my realm of understanding.

“Fuck this fancy beep boop bullshit!” I roared, cursing everything I had contempt for in this new world I had woken up in. Expressing my anger in it’s most sincere form, I peeled the dead raider off the ground and launched the steaming corpse at the grey psychic mare.

Her singing stopped, her concentration homing in on the body flying at her. She intercepted my fat once-living projectile with a small armada of flying knives and a few steaming bolts from her rivet gun. The body skid to a stop, I cleared it in my charge, surprising the grey mare with a quick swing of my magical energy blade, bisecting several knives in one wide arc. The punch I delivered at the end of my charge was quick and fierce, knocking the psychotic psychic senseless and spiralling her end over end with a meaty crunch, it was music to my ears.

“All of you, run! Now!” I yelled, my voice barely making it over the crying of the children. They were all frightened of me, save for one, Rebel Riot. He was unbelievably happy to see me. The rest of the children scattered, trying to escape the battle. “Get to Cinemane Cinema, go on, run!” I urged them. The scampering hooves set them out to follow my command.

“What in Celestia’s name are you doing, Steelgraft? I told you I would handle the witch!” A very displeased Keena squawked at me. She landed with a graceful dip and folded her wings, dropping her empty mag and pulling another banana mag from under her gold trimmed vestments.

“Your plan was to fight this witch because you have a vendetta, is that it?” I accused her, making the hippogriff shrink back from me. “It doesn’t work like that, Keena. I’m not going to put my life in danger so you can fight a rival! Secure the kids, I’ll cover your escape! Go!”

That brief verbal slap to the beak was all it took. She bowed her head, “I understand. My pride was blinding me.” She flapped her wings once and readied her weapon, “Children, move quickly and stay together! I’ll clear you a path!” So she lead the kids away, leaving me to deal with the psychic mare that was already back on her hooves. I could hear the occasional gunfire in the distance as she downed any remaining raiders I missed.

The approaching band of raiders made a charge for the fleeing group, I saw them come streaming down a side street and book it in their direction. Keena fell two of them with a quick burst fire and both groups disappeared out of sight around a corner.

“Come on, where is it!” Rebel Riot groaned, knocking a box over. He hadn’t run off with the others! The irritating runt was scrounging through the pile of supply boxes the raiders had been stealing from the nearby shops!

“What’re you still doing here?! I swear if this is about caps, I’m going to be pissed!” I yelled, getting my weapon ready to fight as a very angry grey mare was soon about to pay me back for that sneaky stunt I had just pulled.

“I need a healing potion!” The foal whined. He didn’t look hurt from what I could tell.

“You look fine kid! Just run, catch up to the others!” I bellowed, my worried gaze locked onto my slowly advancing target.

The angry grey mare was surrounded in a whirlwind of flying knives and other weaponry held aloft by her mysterious power. Her dreamy expression was replaced by the jagged smile of an angry demon, her hair billowing about. “Where are you going? No! Come back! You’re not allowed to leave!” She called with a voice that echoed into a hollow and warbled cry. My punch had left a side of her face swollen and bleeding, oozing red ichor in steady streams.

“I’m not leavin’ him! It’s my fault he’s hurt!” Rebel Riot argued, the cries of the grey mare chilling him to the core. He shook like a leaf, and he frantically searched for a medical box among the supplies. “You said you were a superhero! Super heroes are supposed ta save everypony!” He bawled at me. Just like in his comic book, I had to save everypony, right?

The chocolate stallion nailed to the wall looked near death as it was, he had been cut open in a jagged line up the center of his guts, and some of his entrails were hanging out. His chest rose and fell with ragged, weak breath, and his eyes were glazed with pure terror. His chances of survival were slim, but they were going to be zero if he wasn’t helped.

Blades took to the air, whipped at us with lightning quickness, throws fueled by the insane rage saw within the eyes of the psycho witch. The shots were wide, grazing me twice and one shot stuck into one of the many boxes. I was beginning to doubt Head-Case’s claim that such a power came from drinking a magic infused soda. This was nothing short of daedric, chaotic magic.

“You’re right,” I admitted, snatching up a nearby box and using it as an impromptu shield against the incoming knives. “Never leave a pony behind.” There was no other choice I could live with other than doing what I thought was right, no matter the personal cost. “Find that healing potion, I’ll keep the witch busy.”

Rebel Riot nodded, his frantic searching through the supplies yielded no results for the first few tense moments. “Here it is!” He shouted.

“The healing potion?” I asked hopefully, the wooden box in my grip was already breaking apart against the thrown blades.

“No, my riot shield! Here!” He gripped it in his mouth and tossed it over to me.

Well, it was better than a box! I ditched the useless wooden pincushion and picked up the resilient yet easily held riot shield, slamming the sharpened edge down and digging in. The knives just bounced off! Which was great, until the angry psychic mare started firing that high powered rivet gun, denting the shield with every pulse. Slowly, we were losing ground.

This wasn’t a mare, it was a force of nature. Cold blades of ice whirling in a dervish of destruction, her mad grin leering at us from the center of the storm. “Throw something big at her, what a great plan that was!” I mocked the advice given to me by Head-Case.

“Oh, a dead body, that’s certainly big enough!” Head-Case retorted. “How is this my fault? You’re the one being reckless!”

“Sure, it was stupid, but at least you did somethin’!“ Rebel replied to me, assuming I had been talking to myself. He couldn’t hear Head-Case. “I got it!” He announced.

“Another riot shield?” I asked sarcastically.

“No, dumbass, I got the healin’ potion! Lets grab Bruise n’ get the fuck outta here!” He snapped, securing the potion bottle. His plan was very agreeable, I wanted to avoid getting turned into a pincushion.

We maneuvered to Bruise on the nearby wall, which was hard since I had to compensate to give equal coverage to Rebel Riot and Bruise now. Gaps in my defense opened up, and I got a shiny new knife jutting out of one of my forelegs for the trouble. I’d just strip the stallion from the wall and book it, but he’d die of blood loss if I did that, he needed the potion before I could move him.

The foal was too short to give Bruise the potion, so he had to clamber onto my back. This meant raising the shield and exposing even more of my stabbable bits to the psycho raider now overtaking the store Bruise was bolted to. The fierce speeds of her knives swirling around her were eroding the store into plaster chunks and splinters.

“R-r-run...L-l-lea...” The chocolate colored stallion was weak, death was near. He wanted us to leave without him.

“Just drink the potion! It’s my fault yer hurt! I’m not letting you die cuzza me!” Rebel denied the dying stallion his request, forcing the potion on him. The stallion was just refusing to drink it! “Why won’t you drink it?!” Rebel Riot cried.

The suction of the air currents around the mare got around the shield and sucked it straight from my grasp, peeling away that final layer of protection. There wasn’t anymore time, we couldn’t save this stallion, and he probably knew it all along. His tear-filled eyes shared a lifetime of lost conversations.

“Th--- ---” His lips moved, his last words, a gurgled whisper stolen by the violent current.

Even if Rebel Riot hated me forever, we had to run. Against the protests of the child, I galloped, our very lives depended on it. The store behind us was stripped away, and with it the chocolate colored stallion. I failed to shield Rebel’s eyes, he could only gaze back in horror at my failure as the friend he was forced to butcher was turned into red mist.

“Noooo, come back here~” The warbled voice called hauntingly. Knives sailed through the air, striking all around us. Now that we were rapidly moving, the grey mare found us a more challenging target. With a shriek, she sent them all, all of her little flying friends came down like a hail of bullets. The thundering clash of the falling knives behind me grew closer, closer and closer, inch by inch, the impacts grew closer.

“Bruise! Why!? We gotta go back!” Rebel cried out, trying to break free of my grip. He was crying, trembling, angry and hurt. He hated this and I hated him seeing how ugly the world could be.

“Damn it, quit squirming! We can’t save him now!” I hollered, trying to keep a grip on the foal while a rain of sharp deadly instruments rained down around us. Any shelter nearby was getting flayed apart by the fiercely flaying cutlery.

He pushed and pulled, eventually breaking free of my grasp. He hit the ground and charged the grey mare, even while blades and debris rained down. “You stupid bitch! I’ll kill you, I’ll kill you so hard! Give him back! Give him back!” He shrieked, charging her with reckless abandon.

I skidded to a stop and charged after Rebel. I could understand why he was so angry, why he hated her. That didn’t make it okay to throw his life away! By some miracle I caught up to him and threw myself over him, bracing myself against the coming hail. By now, I’d given up on escape, there was no way to outrun the force of nature that was the psychic mare’s rage. It was either death took us both or I greeted it alone like an old friend. At least this old, dead body was good for something in the end.

“No, let me go! I want tah kill her, stoppit!” Rebel Riot cried. “Let me go! Bruise! That stupid b-bitch made me!” Even now the child was fighting against me, he wanted to charge straight into her, he’d die. I knew he wasn’t stupid, he knew he’d die, he had to know that.

The blades pierced the cobblestone, sinking inches deep, giving me a hint about how much damage they were doing to me since I could not feel the pain. The blades rang like thunder, roaring through the empty streets. My coat was shredded, my saddlebags split open, losing their contents, and black blood ran along my limbs, pooling around the frightened child that stared up into my eyes.

“I’m sorry,” I mumbled softly, “Throwing your life away won’t...Stops raining, you...” My thoughts were jumbled, and my memories surfaced briefly and vanished, like tears in the rain. It became increasingly hard to think as the seconds melted away, blurring into an incoherent mess. The vision from my left eye flickered and dimmed, and my thoughts became blank. I couldn’t make sense of where I was anymore, but below me was a child, a foal. He looked a lot like my son. In my fading consciousness that’s just who he was.

“Steelgraft? Steelgraft?! Your systems are failing! What’s going on, I can’t see your viz--” *Brzt* I heard a brief, scattered message from somepony before the connection went dead. It sounded important, whatever it had been. I probably missed an important call about an excavation for work or something. I’d have to call them back in the morning.

“Still...afraid of thunder, Rowdy? That’s okay, it’s just a little...rain.” I managed, I didn’t know why I felt so tired. Was it early morning? Another thunderstorm late at night, making my son rouse me and my wife from bed? Yes, that’s all it was. I was too tired to fight the lull of sleep, and I yawned softly.

“Daddy, the thunder is scary!” My son cried, rubbing his tear swollen eyes with his hooves.

I sat up in my bed and groaned, seeing the little blue unicorn in such a state pushed all the drowsiness I’d been feeling into the back of my sleep-deprived mind. I drew in into my forelegs and sat him in the center of the bed. “You’re getting too big to be sleeping with mommy and daddy, sport.” I answered, ruffling his mane with a hoof. “There’s nothing to be frightened of, it’s just thunder.”

“B-but there are monsters too! The storm makes more of them!” He blubbered. If it wasn’t for the fact I was his father I wouldn’t have understood a single word of that.

“Alright, you win.” I said in defeat, patting the spot between me and my wife. She was facing away, and had yet to wake up. “She can sleep through almost anything.” I commented with a roll of my eyes. “Try not to wake her up, she’ll get grumpy.”

Soon, we were all cozy in the bed, my son curled between us, and with every crack of thunder the small foal would shake and sob. Soon, he was pestering his mother, prodding her with his hoof. “M-momma...I’m still scared...” He whimpered.

She had work in the morning, the museum was going to be opening a new exhibit, so she really needed her rest. For as genteel as she usually was, the mare was exceptionally bothered when woken in the dead of night. Rowdy never did follow our in-house rule of let mommy and daddy have their first cup of coffee in the morning before begging us to play, and he never listened when I told him not to wake mommy either. I guess I wasn’t the best at calming him down though, that was her expertise.

She shifted and gave a soft sigh, “Don’t worry, sweety, momma will make you into an angel.” She answered in a voice that did not belong to my wife. Her giggle filled me with dread. “Sweetheart, do you like...Cupcakes?”

My blood was ice in my veins, and the figure that pushed herself up and slowly turned to us was not the beautiful mare I loved, but a sadistic monster. Her leering grin split her lips as blazing yellow eyes pierced through us. She brandished a knife in her telekinetic grasp and lunged for my son.

//CMD: Boot_Sequence\\
*Backup Systems Online*

The world returned in a brilliant flash of light, the nerves in the back of my left eye burned with the pain of fire, my unshielded eye making me reel in pain. My convulsions and twists caused my body to stir to full wakefulness, filling my vision with the imagery of my brief nightmare.

A grey mare was leering over an injured powder blue earth pony foal, she was running her hoof along his spiked, red streaked black mane and cooing gently to him. A dozen small tombstones jutted from the ground around me, unfocused and blurry. No, they were knives, knives sticking into the ground. As my senses took hold, things connected, symbols had meaning and memories referenced past events.

“You didn’t want to play, that’s no fun. It’s okay to lose. It only hurts once.” The mare was speaking in short fragments, disconnected and broken, stuttering. Or that was just how I perceived them.

The grey mare was an enemy, and that child was in trouble. I scraped the ground with my forehooves, curling my digits into the cobblestone. I tried to speak, but no sound came out, just a rattling, broken cough and black ichor.

Both ears on the mare’s head perked, “Do I hear it? An angel breathing still? Lucky little tart.” She pushed the foal’s face into the floor and moved away from him, slinking up to me, only her front hooves were in view when she was right in front of me.

“Black tears, there is nothing to break. You fight against the king. Painful truth in a beautiful lie.” She hummed pleasantly, leering down and pushing her face into mine. She dragged the dull edge of a blade over my cheek, “Pretty eyes, might I take what you see?” She aligned the blade against one of my eyes and drew it back, stomping on one of my legs to hold me in place.

I couldn’t fight back, my flaccid body refused to listen. I couldn’t even wince as the blade twitched, turning in the air like a key. My eye socket was going to be the lock.

She stopped for a moment and listened, taking a breath and holding it. Faint, heavy metallic hoof falls broke the silence. “Lucky little tart.” She muttered. “Maybe they’ll break you. Yes. Lucky little tart.” She leaned in, offering me a single smile and withdrew, tossing the blade away. I could hear the sound of her retreating off into the darkness.

“Ma’am, I’m picking up two Non-Com on EFS, wounded.” A distant, tinny voice spoke.

“Isn’t this where the hippogriff said there was trouble?” Rumbled another deep voice.

“It looks like a tornado came through here.” Observed another. “A flaming shit tornado. So glad my rebreather filter’s working.”

“Steelgraft!” A screen popped up in my display, making me want to shield my eye from the glare, my limp limbs did not respond. “I managed to boot your secondary systems,” Head-Case cheered, his crab-claw manipulators fidgeting with something on his screen. “One problem though, you’ve got a knife stuck in between c5 and c6 of your cervical vertebrae. I’m working on bypassing the damaged sector, but it’ll take me time. It’d be really nice if you listened to me next time, and avoid these tired cliches of a stubborn would-be hero.”

“It’d be really nice if I could even talk right now!” I thought bitterly, the brow over my right eye twitching angrily. Getting my ass kicked by a crazy psychic pastry chef and paralyzed, even temporarily wasn’t doing my mood any favors. That, and it sounded like those Steel Rangers Keena had spotted earlier were finally showing up. Here I was, my ass unprotected. Yup, I was served up on a silver bucking platter for those ‘good ole boys’. And girls. I could only fret and enjoy my own internal monologue of how bucked I was as those thundering hoof steps drew near.

“Plant me and call me an apple tree, because I am BUCKED!” I screamed mentally. The rest of my thoughts fell in line with trying to urge my body to move.

“Look at what we have here!” Exclaimed a booming voice, very close now. “Look familiar, Silver Tongue?”

“Holy blazing pubes, that’s that stupid fucking cyberghoul!” The spastic mare cried out, she stomped over to me prodding my unresponsive body with a hoof. “Serves you fucking right, you trash heap, I hope you suffered!”

“Stop screwing with him!” Barked a militant, authoritative voice from nearby, another Steel Ranger that was out of my range of vision. “Somepony check on the kid, make sure he’s alright.”

“Yes ma’am!” Replied a rather plucky Steel Ranger subordinate that rushed to follow that order. After a few moments of checking the kid over, the ranger called out, “He’s alright, he’s just stunned, looks like he got whacked on the dome pretty hard.”

A mixture of relief and anger washed over me. Relief because Rebel Riot was okay, and anger because one of the Super Asinine Tactical Squad was going through my belongings.

“Hey, this corpse has some decent swag! Looka this kit!” Chuckled one of the rangers, “Finders keepers?”

“The only thing you’ll find is a court martial if you keep screwing with that thing.” Rumbled the deep voice again.

“Hey, it’s not like that thing’ll be using that gear anytime soon. I was kinda hoping we’d get to send more of those bakery banditos to dirt naps.” chuckled a mare, she was kicking the knives that were firmly stuck in the ground. “Though I ain’t the least bit curious about what did this. Probably some psycher, think there could be Fallen somewhere?”

“Unlikely,” interjected another Steel Ranger, “The Fallen don’t leave the Pitfall, there must be some Baker Barbarian running around with freak juice.”

“Speaking of freaks, what are we going to do with that thing? Is it still alive?”

“It wasn’t alive to begin with, Silver Tongue, it’s a machine. But no, I think it’s just disabled.” Rumbled the deep voiced stallion again. I rolled my eyes up and through the dim light of some interior lights I could make out the decal ‘Stand Tall’ on his armored flank. These were the same Steel Rangers from the checkpoint outside the town.

“You’re kidding, that thing looks like it’s a pin cushion! It’s still...you know, ticking?” the mare asked, moving over to me to prod me with a hoof. I twitched, causing her to leap back with fright, she trained her shotgun on me. “Holy flaming suns, it moved!”

The expletives I wanted to shout at the mare were as numerous as they were creative, many revolving around how brazenly stupid she was even when compared to pond algae and sky barnacles. Probably for the best that I still couldn’t find my voice, all that rose from me was a brief, fitful gurgle.

“We’re going to fix him up.” Stated the authoritative Steel Ranger, limping passed my view. She wore heavily damaged armor, and half her helmet was fractured badly, revealing a part of her grease stained face underneath. She was a unicorn, that was odd, I’d never seen a unicorn Steel Ranger before. “That there’s my VIP. You best take your weapon off him before I shove it up your ass and rename you Latrine Licker!”

“Ma’am, this monster is your VIP?” Stand Tall questioned. I was just as confused as he was, I had no idea what was going on.

“I didn’t stutter, long shank.” The saucy Ranger barked. She limped over to supervise the medic treating Rebel Riot and looked the dazed foal over. She ran a hoof over his mane dotingly like a mother would, speaking with gravely sweetness,“Tough spud, you’ll pull through.”

The mare claimed to be an acquaintance of mine, and she seemed familiar. Was this Steel Ranger somepony from my past? That would mean she was a ghoul, there was no other way she could still be alive for me to know her otherwise.

It wouldn’t do me any good if I spooked the trigger happy retards into finishing me off, so there I lay, flaccid and useless. The burning pain of the light hitting my left eye was turning seconds into an eternity of excruciating discomfort. My focus weaned in and out, parts of my body giving spaztic, uncoordinated jerks. Head-Case was trying to get me moving.

The mare with the cracked helmet filled my vision, one eye was exposed through the shattered half of her helm. Her eye was an earthy, warm brown, the glint of a sterling silver piercing shined on her brow. She scooped up my chin with a hoof and tilted my head up. “Hey there, assbiter. Looks like you took a few for the team, huh?” She said to me calmly, “Piercing’s are all the rage, Dead-head, but you went a little overboard. Don’t worry, you’re going to be fine.”

“Gangrene?” I thought in disbelief, it couldn’t be her! Gangrene hated Steel Rangers! My mind was projecting things into the world again, that had to be it. My memories were mingling with reality again, that was the only explanation. I curled my digits, taking in a fistfull of stone and tried to push myself up, “Kreegh?” A gurgle came out in place of words.

“Hold still, you got a nice sized knife in your neck. Really, Steel-daft, this fashion statement’s in poor taste. I’m going to start calling you the one-boot wonder.” The mare taunted me playfully. Her horn ignited in magic. “This’ll take me a few minutes...”

Laying there was all I could do as blade after blade was carefully extracted from my battered coat. According to the mare operating on me, I was lucky that my armor had saved me from some of the worse damage. She commented that most of the blades had left only superficial wounds. A small mountain of serrated cutlery ranging from forks to knives, to a single sharpened spoon grew next to me with every tug of magical force. The only serious damage I had suffered, according to her, was the blade that had slipped under my bomb collar, through my neck, cutting off my airway. Had I been alive, I would not have survived such an injury.

“Tough as a tank, your name suits you more than you know,” The mare huffed, working delicately on the next pair of knives. “This one’s a bit deeper.”

“Ma’am, we need to get going. It’s 17:40, curfew in twenty. We can’t afford to get locked in for the night, we’re in hostile territory with no knowledge on enemy numbers.” Stand Tall said stoically, surveying his surroundings diligently.

“Do you feel like carrying him?” The mare asked him while she worked on carefully extracting the knife from my neck.

“N-no, ma’am.” He stuttered.

“Then shut the fuck up and bring me a plummy, he lost a ton of fluid and I don’t need him passing out while we get the survivors the fuck outta here.” She ordered.

“Plummy, ma’am?” He parroted, the use of her words leaving him dumbfounded.

“A blood pack, you steel brained git! A blood pack!” She roared. The large stallion nodded quickly to her and trotted over to the medic, fulfilling her request and delivering her a red gel pack full of rich red blood. The mare snatched it from the air with her magic and struggled to find a vein on me. “Fuck, all collapsed! No pulse either. Fuck it!” She just jabbed the needle in somewhere and held the packet overhead in her magical grasp.

A final tug and the blade in my neck came out with a juicy squirting geyser of black, a rolling gag from my throat spewed a thick, stringy mess of goo and undigested donuts all over the ground. After a coughing fit, my airway was completely clear, and I could feel a warm sensation rattled through me, starting at the side of my neck and spreading like a small fire just under my skin. The blood bag drained, sucked dry as if my body was drinking it in. Mobility returned after a few more seconds and the cracks in my flesh from the magical energy weapons filled in, though the worst of them remained visibly deep. I saw my integrity jump up a total of 8% by the time the blood pack was drained, but my condition was still poor, hovering under 40% efficiency. I really wanted to shut off my display, it was as useless as it was annoying.

The first thing I did when I could move was cover my left eye with one of my gauntlet hands, the second was push myself up. I had to lean on the Steel Ranger with the cracked helmet to keep from tipping over.

“Woah there, not so fast. You’re gonna land on the pile of knives and make me start all over on you.” She scolded, holding me steady in a grip of magic. “Feeling better?”

“I don’t feel much.” I replied gravely, “Thanks for the save, but why’re you helping me?”

“Don’t look a gift horse in the snatch, coffin breath. Lets just say nopony kisses my ass like you do. Your memory is about as good as that fashion sense of yours, one boot willy.” she said with cryptic inflection. I really didn’t know what she was talking about, but she was dropping hints of who she was.

“Gan--Mphhhmp?!” I tried to ask her if she was Gangrene, but she quickly held my trap shut with both hooves.

“Loose lips sink ships, bucko. No talking about classified intel in front of another chapter.” She chimed airily, the one eye I could see was staring me down.

“Secret mission?” Stand Tall interjected, trotting up alongside the mare holding my jaws. “Is that why you’re so far from Phillydelphia?”

“Yeah, but that’s on a need to know basis. Steelgraft here’s a bit loose with his lips though. Normally he keeps quiet as long as he has something to suck on. We call him the guzzler back on base.” She hinted, adding insult to injury on my behalf. This was Gangrene alright. She pulled her hooves free from my snout and wrapped a foreleg around my shoulder. “Me and this guy go way back. Been with our chapter for fifty or so years, ever since we found him in a shitty bunker. Literally, the latrines in the facility were all backed up. Isn’t that right, shit breath?”

Awkward situation made worse by being expected to play along. I knew for a fact this was Gangrene. I sighed, deadpanning, “Right. Poop everywhere. How’s the brat?”

“He’s just unconscious,” the Steel Ranger medic spoke, scooping the child up and draping him over his own back. “He’ll be in good hooves with me. Now that we’re done waking the dead, shall we move out, ma’am?”

What sorcery had Gangrene used to bewitch a squad of Steel Ranger goons? I would ask later, for now, I pulled away from the incognito punk of a mare.

“That halfbreed said there were a buncha kids over here. Where are they?” Silver Tongue asked. The mare wisely kept her distance from me, her weapon pointed at the ground at my hooves. She could easily raise the weapon in a fraction of a second.

“Keena, the hippogriff,” I said, stressing the part where I mentioned she was a hippogriff, “Lead them off to the Cinemane Cinema, there’s a whole group of survivors holed up there.”

“So they’re all safe?” The mare with the cracked helmet probed, worry heavy in her voice. “They all made it?”

“Not all of them.” I admitted, feeling my latest failure heavy on my shoulders. I slumped slightly, hanging my head. “It was hard enough getting the kid out of that mess. Lost one of them.”

“Damnit! Those filthy cake munchers are gonna pay! Everyone form up, we’re moving out!” She barked, every ranger answered her with their actions. They formed up into two lines of three, with Stand Tall at the front.

I gathered up my gear and piled my belongings into my torn saddlebag, which spilled my contents again. After another minute or two of wasted time, one of the rangers that briefly broke formation helped me duct tape my bags back together. A quick, ugly, and very poor job, but at least my bags would hold my belongings.

“Thanks. I’ll meet you guys at the cinema. I wonder what’s playing.” I muttered, making my way down the cobblestone street, heading for the plaza.

“The buck’re you going, Steelgraft?” The disguised Gangrene called to me.

“The Plaza.” I answered, my pace speeding up to a quick trot. There was still something I had to do.

“You’re stupid, you know that?” Gangrene said to my as she followed along. She had told the Steel Rangers to head on without her, and without question they followed that order. It was just me and her, trotting along the burnt out streets littered with shell casings and dead bodies. The Misfits certainly put up a fight before losing ground, that was certain. The metal encased mare had a slight limp, grunting every few steps.

“This stupid pony is not about to leave anypony behind.” I replied, a bit sore with the mare. “You never told me you were a Steel Ranger. What’s Phillydelphia like?” I tightened the bindings around my left eye again, making sure the bandages Gangrene had given me were staying in place over my left eye. It did a nice job filtering the light cast off by the shops that were ablaze.

“Ex-Steel Ranger, never been to Phillydelphia,” She corrected me. “And you never told me you weren’t a real doctor.” Gangrene accused slyly.

“Wait, you knew?” I asked, bewildered. I thought my acting was rather decent, then again, her real skills as a medic helped her see through my deceit.

“What doctor needs a road map to their own workplace? It was so damn obvious.” She trilled, levitating my side arm in the air. I had let her borrow it, not that I really had a choice, given Gangrene was rather insistent she needed a ranged weapon. “It was so cute, seeing you pretend to be a doctor! Acting all important so I wouldn’t just shoot yah!~” She aimed my pistol at me and made a ‘Bang bang~’ noise.

She was closer to the truth than I felt comfortable with, her assumptions were a bit too precise. “If you think my plan is stupid, why’re you coming along?” I asked, pushing a body out of my way.

“I’m just hoping I get to put down more of the bad cookies. It’s a bit personal.” She chimed.

“Personal enough to ask the Steel Rangers for help?”

“Those raiders burnt down my house and killed most my gang, what do you think?” The mare snarled, the wounded predator was far more deadly when agitated. She brought a hoof down on one of the corpses and crushed it under the weight of her metal clad hoof. “Right now, they’re a means to an end. Just like you are.”

“I thought you just liked me.” I replied, feeling a bit nervous to be around her. She was as resourceful as she was unpredictable. It was a good thing she was on my side.

“Oh, I do. It’s just that you’re useful. All morons have their uses.”

“I’ll pretend that was a compliment.” I replied glumly, brushing my bangs out of my eyes again. I needed a hair pin or ribbon, it might be easier if my hair was tied back.

“Whatever helps yah sleep at night, sweetheart.” She playfully jabbed. She was pretty chipper for somepony that lost her home and most of her comrades. That worried me. “What’s with the one boot fashion statement?”

“A raider ran off with my other one.” I replied with a sigh, “No idea why. I should have hit him harder with it...”

“Ah, and do I wanna know why there were piles of flaming shit everywhere back there?”

“It was just a shit storm.” I replied, making the mare snicker.

“Right. The shit really hit the fan,” She jested.

“We’re horrible ponies.” I affirmed. “I’m really sick of this crap.”

“I’ve run out of poop jokes.” Gangrene snickered. “You really know how to take the edge off.” She added gratefully. “Just stay down wind of me, my respirator is busted and you stink.”

Cradle Robber’s broadcasts still continued over the speakers lining the empty streets. His insults and threats punctuated by the cheers of his audience and the screams of the dying. “Oh, looks like round four is over! The winner is Mister Melon! Good job, enjoy your freedom!” A gunshot was heard, followed by a soft chuckle, “Oh, sorry, guess someone in the audience wasn’t too impressed with his performance. Guess nobody wins!”

We were nearing the plaza, and our plan was fairly simple at this point. We were going to rush down there and free any captives, shoot Cradle Robber on the fly and run as fast as we could for the Cinema, regroup, and leave this place before the curfew hit, locking us inside. We had a little over ten minutes to pull something like this off, it was crazy, good thing Gangrene liked my brand of crazy.

Smoke rose over the Plaza, funneled out gaping holes in the razor wire net overhead. Something was amiss, not right, and Gangrene was the first to notice. There was no sound coming from the pit, but the broadcasts continued. We slunk quickly over to the escalator and peered down the decline into the ruined hub of the outdoor mall. Gangrene gasped, taking a step back while I stared, my mouth falling open.

There were no captives, nor was there some gladiator champion called Tauros. In the place of what was expected there were large pods, shaped like giant iron stars. They were open, smoke billowing from inside their chamber. I knew instinctively what they were, it was hard wired into me to recognize them.

“W-what are those things?” Gangrene broke the silence, confused.

“Drop pods.” I answered, climbing down the broken escalator. A hesitant Gangrene followed me. Every single pod was barren, it’s dark womb staring out. They were empty.

“I really don’t wanna know what was inside them.” Gangrene muttered, keeping her distance from them. The speakers continued to blare threats and insults, declaring Tauros the victor of another round.

I made my way for the fountain at the center. There had to be a reason for this, the misdirection, the pods, and the involvement of the Baker Barbarians. This seemed too grand for the Muffincakes alone, they had crushed all resistance far too easily.

“No survivors. No raiders either.” She mused thoughtfully. She tossed a rock into the fountain, a soft splash of blood lapping over the side. The reservoir was freshly filled. There were bodies in the pool, cut to pieces. “Steelgraft, we should leave. Now. This is all kinds of bad.” She called to me, acting the voice of reason.

“Why would you leave? You just got here...” Spoke a cloaked stallion that appeared next to the guillotine. “Don’t you want to stay a while? We have plenty to talk about, Captain. Do you like history? Let me give you a little less--”

Gangrene lifted her sidearm and fired two shots rapidly at the cloaked figure, both struck, leaving a steaming trail of ichor to trickle down his brow from under his hood. The figure stumbled back and collapsed, slumped over the edge of the fountain’s raised platform.

“Why did you do that?!” I cried, astonished as to why she just blew some random pony away. Sure, he was ominous, and what he said was nerve wracking, but she just shot someone with very little provocation.

“He was going to monologue! We don’t have time to listen to bullshit.” She retorted, using her telekinesis to lift the hood on the body. She shot me a glance then covered up the body. “Fucking weird...” She hissed. She began to trot back to the escalator. “Come on Steelgraft, before some other whack job shows up.”

“Gangrene, who was that?” I demanded. I hadn’t gotten a good look at the body. I was going to have to climb over the edge of the fountain and leap to the center to check.

“Steelgraft, lets just go! You don’t want to look, he’s ass ugly.” She urged me to leave. “He’s dead, mission accomplished!”

“I wouldn’t go congratulating yourselves just yet~” The voice of Cradle Robber cheerfully sang over the speakers scattered around the plaza. “You just shot the messenger. Poor guy, he was this close to getting that promotion too.”

While he spoke, movement shifted along the edges of the plaza. Soft metallic tings of metal tapping over the ground, and long gashes began appearing in the stone around the edges of my vision. One of the pods was cleaved in two, collapsing over the escalator.

Cradle Robber chuckled, “In less than ten minutes, it won’t matter how far you run. You’ll be trapped inside with these things. And don’t you worry, your friends won’t be bored to death--Tauros will keep them entertained.”

“Oh shit!” Gangrene grunted, flinching at the impact of the pod crashing into the escalator. “What the fuck’s down here with us?! I can’t see them!” She scanned the area, detecting something nearby. “My EFS is littered with hostiles. They’re everywhere now!”

A plethora of hisses came from everywhere, blades tapping over the ground as they drew closer. A ripple of light bent as a sizzling blade launched towards us. I took Gangrene to the ground to avoid the blow.

Gangrene was very pissed, firing off several rounds in the direction of the attack. She hit something, and a static break in the light revealed one of our assailants.

The pony shaped creature flickered into reality, it’s body covered in shiny black latex. A sensory deprivation mask covered it’s face, a an armored white protrusion like a skull resting over it’s face. Instead of a hoof at the end of each leg, there were bladed fixtures with glowing blue edges. Even their tail had been replaced with a blade. Tubing ran around their body, attaching to a strange domed backpack that socketed into it’s torso. In the place of a cutie mark, the beast had an identification number on it’s haunches, this one read as 0453-E.

“Fucking fuck! We’re fucked!” Gangrene growled, pushing me off of her. “Striders, fucking Striders!” She raised the revolver and unloaded the weapon at the creature that charged. It didn’t slow, leaping over her and somersaulting, planting it’s bladed legs into the carapace of one of the nearby drop pods.

Hissing creatures, each the same began to uncloak from hiding. Their rattling, hissing threats homing in on us. They were everywhere, hanging from the ceiling, running along walls, and climbing over the ruins of the escalator.

“Feel free to struggle before you die, it’ll be more fun that way.” The voice over the intercom laughed cruelly. “Traitors always die so beautifully.”

“You know what I’m going to say, don’t you, Steelgraft?” Gangrene huffed.

“Go ahead and say it.” I replied, drawing back from the horde.

“You’re a fucking moron!”

“Steelgraft, good news! I figured out how to bypass your damaged sector and--Oh, you’re already ambulatory.” Head-Case droned on for a moment. When he heard the hissing and the shrieks in the background, he spoke up again.“I suppose you want me to leave you alone right now? Is this a bad time?”

“Very bad time, doc!”

Oh, are we taking a break again? Goodness, this whole thing is taking quite some time. Still, it is pretty eventful. Your sub par intelligence has lead you to not only get beaten by a mini boss, but gotten you to run right into a trap. Seems to me you really aren’t that lucky, Steelgraft. At least you get to level up, that’s a plus. Those few extra hit points will help you last a few moments longer against those Striders. I agree, as Gangrene has so eloquently put it, you are FUCKED.

King Hades must really want you dead to pull out all the stops like this, I think it’s funny, honestly. It certainly is an unexpected change of pace!

And yes, Gangrene shot the guy that was going to give a long winded explanation of what was going on in the Plaza. Don’t worry, you’ll get to know what is going on next chapter. Also, plenty of things are going to die.

LEVEL UP--Level 6!--
New Perk!
Toughness(1)!
Character Progress Review

==Stay tuned!==

Oh, look, more art

From Ask18Carrot!
A piece by Inkwell
Oh, look, Striders
Steelgraft by Beowulf

Chapter 9: Immaculate Deception

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"Immaculate Deception"

Something, something betrayal. Something, something completed.

It was all a lie. A ruse, meant to control through fear and direct ponies to their undoing. I was unsure why or how, but what I did know was that there was no raider named Cradle Robber here, there was no beast slaughtering captive civilians, and there was no one alive to save. The bodies were so mutilated; they could not even be identified in the pureed mush in the fountain, the half coagulated mess had looked like sorbet.

The misdirection was to keep ponies from venturing near the plaza, and flee from it entirely, at least until the pods were all woken up, a trick that worked against me, drawing me here like a moth to a flame.

All the raiders that had cleared out the plaza had probably safe guarded the pods before being slaughtered by these creatures; their bodies filled the fountain’s basin alongside their own victims. The Baker Barbarians weren’t working with them, they were sacrificing themselves to them, and the fountain had been used to awaken the pods after they landed. Blood for fuel, powering bladed constructs that would in turn collect more blood to fuel more killing machines, it was a perpetual self immolation, a fire that would not burn out until there was no fuel left.

I knew it, not in a way that someone would know something from reading it in a book, but in the same way a child would recognize the face of a parent. It was instinctual knowledge, and these hissing creatures followed their instincts alone.

“Why struggle, just embrace the end and join us. Become part of something bigger!” The voice of the stallion on the intercom boomed, tempting us to our death. “Join us, there is no pain in the eternal sleep. We only want to save you!”

Neither of us bought into it, we were trying to get away. The flighty bladed bastards were quick on their sickles, dancing on their blade tips. Vaulting at us, they brandished their blades, swinging at us between quick acrobatic maneuvers, though every strike missed intentionally, their feints were telegraphed and every strike came close, but was pulled back with feline grace.

Ghostly, wicked creatures danced on the borders of my vision, hardly seen. Even the light cast off by the burning wreckage knocked up by the hollow vessels that once bore these abominations did not help to reveal many of them; while cloaked, they created not a single shadow.

They darted off as quickly as they appeared, leaving us spinning to follow them. Fine cuts along the ground appeared in the wake of their movements, thin lines of burning heat that smelled of crisp ozone, the fumes left an acrid, sour taste that clung to my palate. Misdirection, games of tag without a touch, they would uncloak and leap to a new vantage point and slip into nothingness, hiding their numbers in confusion. They could be few, there could be many, not knowing which was a chalice of fear forced down our dry throats, lips stained with the taste of copper.

"What thah fuck're they doin?!" Gangrene growled, craning her neck as she tried to keep her eyes locked onto the one that had revealed itself. The slender creature had re-engaged its cloak, vanishing in a spider's web of fracturing light and slipping into the ether of bent light. The mare growled, slapped the side of her fractured helmet, recoiling and backing away. She cursed, complaining about her faulty helmet unable to pick them up. She was trembling, every free moving plate of her armor clattering like teeth in the cold.

“We’re so fucked, so damn fucked.” She chanted, it became her phrase for the next dozen seconds of intense fear. “Game over, man, game over! There’s so fuckin’ many!” She began to back away, towards the open mouth of a star-shaped pod, swallowing at her frantic sobs.

I sensed it before I saw it, the glittering blades igniting deep inside the chassis of the vessel. It leapt out, revealed itself, and attacked Gangrene. She ducked down, the beast’s back legs coming to rest on the haunches of her armor, piercing deep. She let out a pained grunt, yelping at the blades of the creature’s forelegs closed like scissors just over her head, barely missing her head by fractions of an inch.

It was fast, far faster than I could react. After missing it’s chance for a quick end to its target, it leapt off, avoiding a swing from my magical chainsaw, which instead took a small sliver out of the mane ridge on Gangrene’s helm.

The creature flipped end over end, like a buzz saw along the ground and repositioned itself on one of the many pillars surrounding the hexagon shaped mall square, leering at us with vacant eyes. It once again slipped into the ether, invisible to detection.

“F-fuck!” Gangrene let out a stream of curses, which I was accustomed to, but the voracity by which she let the words fly held deep contempt for these bladed monsters. She winced, forcing herself up, giving short, ragged pants. She felt the still sizzling apex of her helmet and cast an angry glare at me from the broken gash in her helmet, speaking in an angry snarl. “You almost took my head off, you git!” She scanned the area for the monster, lifting the Cornhusker revolver and fired several shots, missing every time.

"Sorry!” I mouthed in near silence, the rattling tap of blades along surfaces all over unnerving me. I’d have to be more careful, I wanted to protect Gangrene, not kill her!

“What’s the matter, Captain?” The voice over the intercom spoke snidely, “Getting slow in your old age? My, oh my, you might not make it with that canned meat slowing you down. She’ll die painfully.”

“I’ll gladly show you how fast I could kick your ass!” I spoke defiantly at the voice. “Come down here and face me!” I wanted to kill this bastard, more than anything. I wanted to beat myself senseless for stupidly leading my closest friend into the grinder. I wanted to keep her safe and save everypony I could. So many wants, so little chance of making it come true. The odds were against me, just like they had always been.

“I won’t have to do anything come the next six minutes.” The voice spoke crisply, laughing. “Once this place locks down, there will be no escape. Not for you or for anyone for that matter. A baptism of blood—An offering of blood for power. No safety, only hunger.”

“Why?” I asked, scooting closer to Gangrene in efforts to protect her from any incoming attacks. The injured mare leaned on me, panting.

“It’s regional dominance, Steelgraft.” The mare answered. “The Baker Barbarians, too stupid tah do this shit alone. They made a deal with the devil himself tah get the power to starve the nearby settlements into submission! Fucking c-cowards.”

“That’s right, I prefer the term ‘calculated investment’ to coward, though.” The voice cheerfully chimed. “We are going to spread in this region like a plague. The warlord has graciously offered Lord Hades this region as tribute. His blood for our power. An equivalent exchange.” The crackle over the speakers hissed into a rattle of gentle laughter.

He was threatening everyone, the already impoverished and struggling town of Greenvale Heights was going to crumble. This place was just the first to fall if they had their way, with a strong foothold in this region, disrupting trade and attacking a weakened resistance would prove fruitful. It was total war.

“I’m not going to let that happen! I swear, Cradle Robber, I will kill you and that fat slug working with you.” I promised.

“Bold words from a traitor,” The speakers rattled. “It’s so amusing, seeing you play hero. You’re no hero, you’re a monster, and unlike us you were a monster before your second life. Captain—You made victims of us all. But yes, try, try to be the hero you never were in life. Try to be the stallion you should have been. It’s too late to make a difference. It’s too late to change. You’re a monster. A monster with only four minutes left.”

That cheeky bastard! He was just wasting our time with that conversation. Stringing me along by mentioning his knowledge of me, leaving me guessing and grasping at incorporeal straws.

“Damnit!” I cursed at myself for being that stupid. “We’re almost out of time.”

“Now you see why I shot the monologuing guy,” Gangrene deadpanned. “Dialog is a waste of time in dire situations like this. Not that it matters at this point. I’m fucked.” She struggled to keep standing, her back legs were badly hurt. “It’s game over, we’re fuckin’ ended.” She said with stone-cold certainty.

“I didn’t peg you as a quitter.” I taunted, bracing against her side. Even if I managed to get out of this trap, with only three minutes or so left before curfew, I’d never make it to the exit on time anyway. “We’re going, together. Live or die. We’ll have to give it our best shot.”

The mare seemed to appreciate such a sentiment, but muttered something unkind about my intelligence under her breath. I ignored it, and pressed on, igniting my energy chain blade as we made our way to the fountain in the center. The higher platform would give me a vantage point, and no walls flanking around it would keep those things from surprising me from any direction save for ‘up’.

“How adorable!” The speakers chimed with wistful glee, ”You’re not abandoning her to save yourself? We have a textbook case of wanna-be hero! Kill the mare first.”

Those words chilled me to my core, despite the numbness of my body. It was fear, fear of losing a friend that drove me to press forward quickly, half dragging the wounded mare with me.

“Me first? What the fuck I ever do to this cock gobbler?!” Gangrene growled, taking a pot shot at one of the Striders that appeared over a pile of rubble. Small calibre weapons didn’t phase the creatures, not even annoy them--It was just a waste of ammo.

The Striders broke into charge, the tapping of blades sang out along the walls, across the floor, and even up in the wired netting above. Scaling any hard surface was easy for these ghostly specters, I imagined they thrived in urban environments. Soft hisses, almost like purrs echoed through the chamber, reverberating off the walls with a jarring melody, like a hymn sung with death rattles. They came out of cloak just as they came close enough to strike.

I brandished my energy chainblade with one hand while availing myself to support Gangrene with the other, trying to keep them at bay. One was struck along its side, forcing it to retreat with a cracked hull. They shared the same aversion I had for energy weapons.

Wounding one or two of them was not enough to give them pause or make them relent; the rest dove in with increased ferocity and tenacity. They ignored Gangrene’s errant shots, her accuracy suffering from the jerking, quick motion of us moving forward. Not like they’d do much if they hit anyway. They were on all sides, shifting into focus and closing in like the jaws of a steel trap, pincering us in the center.

My reactionary reflex was split second, I grabbed my companion and threw her with all the force I could muster in the direction of the fountain. She sailed over the swing of the blades, her flailing body rattling in the air as she wailed out a series of derogatory expletives at my expense.

I suffered several strikes against my body, blades dug into my side, sizzling the flesh and sending searing pain along my flank. They had magical energy blades, of course they’d have magical energy blades. I squeezed the lever on my Clan Cleaver and tore it across the chest of one that leapt over head from behind towards Gangrene. It screeched loudly as the magical blade left a huge fracture along the underside of its body. When the beast landed, it took a few shallow wheezes and a single step before the fracture slit its body along the center causing it to fall in two crystallized chunks.

My other hand was free, but now I was burdened with several of these wretched things hanging off me, their blades digging deep into my crackling flesh. My skin swelled, expanding, capturing the blades and trapping them a few inches in. The magical edges bit in, but the blades themselves were simply metal, they were trapped and I was stuck.

The pain filling my body from so many sources turned to anger, that anger inspired me to do horrible things. With one hand I seized one unwilling beast by it’s skull-like faceplate and tore it free from my side, losing a chunk of crystallized flesh that crumbled to dust. I used this flailing monstrosity and beat two other Striders with it, the blades cleaving the weak flesh into shattered glass. The others lodged in me were severed from me by my Can Cleaver, leaving their active blades stuck. Six down and a horde to go.

The thrashing remains writhed, even the bodies without heads continued to amble about on their remaining limbs, the odd devices built into their backs gleaming with power. The still struggling creature I held in my grasp jerked, twisted, then used it’s own forelegs to cleave it’s head off in my hand. To my surprise, this apparent suicide did not cripple it, it lunged at me, a headless pony bent on making me in its likeness.

Sequential strikes with the severed skull pummeled the crystallized stump of it’s neck, each violent kiss rending spiral fractures along its body until it shattered. The severed head fell to the ground with a dull thud and rolled away, the blade protruding from its forehead flickering a final time before dying out with a soft hiss.

“You fucking dense fucktard!” Gangrene groaned, rolling up on her side, “You fuckin’ chucked me!” Her anger faded as soon as she saw the state I was in and what I’d managed to save her from. “Celestia’s solarflarin’ orgasms, Steelgraft...” She stuttered, pushing herself up on the edge of the fountain’s basin.

The short reprieve ended within seconds, no time for words, Gangrene was tackled from behind by a cloaked creature that crackled into existence only after it had overtaken her, pinning her in place. The mare pushed up against it’s head with both hooves, trying to keep the beast from impaling her skull with it’s bladed horn. “Fuck fuck fuck!” She raised the Cornhusker revolver and swiveled it around, trying to shoot the beast in the dome-shaped pack on its back. The bullets didn’t penetrate the armor, and after three shots, the gun spat dry clicks.

I rushed to intercept the monster, dragging my energy blade along the ground in preparation to strike at the vulnerable underbelly. I didn’t get that chance, blindsided by a Strider flipping end over end, striking me countless times and flinging me against one of the black iron drop pods. It stuck it’s blades into the smooth metal, trapping me. It reeled it’s head back and lashed out, bladed ‘horn’ kissing the steel next to my left cheek.

Left, right, left, leaning my head to dodge the strikes that would end me swiftly. I had dropped my Can Cleaver, it rested, shut off, a few feet from my reach. There wasn’t enough room to wind up a punch, and I lacked the strength to just push the beast from its anchor in the metal wall. Instead, I grabbed it just above the mountings for the blades on its forelegs and squeezed as hard as I could, thrusting my head into it’s faceplate with as much force as I could muster as it reeled back to try stabbing me again.

Crack, crack, crunch.

On the third headbutt, the ceramic faceplate shattered, the mountings for it’s forelegs broke and the Strider lost balance, landing on it’s back with a shrill hiss. It’s rear legs were trapped, its tail blade came up between it’s legs, narrowly missing my ‘apple pouch’.

I tore the discarded blades from the pod’s walls and fed them into the disabled creature’s chest, silencing it instantly.

“Get this sun sucking dick bladed cherub offa me!” Gangrene howled, urging me to hurry. She couldn’t hold the creature off for much longer.

Rearmed with my Can Cleaver, I engaged the blade and advanced on the Strider, trailing the blade through the air and cutting it free of it’s bladed limbs. A swift boot to its ass sent it sailing off into the distance like a dart. It’s head mounted blade stung into a distant pillar and dangled it where it hung, twitching and thrashing with angry hissing.

“ ‘Bout fuckin’ time.” The mare chided, giving a soft groan as she sat up. “You look fucked up.”

“I am fucked up...” I added humorlessly while offering her a hand up.

“Two minutes until the fun starts.” The speakers announced with such enthusiasm I thought I might be at a Wonderbolt Race. “Oh, did you know we’re going to be having a party over here? You know, to celebrate the first step in our victory over the Northern Sector? If you survive, I will save you a spot at the table. I’ll even let you bring that little whore with you as a guest. She’s spunky. Just like your wife was, Captain.”

That smug, bastard son of a whore was more than getting on my nerves, it was a near salacious expression of lewd pleasure to consider ending him in the most humiliating of ways. The idea currently consuming the darkest reaches of my mind was to strip the skin off his flanks and stuff his wrappings so far up his aft he could taste his own poop deck. Creative methods of dismemberment was not one of the skill sets I attributed to my previous occupations, curious how such thoughts flickered through my mind like lightning bolts, inspired by some grim scheme of grand revenge.

“Get up, come on! We don’t have time to lay around!” My urging words had some profound effect on my companion, mostly in the expression of disdain I could read on the half of her face that was exposed through her helmet.

“I get it, give me a fuckin’ break!” She protested, rolling to her hooves and taking my offered hand. Once she was on her hooves she took two of the disembodied blade limbs the Strider had left behind, the powered blades still had some bite in them and they would make for good improvised weaponry in a pinch. Oh, and we definitely were in a pinch.

I felt like an adventurer, almost like that one storybook mare in the ruins of some old civilization trying valiantly to escape a death trap. The trap in question was akin to spiked walls closing in to the center, except in this situation the walls were hissing, angry, undead cyborgs that had once been fetishists for BDSM and scissoring. No, not the lesbian scissoring, but the violent cutting to bits scissoring that ended with a bloody, unrecognizable mess.

The hero from the books always escaped, someway, somehow. They thought of something to get away, to surprise the villain. Why think about something like that now? I’m flowing from abstract thought to abstract thought and I do not know why. Is it the stress, the pressure? I kind of like the pressure, the thrill of this situation is making my mind race at a thousand miles and I’m loving it.

“We got to the fountain, now what?” Gangrene asked, putting her rear to it while she raised her improvised blades. It was impressive, seeing her hand three weapons at once. I still couldn’t handle picking up a piece of paper with my mind, though my addition of opposable thumbs was useful for most activities--Like leaving knuckle imprints in a raider’s face.

“Earth tah Steelgraft, fuckin’ think! You got us into this fucking mess!” The mare was impatient, so were our assailants who came out from the dark corners of the area and charged from our sides, attempting to flank us.

“Onto the guillotine platform!” I decided, to give us elevation and some added distance between us and those shrieking freaks. It was me that climbed the ledge first, stepping one hoof into the coagulated soup filling the basin, breaking the jellied surface. My leg was eaten up by the congealed mess of mutilated body parts. “Damnit...”

Gangrene did not wait for me to cross to the other side, no, she used me as a stepping stone! A heavy iron hoof pushed between my shoulders, then another between my ears to carry herself across, careless as she ended up kicking me in the head to complete her accidental assault.

My face met the pool of fluid, breaking the scabbed surface, pressed into the bloody mess by the fleeing mare. Just my luck, I’m always getting covered in something. Pureed pony was just another gross thing to add to the list of ‘gross shit I have been covered in’.

“Hey, watch it!” I growled.

“You deserved it!” She countered belligerently.

The reason for Gangrene’s quick retreat to the fountain’s platform closed in behind me now. The air was saturated with shrieks and hisses, blades tapping along the ground in rapid rhythm. The dire circumstance was second in my mind to another inner turmoil, with the unconscious lick of my lips the coppery taste of blood danced on my tongue, sweet nectar of life. I felt hunger deep and wide, all encompassing, overwhelming. The threat of dismemberment was a chore of thought.

“Feed. You have to feed.” The little voice spoke to me in a hushed tone. “Feel better. Just a few bites. Yes, just a few. Nothing else matters but the taste of flesh.”

“Steelgraft, move your ass!”

My train of thought wavered at the voice, my eyes refocusing as I cast a glance upwards to the mare. She fired a few shots at the approaching wall of blades. I stole a single glance and swung my Can Cleaver during a hasty retreat, bringing a thin coating of blood pudding on my limbs. “You could always lick that off later!” My mind mentioned casually. “You know, scrape it off with a spoon while it’s still wet?” Shut up, me! My internal voice listened.

“What’s the deal? Going off to la-la land in the middle of this?” The mare berated me while keeping the Striders at bay with limited success.

“I don’t know, I’m hungry!” I shouted while keeping the bladed freaks from clearing the gap of the blood moat to get at us. Clearing the six foot gap was easy for the creatures, but getting at us on the platform elevated several feet above was beyond them when we knocked them down into the mud-like ooze below. Their blades got stuck, sizzling hotly and binding them in place like fast curing cement.

“Food at a time like this? Typical. Male. Did you stare at my metal covered ass too?” She huffed. Seriously, was this a time to talk about male tendencies in a formally female dominated society?

“No!” I countered. Why the hell would I be thinking about ass and food at a time like this? Well, in her defense she was right about me thinking about food. Well, cannibalism. I was just going to leave mentioning that out of any and all future conversations.

“Oh, how cute! A lover’s quarrel.” The voice over the Public Announcement System made more observant commentary. “You only have one minute left before the real fun starts.” He hinted ominously. “Sixty seconds. That’s all that’s left of your short, miserable lives.”

“Lovers?! Us?! I’ll fucking rape your dick with a corkscrew for even suggestin’ that!” Gangrene threatened while peeling a Strider’s bladed legs from the lip of the executioner platform. The beast fell back and got stuck, sealing itself under the quickly hardening blood pool. Magical energy and blood really didn’t do the mixing too well, and it was to our favor.

“Yeah, like she’d ever have a chance with me.” I affirmed grimly. “I don’t want to dip my wick in crazy.”

Gangrene grunted, turning to smack me upside the head with the flat of one of her improvised blades. “Fuck you, jerk!” She growled, “Get a bright idea or die quick, the real fun’s prolly where we both get really dead!”

Fifty seconds. Time was flying by. The curfew would hit, we’d be locked inside all night long with these things, and we had no idea how many of them had ridden in on those drop capsules.

“Think, Steelgraft! There is always a way.” I thought, flicking my eyes about the platform. This was our last stand, there was no other place free of the Striders. The body of the strange stallion lay nearby, wrapped in that ugly brown cloak. I wondered briefly if he was playing ‘dead’ or if he really had died. He could be a Cyberghoul, so it was best to keep my distance. The platform wasn’t very big, maybe ten feet wide and it had that massive guillotine in the center with the tall metal bars holding the blade up high, the table it was attached to looked like an old spa massage lounge chair with crudely made restraints. A chain dangled overhead, it was what allowed the blade to travel up along the two poles.

Tradewinds deliver us! That was it!

“The guillotine!” I shouted with joy. “That’s our way out!”

“I ain’t in the mood to joke ‘bout suicide.” The steel wrapped nightmare chuckled humorously. It was getting harder to keep the Deadmare off the central platform, they were attacking from multiple sides now. Gangrene moved faster, shifting her attention between multiple packs of Striders and making sure they didn’t make the jump.

Thirty Seconds. No time to talk, just enough time to do. I cut the guillotine from it’s base and leaned it back against the lounge chair like a ladder. It was just long enough to bridge the gap between the fountain platform and the second floor walkway just behind us, but only just barely. With a heavy ‘thunk’ the blade dropped down and rested on the bloody wooden nook at the base, waiting to be raised again by the chain.

This was the second time I would throw Gangrene today, much to her deep chagrin. She wailed, swinging madly as I dropped her right onto the blade’s mooring chain. “Wha the--Fuuuu aaaah!” She was forced to hook her forehooves around the top to keep herself from falling off as I gave the chain a mighty tug. Fist over fist I pulled, the chain rattled in my grip, to get the blade to its apex with its sole passenger. This was the first time in history where raising a guillotine's blade would actually save a life, maybe even two if I was lucky.

It was like raising a sail, something my muscles remembered and I did the motions with nary a thought. Gangrene was clinging on, letting loose expletives so vile that if they were weaponized somehow everything in a five block radius would be razed to the ground.

“Just hold on!” I roared, giving another tug. She was almost there! Over my shoulder I saw the Striders closing in. One hand raised my Can Cleaver from the floor and I spun, winding the chain around my body and striking at the same time. One went down in one clean strike, skull and torso split and fractured like brittle glass. The second nicked the chain and broke it, making the blade and my stomach both drop. I heard a short scream from Gangrene as the blade sped down. Nothing else mattered, except capturing the chain skittering across the floor. I dove for the chain and snatched at it twice before I pinned it to the ground.

My friend’s legs hung in the air, she was barely holding on. Below her was a sea of blades, swinging at her, making sparks dance off her armor and producing pained screams. I could smell burning fabric and hear a gentle purr in my ear as a Strider dug those magical energy edged blades into my armor. So, this was it--That’s how my story ends. I get to watch my friend get dropped into a blender and I lose my head to a BDSM amputee zombie robot. Wednesdays. I really hated Wednesdays.

“Any last words?” The stallion behind the voice asked cruelly.

No words, just violence; that was my response, it was to struggle to the last second, to the last breath. I rolled hard and slammed the Strider into the ground and broke free, quickly fastened the chain around it’s neck and kicked it off the platform. Gangrene was launched from the top of the guillotine and landed on the railing, slumping over it with a groan.

The mare shot a glance to me before she tipped over to ‘safety’. It probably wasn’t safe, but it wasn’t the blender I was currently standing in. If I was lucky, I could scale to the upper floor before another Strider interfered.

“Steelgraft, behind you!” Gangrene cried hoarsely.

I’m not a very lucky pony.

The ‘corpse’ was no longer at rest in a tangled heap of legs and cloak, it was at my throat with it’s hooves, a manic grin over it’s lipless face.

Violence, as far as I believed, is an expression of will against the world, a negative reaction to stimuli imagined or real. This foul beast expressed its will all over the space my head occupied, claiming territory between me and the guillotine, mashing me into it like a tidal wave breaking against a rocky shore.

A thousand disembodied voices that sounded like everyone I knew and would ever know came out in hollow, muted whispers. “Hello Captain.” The cloaked figure said without moving his mouth, “I’m afraid you’re out of time.” The voice echoed from inside my head. He parted his jaws, inhaling the air around me until I felt a chill.

3...2....1--The last grains of sand in the timer fell through, my time was up and the curfew was in effect. Strands of lights ignited all over, flickering to life with an audible electric humm. Colourful baubles strung along the front of stores and along the railings ignited the darkness and signaled that the curfew was in effect. The locking of the heavy gates at the main entrances was so loud that the echoing clang made the garlands strung from lamp post to lamp post sway. Soft, light Hearths Warming music began to play as the backdrop to this event.

The mad stallion behind this ‘cleverly laid’ plan let loose with cheerful laughter, announcing the official start of the celebration. “Oh, so the real fun does involve me dying in some overly complex improbable trap.” I thought bitterly, congratulating myself on seeing that coming. Maybe he was methodically stroking a cat and twirling a mustache as well.

Shnk, shnk, shnk; that in maddening multiplicatives was the sound of retreating Striders en masse, all together, just like clockwork. just as the star-shaped drop pods began detonating one after the other, sending rockets off into the air.

“Fireworks. He was going to kill me with a firework display. Flashy. Cunt.” My mind echoed. For once we agree, brain, for once we agree. What was up with that new, second voice though? “Get. Us. Out.” Simple, barbaric, and direct--I had to survive.

“The lights that come herald you, Captain. Those waiting on your words shall be saved from your foolish struggling.” The creature said through his teeth breathlessly, leering at me with his cold blue eyes that glowed with fire. The subtle tearing at the air became harsher, and even though I did not need to breathe, I found myself gasping and a sense of exhaustion setting into my already numb limbs.

That stare was mesmerizing, wrapping me in suffocating and absolute fear. Looking into those eyes, all I could see was every failure up to that point and how all I had done only made things worse.

“Hey, snap out of it! There’s only room for one self-deprecating voice of pessimistic reason in your head, and that’s me! Your ego! Screw this guy! Eat. His. Face.” Nothing says ‘problems’ like psychotic inner-commentary during a moment of extreme stress and tension!

The lipless face leaned in, his face inches from mine, black smoke curling from his nostrils. I could see why Gangrene had wanted me to leave without looking at him. I was staring into a reflection, a lipless, soulless reflection. The hair, eye color, and pelt all matched my own, like we were cut from the same cloth. It had taken my likeness, or perhaps, it had always looked like me somehow. I had too much to think about, too much noise, too much static.

“Do not look away. Don’t you see, we are made to finish what began with you.” The figure let the hoof fall back, all the wounds marring his skin grew black tendrils that wagged like tongues, parroting every word like an echo. “No matter what path you choose, those that rely on you will suffer needlessly.” His jaws were parted, even while he spoke, his sucking breath tearing at the air, the colours in his eyes became less vibrant, more muted, gray.

He laughed sickeningly. A cheerful, mirthful laugh of unbridled joy that increased in pitch every time he struck me or slammed me back, grinding the magical blades sticking out of me further into my flesh. His black tendril of a tongue lapped along my neck and up to my ear. “You should have kept dreaming.”

“I should have never went to sleep.” My body put words in my mouth, acting on its own, putting up a hopeless resistance.

THUNK! Salvation was a sheet metal guillotine blade biting between the cyber-ghoul’s shoulders. The cyber-ghoul went rigid then fell slack, eyes flickering like dying embers.

“Get up!” my mind roared. Now. There was no arguing with my instincts, I was up and ready to flee. The loosened bandages around my face fell, granting my sensitive eye a full blast of blaring red light, stunning me. Coupled with the remaining numbness I suffered, and the injuries I had sustained, blindness now topped the list of issues on my plate.

With one hand clasped over the left side of my face, I made out a blurry shape on the second floor above. A metal covered hoof was outstretched for me.

The thunderous roar of explosions raged, rockets exploded high over the net canopy, and the star shaped pods entered the grand finale of their display--which involved exploding one after the other. Flashy. Cunt.

Wings would really come in handy right about now, lacking those I would have to jump. Vaulting myself over the top of the overturned guillotine, I caught air and landed halfway up, clutching to the beveled pipes that once housed the slide of the blade, which sagged and folded in on themselves. I was not a lucky pony.

The red ooze of the fountain’s basin washed over me as I sunk several feet below the surface, the fire above searing the blood and bodies into a thick, charred mess. A concussive boom blew through the jellied mess of goo and I caught a mouthful. A wonderful, sweet mouthful of coppery, thick blood. Tasty.

Over within seconds, the world ceased its trembling. I punctured the surface of my jelly corpse prison with my fist and tore out, like a corpse from a grave. A grave of corpses. The taste of death was heavy on my lips, it felt good, my body didn’t ache, and the blades stuck along my body were pushed out by regenerating necrotic tissue. Water fell all around me, the fountain in the center creating a geyser of dirty water, the explosion must have broken open the water pipe running under it. The still burning leftovers of the drop pods sizzled as they cooled in the falling water.

A crater was all that was left of the square, everything had been blackened or warped in the heat. Plumes of smoke floated up, curling like twisting serpents into the dark sky above. Desolation, destruction, and no survivors. A few charred remains twitched, Deadmare that had been exposed to the detonations were disfigured but not dead.

“Are you still alive?” The PA system crackled, giving a soft hiss with his words. “If you’re not dead, don’t say anything.” A brief pause. “Good! I feel we got off on the wrong hoof...So, how about we go to the movies together? We can go see my all-time favorite movie, ‘Watching You Fail’ starring you. That’s what I’ll be watching. As for the movie you’ll be watching? You’ll be watching ‘Everyone Die’.”

That. Cheeky. Bastard.

Intermission

Meanwhile...

Deep within the sprawling complexes of the industrial park, one facility belched new fire into the air. An old smelting facility once owned by Robronco had been repurposed into the home of the Baker Barbarians, run by the fabulous fat one himself.

The giant smelting pots made for great fryers, and the massive furnace made many fine roasts at once. The catwalks were great for seasoning captives in batches as their cages dangled over boiling pots of oil. Watching the cooking was almost as fun as eating, so the banquet table had been arranged between the two rows of boiling pots, a hundred foot long monster of a table able to sit over one-hundred forty ponies. They had even installed several old chandeliers, remodeling the warehouse into a twisted mockery of what could be considered a fine establishment. Candelabras every dozen feet on the table, and a fine red carpet, so heavily stained with blood that it was scabbed over in places, spanned the entire length of the warehouse complex, from the massive double doors to the giant smelter furnace at the far end.

It was garishly ornate, and thrown together with the haphazard hoof that had no real eye for interior decoration. The warehouse decor matched it’s owner, no one in their right mind would put a pig in a tuxedo, and no one with a lick of sense would decorate a massive warehouse like a five-star restaurant. Senseless excess in every sense of the phrase.

Depriving basic necessities can drive one to commit heinous acts just to survive, time and time again this has been proven true. Starvation, famine, and loss can rob a once kind heart of all it’s good nature and replace it with the sheer desire to carry on. The removal of inhibition for the sake of perpetuating oneself and to protect what they hold sacred, no matter the costs to others. Muffincake was not any of those things, not anymore. He was just greedy, and while not always kind he was always hungry.

In the wastes there are the starving and the hungry, and there are the givers and the takers. There was a great imbalance between each set, mostly towards the takers. Muffincake contributed to this heavy imbalance with every pound of his girth. The glutton of Nommage Valley, the king of cuisine, he ate his way to the top by devouring his crushed rivals, cementing himself as the Warlord of West Central in Detrot and a very indecent and cruel piggy equine.

No matter how many lives he consumed or spared, there was an emptiness in every action, there was no filling the void within him that grew and expanded with each passing day. There were things he could never have for all the want in the world. He wanted the ultimate power, to give and to take as he so pleased, to choose who went hungry and those who did not--And feed the weak to the strong.

Bloated and beastly, with rolls of sweaty fat encasing a heavy framed monster, he seemed out of place at the head of a grand banquet table. Even he felt lost there, sitting at the head of such a massive slab of wood decorated by the steaming plates of his conquests. Feast after feast, and party after party, for every pound he gained his heart shrank. There was only one thing that could bring the sultan of flab any joy.

He still loved to sing. He would serenade his guests with an angelic voice, a deep baritone as he sang opera on a stage built specially to handle his weight. One would expect a ghastly squeal to sound from his fat, greasy lips, this pig wrapped in a tuxedo broke logic with his notes.

Tonight was special, it was his turn to pay tribute to the King of Detrot, a tribute from a vassal to his king. He sought favor of Hades, and to gain that he offered a settlement that earned his spite. The same place he had called home many years ago was to become an example to all those that opposed him. It was revenge, a dish served steaming. The same community that had left him starving and hungry were about to satisfy a different kind of hunger.

His hunger for power.

The massive beast, his body barely contained by the straining fabric of his moldy tuxedo sang a deep baritone. His song was accompanied by a small orchestra of captured musicians, playing poorly maintained and tuned instruments. They somehow sounded half decent, carried by the talent of the Warlord’s beautiful song.

A note was missed, an instrument’s string broke, and in a fast cascade all other instruments were out of sync, ruining the entire song. Muffincake could no longer sing, the screeching disharmony shattering his delicate concentration. A loud bellow of his angry roar silenced all play, spittle and the sour stench of rotten teeth making the musicians gag.

“No, no, no! This must be perfect! Perfect!” He roared at them, making each one of them recoil in terror. The dozen ponies chained together at the foot of his stage sought comfort in one another, huddling close as they watched their tormentor enter another fit of jiggly rage.

“Who broke the rhythm?! Who?!” He demanding, spraying them all with spittle, his multiple chins wagging with slick wetness, like extra tongues under his chin. His beady eyes scoured the crowd of musicians, his nostrils flaring wide.

None of the musicians spoke as one of the musicians held up her violin, one of the strings were broken. “It’s not my fault, the string broke, sah!” The young mare chimed, her eyes brimming with tears. “I’m sorry, p-ple--”

“Shut up! Somepony, get that instrument restringed! Now!” The loud lord of lard snarled. There was a hustle by several ponies to fulfill that request, all of them were gaunt and lean, their eyes sunken and cheeks hollowed. They were slaves, ever fearful of becoming an entree, they nearly fell over one another to fulfill his demand.

With the instrument restrung, it was presented back to the captive musician, who accepted it with shaky hooves.

“Well?” He belched out expectantly.

“I...W-what do you want, sir?” The filly squeaked, shrinking away as he set his hungry eyes on her once again. The young mare hated this, hated him, and wished she was back home, playing her violin for the baby radscorpions on Rad-Ranch.

“Aren’t you going to thank me, you little bitch? Didn’t your parents teach you better manners?!” He groaned, shifting his weight to relieve some pressure on his sagging belly. This produced a noxious and rumbling fart to leave between his asscheeks. “Ah, better.” He sighed in relief. Everyone else gagged while the porky cannibal seemed pleased with himself.

Mentioning her parents was a sore spot in her heart, mostly because he had eaten her parents. She bit back the bile in her throat and swallowed any vile words she had for him and offered a whimpering and false gratitude to appease the murderous stallion. It was shameful, to bow and grovel to the thing that made your life hell, but it was either that or he’d eat her and make her into a new pound of fat.

Appeased, the pudgemeister stallion swayed, half dragging his belly as he strode over to the musicians. He roughly tousled the mane on trembling filly’s head. “Dat’s a good little flesh hole. I can forgive a lil rudeness.” He said with a doting cheerfulness, before he began to put an uncomfortable pressure on her small head, making her kneel to the ground. “But so help me, you ruin my performance tonight, I will eat you alive one leg at a time.” He promised her, licking over her ear and wetly suckling at it, his drool running down her face like syrup and pooling at the hooves of every musician around her.

He resumed his spot at the center of the stage, leaving the now soaked and terrified filly to mull over her fate if she fail in delivering anything but perfection. He stomped once, his body jiggling. The music started, shaky and stuttering. Muffincake patiently waited for them to get into sync with each other before he parting his jaws wide to begin singing, not a single note left his lips before he was interrupted.

“Your Lardship!”

Once again, the Warlord had been interrupted in song, bothered by one of his chefs about the proceedings of tonight’s grad banquet. It had to be perfect, so he would forgive interruptions for such matters, but his mood was still fouled when the music had to be stopped again.

“What is it?” Muffincake gurgled, his head was unable to turn in the tight neck of his suit so his entire mass moved with him.

“My apologies, monsieur.” The chef paused, trailing a hoof at the air to clear the gag-inducing odor he caught in the air. He continued after pressing his apron to his snout. “W-we have a problem with the veal. The ingredients are most unruly.” The head chef spoke, his chef’s hat crooked on his head. The cook was a respected member of the clan, and his demeanor had always been like that of a true high class chef. The rough, red stallion was covered in burn scars, most of his pelt had been burnt away. He wore a comical apron that said, ‘Cun’t stand dah heat? Fuk U whure!’

A sigh passed his thick lips, Muffincake rubbing one of his fat cheeks with a hoof. “Weren’t you going to just roast them with your flamer, Cooke Cooke?” He asked, his voice full of false kindness. The chef was quite sensitive, and it wasn’t beyond him to ruin the food if he was disrespected.

“It’s so hard to marinade them when they keep....” The chef rolled his eyes back and lowered his head, “Keep takin’ a shit in the marinating vat.”

“Just drown them in the marinade!” The fat beast bellowed angrily, stomping hard on the stage. It groaned under the weight of his blow, creaking as he took a single step towards his head chef.

“But it isn’t the same! If they’re not alive when cooked, it taints the meat! If they marinate in shit they taste like shit. Shit shit shit!” Cooke Cooke shrieked, at a complete loss. “I cannot find my basters, it would be so easy if I could find my basters!” The red splotched stallion began to pace, cursing fluently. He believed someone had stolen his basters, perhaps one of the bakers? Though they were unified under the banner of the warlord, the separate clans still held disdain for one another.

“You bothered me during rehearsal for such a thing? Just borrow a spare baster from one of the bakers!” Muffincake grumbled, shooting the buck a long, disapproving glare.

“It was that Cuppycake, I know it! She ran off with most of the knives in my kitchen when you sent her out to Big Top! That bitch, I gut her when she gets back!” He spat, thoroughly unhappy with this. He tore his hat from his head and spiked it into the ground. “I cannot cook under these conditions!”

Muffincake never could grasp why the cooks and bakers had grudges against one another, the leader of their merry band was breaking up more fights than he ever liked. It was preferable to take out frustrations on tenderizing the meat mules than on fellow clans-ponies.

The heavyset warlord lumbered to the edge of the stage, shouting at the chef at the top of his lungs, “It’s either you cook or you get cooked!” He sprayed, his breath labored, sweat like droplets of gravy beading on his forehead and rolling down into the folds of his neck. He took great gulps of air and spoke in a strained tone, “Tonight must be perfect. King Hades is sending a representative here. One of his enforcers. Do you know how important this is? He’s recognizing us for our tribute! This winter, only I’ll have food! I’ll be able to give and take away, just like Hades does! He’s seeing my greatness! I choose who lives or who dies! Don’t make me choose for you right now!”

Cooke Cooke shrunk away, the stench of his master’s breath making him gag, his eyes watering. “I...I understand.” He coughed, backing away. “I’ll just go borrow supplies from the... bakers.” Cooke Cooke visibly cringed as he said such a nasty word. Bakers! How he HATED them. Unrefined cultureless sugar fiends, the lot of them!

“Good! No more interruptions.” He waddled back to the center of the stage. “The next snack that interrupts my rehearsal is getting eaten alive!” He promised with a savage snarl.

The music resumed, once again starting with a shaky, fearful tremor until it gained momentum. The bloated beast drew in a deep breath and was about to let out his first note when an unwelcome guest came clamoring into the grand hall of the warehouse.

The unfortunate fool was Hashtag, known for baking controlled substances into brownies. The dreadlocked, beady eyed green stallion was out of breath, dried blood smeared over his snout which was broken. He was carrying a boot in his mouth, and he spat it out on the stage.

Muffincake growled, storming up to the stage’s edge for the third time in a row. He brandished a meathook in his hoof and hooked the sharp point through one of Hashtag’s ears, hailing the squealing, thrashing stallion up onto the stage. “This had better be good!” He roared.

“Augh, w-wait, no! What’d I do?!” He whinnied, following the pull on his ear. He thrashed, squirming, gritting his teeth. “C-chill out boss, come on!”

“You’re lucky I haven’t started eating you hooves first, now tell me what the meaning of this is!” Muffincake replied, giving another firm tug with the meathook.

“A-ah! I gots news, man! Good news! I killed him! I killed him!” Hashtag squealed, tears running down his cheeks.

The warlord eased up on the sharp tugs, contemplating whether or not just to eat him or let him finish. Hashtag’s value was rather low on Muffincake’s list, but some of the clan would probably miss the ugly git if he ate him. “Who did you kill?” He asked, giving one single sharp tug.

“A-ah! I killed that guy! The guy with them stitches! The one that offed Chunky!”

“Really? And you brought me a boot as proof?” Muffincake gave a fierce tug and pulled the squirming stallion in close, so that his lips were right next to his ear. “Are you sure he’s dead? If you’re lying to me, you know what I’ll do to you.”

“I’m sure! The fucking shop exploded! Chunks everywhere, game over man, game over!” Hashtag bawled, “The boot’s all that was left!” This of course was a lie. The buck had fled with the boot at the beginning of the fight, fearing for his life. He had gotten away, witnessing the explosion from afar. He assumed everyone had died, and did not risk sticking around. He was just so eager to be rewarded for killing the same stallion that had wiped out his old crew.

“You’re certain?”

Hashtag nodded quickly, wincing as it pulled taught on his ear. “Y-yuh! Dead, I got him!”

Withdrawing his meathook, Muffincake let Hashtag tumble off the stage. “Good.”

“Wait, what about my reward?” The stallion squeaked, a greedy glint in his eyes. He scrambled up and rest his forehooves on the edge of the stage, tail flicking like a begging mutt.

“Oh, yes. Your reward.” He said before clearing his throat. “Cooke Cooke!” Muffincake shouted, attracting the attention of his head chef.

“Yes, my lord?” The burly singed pony asked, trotting up from the prep table near the large furnace. The kitchen was open so that those seated at the table could see the food being prepared. The fresh stock for tonight were housed in their cages, the ponies trembling in fear as they huddled together.

“Make Hashtag the centerpiece for tonight’s banquet...Raw.”

“What? No! I did whatcha asked! Please, no!” Hashtag begged to no avail, the scrawny pony was seized up by several chefs and dragged off towards the preparation tables. He was to suffer one of the most horrible methods of execution known to the Baker Barbarians, even worse than death by cupcake, which was a rather morbid execution that involved vivisection and baking.

When all was said and done, the boot was tossed off the side of the stage and the warlord began his practice anew. It went much better this time, in his opinion. Fear was a great motivator.

Of course, the cries of the captive ponies in their cages swinging over certain doom threatened to interrupt practice. The mournful cries of the warlord’s captive audience were silenced with violence, raider-ponies trotting along the catwalks continuously prodded their future meals with tesla tipped cattle prods if they so much as made a peep. Any reason was reason enough to play with the food while it was still alive, really. For many of the clans-ponies, it was just good fun.

The party was to occur at midnight, dinner was to be served at ten P.M. They all told time using the old factory clock that still worked, set into the wall over the foremare’s office. The foremare’s office was the heart of the smelting facility, where all the levers, knobs, and buttons that ran the place were located. Everything ran like a well-greased artery full of hot gravy. The heat stayed up, things got done. Not even the cold Detrot winters bothered them as long as they had something to burn in the giant furnace.

The clock dials read that it was five minutes til eight O'clock, which was when their part in the plan to destroy the trade center was through and the place was to be left for the Deadmare, a wounded animal ready for the slaughter. Within the hour the surviving raiders would return as heroes and enjoy a great feast to celebrate the successful tribute to Hades.

A massive set of double doors at the entrance rattled and slide open with a rusted squeal, silencing all other sound. An early special guest was about to give the warlord a heart attack, which was not a long shot at any means.

All attention moved to the door. It typically took at least six ponies to open it, but the massive beast did it all on his own. They stared in bewilderment as the cybernetically enhanced abomination peeled the door open. Muffincake was livid, at first growling as he stormed down the stage and up to the unwanted distraction, but with every wiggly step he became less angry and far more frightened, keeping a generous distance between himself and the creature.

It was a minotaur--a Deadmare minotaur. The large, imposing purple fleshed beast was nearly as wide at the shoulders as he was tall, hunched over and top heavy, like an upside down triangle. The forearms of the beast were grafted around a grotesque piston housing with several feet of tubing connecting to a tank of pressurized fluid jutting from his back. The pistons were topped with his large, meaty hands, mounted to the bulbous end with a set of massive bolts. Its glowing red eyes sat under a heavy brow, dark smoke curling from his nostrils. A barcode was emblazoned on its forehead, marking it as PP-011.

Riding on its back was another Deadmare, a much smaller one, hardly bigger than any other pony. This one was sleek, covered in a layer of shiny latex stitched together to form a second skin, a single tone white mohawk and white tail stuck from his stitched skin, a pair of glowing yellow eyes set into a ceramic skull-plate peered down curiously at the Warlord, one hoof pressing up against his cheek while the other rested on its companions head. A barcode on its chest denoted it as PP-012.

It was not one, but two enforcers of Hades. The Gravelords Tauros and Cradle Robber, two of the most socially active Deadmare known to any of the warlords active in Detrot. They were the talent scouts and social manipulators, Tauros being the intimidation and muscle while Cradle Robber used terror, intimidation, and creative planning to meet his ends. The inseparable duo was always seen together, mostly because Cradle Robber was grafted to Tauros, having lost his lower body at some point in the last century.

Muffincake stared for a long, silent moment, a short little fart broke that awkward silence and replaced it with a new off-brand of awkward silence. All weapons in the room trained on the two in the threshold of the doorway. No one fired, less they inspire the deadmare to enact a type of carnage they themselves wouldn’t wish even on their victims.

“Well isn’t this fancy?” Cradle Robber said in regards to the poorly over decorated factory. He tapped the top of the minotaur’s head and clicked his tongue. Tauros obeyed this non-verbal command and snorted, walking into the factory with a grisly slow pace. The passenger of the large beast was glancing at the windows on the right side, counting loudly to himself as he passed each one.

All of the cooks, guards, and even the captives stared. It was the giant purple minotaur in the room. It was there, it was an issue, but nopony wanted to talk about it. A few looked to Muffincake, expecting him to do something about it, giving a few less than subtle gestures to the massive thing in their base.

“Y-you’re early! Very early!” Muffincake finally managed to say, swallowing the large lump that now rose in his throat. “The party doesn’t start for another two hours!”

“Whenever I arrive it is the right time,” Cradle Robber paused his counting to address the warlord. He ducked his head over a hanging chain and resumed his counting once again.

Muffincake followed him, still keeping a generous distance. The Deadmare always made him nervous, mostly because they were so unpredictable. The mindless ones would attack just about anything, but the smart ones? Those were the ones you had to be wary of.

“I uh, I guess you’re right. It’s just ah don’t wantcha seeing everything before it’s ready at ten. T-that’s all!” He blathered on, trying and failing to keep a completely calm composure. He tried to make small talk, mostly by talking about the food they were preparing. “And we’re gonna make flash-fried ponies with powdered sugar. It’s ironic, too, since we’re frying them in giant pots where yah used to smelt iron!”

The raider leader had been told irony was supposed to be funny, but did not understand the word or its application. Cradle Robber found stupidity of this caliber charming, mostly because it typically meant that the person was easy to manipulate or trick. For the fat moron, this was completely true. If only all idiots were so easy to control.

“14...13...” The sleek Deadmare muttered. “Stop here...12...11...”

“I, uh, what’re you doing?” Muffincake asked, looking to where the minotaur was standing, then to the covered window. He licked his dry lips and shifted nervously.

“Oh, just trying to help with the festivities.” Cradle Robber replied. “Tauros, open the window, would you?”

Steam hissed and gurgled along the thick, segmented tubing going to Tauros’s massive forearms, priming the piston and cocking back the counter weight on the end of his elbow. The punch was so fast, no eye could follow it. In less than a fraction of a second, the fist had reached its final destination and created a burst of light that leveled a large portion of the wall and atomized the lead-line drapes. Tauros had a punch so fast the air would ignite around his fist, causing the air to expand and rush out--His built-in weapon was the lovechild of a battering ram and high powered cannon. He had two of them.

Most were floored by the shock wave while the daze duke of dough jiggled obscentely and almost toppled over.

“What’re yah doing?! You ruined the wall!” Muffincake shouted, his temper getting the better of him. “How dare you, showing up early is fine, but this?! The heat’ll pour out come winter time! This is an outrage!”

“Oh, you won’t have to worry about winter if you keep speaking to me like that.” Cradle Robber chuckled lightly. This shut the warlord up and reminded him his place in the food chain. “Now, calm down and enjoy the little show I’ve prepared.” A sleek hoof aimed to the horion, several miles away, the silhouette of The Blok and its tent-like dome could be seen. “It should be starting very soon.”

“You coulda just opened the curtain, ya-know.” Muffincake suggested, tugging at the tight neck of his ugly old too-small-for-him tuxedo.

“It wouldn’t have gotten my point across nor would it have been big enough for everyone to see through.” Cradle Robber replied boredly, as if he was explaining something a small foal should know by common sense.

“What’re we looking for?” Muffincake was looking out into the dark night, seeing nothing. He was growing tired of it within a mere two seconds, impatient creases forming on his forehead.

“Quiet. I’m giving him another few seconds. I need to transmit orders.” Cradle Robber hissed.

“W-what?” Muffincake dumbly asked, but was ignored this time. He took this moment to turn around and glare at those standing around uselessly, not working. The kitchen went back to production, and the bakers continued to mix and pour treats into pans for baking.

Then the fireworks began to go off over The Blok. Brilliant flashes of swirling light captivated all attention. Even Muffincake forgot to be angry or confused and simply soaked up the sight with his beady little eyes.

“This is for the party?” Muffin cake asked, drool sliding down his chin.

“Oh, no, it’s for a very special guest. I just figured you might enjoy seeing a once in a lifetime event.” Cradle said with surprising pleasantness.

The entire display lasted less than a minute and a half, but it was the most lovely thing any of them had ever seen. It gave the caged ponies, fearing for their very lives fleeting hope to fly. It gave the raiders tripping on drugs a near spastic breakdown of sanity. It also gave one epileptic raider a fatal seizure.

“That was the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen!” Muffincake spoke, still staring out into the darkness, long after the last rocket exploded. He was disappointed to see the show end, and the glutton grunted. “I must have more of these soon. Yes. More pretty lights!”

“I’m afraid that was a once in a lifetime event. Literally.” Cradel Robber sighed, resting his hoof against his cheek. “For you and your clan.”

Muffincake growled, backing up from the deadmare creature. “That sounds like a threat!” He spat. The other raiders lost their calm demeanor and trained their weapons on the Deadmare. While they had no guns that would harm a creature like this, their Can Cleavers and Bolters were particularly effective at taking down a Deadmare.

That was why Hades wanted them all killed and converted.

“That’s because it is.” Cradle Robber chimed. With a silent smile, he ordered all the Strider and other assorted Deadmare units to stream in through the gaping hole he just made in the wall moments ago. The surprised raiders were overtaken quickly. With their best fighters having left to assault The Blok, there were few with the skills to handle an assault of this magnitude.

Tauros watched the assault with a sense of pride, the plan had come together so well! He saw the fat warlord fleeing out of the corner of his eye and ordered Tauros to snatch him up. “Oh no-no-no, school’s in session I’m afraid!” Cradle Robber spoke playfully as Tauros’s large hand wrapped around the fat, squealing pig of a pony. “I want to teach you the true meaning of irony!”

The fate of Muffincake is sad, fast, and painful--The fat pony was dunked into one of the iron smelting vats filled with boiling oil. His fat protected him from cooking alive quickly, creating a crackling buffer of cooked, gooey fat and skin around his vitals. This was poetic justice, a death slow and painful. The warlord, still alive, became the centerpiece on the table for the next part in Cradle Robber’s plan.

By the end, not a single raider was spared. The helpless ponies in the cages were ignored for now, under order, and the captive musicians trembled, huddled together. They were left unharmed as well, also under order.

The imposing Gravelord came before the stage and sat on the edge, chuckling lightly. “Oh, that was fun. I suppose it’s time for clean-up.”

The bodies and remains we collected by tall, lumbering draft-stallions on stilted legs, with empty chests meant to house remains for transport back to the Dead Zone. Deadmare never left bodies behind, ever. It was a foolish thing to do, wasting resources, and it was also an effective calling card.

“Well, aren’t you a quiet, sad looking lot.” Cradle Robber purred gravely, placing a hoof on one of the minotaur’s horns and tugging it. He spotted a boot on the stage. What was it even doing here? He perked one of his chewed ears and let out a dismissive snort. He had Tauros snatch up the boot and hurl it out the gaping hole in the warehouse--The boot would sail a good mile away. He liked to imagine it would collide with someone’s head or ass, with comical yet fatal results.

“Please...don’t hurt us.” The first to speak was that little filly with the violin.

“Oh, no, child! I won’t harm a single one of you--Not yet. I still need you alive.” He reassured her with a sharp-toothed smile. “At least for the next two hours.”

“Erph!” Tauros grunted, letting out a soft, rattling moo.

“What is it?” Cradle Robber demanded, giving a little frown. He followed the minotaur’s gaze to the scared, sobbing little filly and swiftly figured out what Tauros wanted. “Fine! We’ll use her as the messenger!” Cradle Robber agreed.

With a heavy hand, the bull reached into the group and pinched the shackle chain, his beveled fingernails clipping the filly’s legs free. He scooped her up and looked her over. “Hrmph...” He gave a pleased grunt and set her down facing the hole in the wall.

“Remember where you saw those fireworks?” Cradle chuckled, “You’re going to walk that way--Halfway there you’ll run into a stallion with skin stitched like mine. give him this.” The sleek creature tossed a small envelope to the shaken mare. “It’s his invitation. Do this and you live.”

The shaken filly scooped up the invitation and held it between her trembling lips. She stared at the monster, then to her discarded violin.

“EB-259, provide motivation.” Cradle ordered. One of the bladed Striders leapt down from the catwalks and shrieked, chasing the mare off.

Everything was going according to plan. The villain had no mustache to twirl or cat to stroke. No, instead, he sat at the head of the table, demanded music to be played, and Tauros ate a large leg of roast pony while they waited. Watching Muffincake’s half-cooked body wheeze was almost therapeutic.

Character Progress Review

Oh wonderful, it looks like you might be going insane. Not only are you intellectually subnormal, but now you talk to yourself in bold as well as italic. Fine, here’s some exp. You reached level seven! Gangrene leveled up too.

Chapter 10: Home Movies

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"Home Movies"

Some memories are better off forgotten.

If you wanted anything, you had to pay for it, that was just how it worked in this world now. Usually the payment was pain and loss, I paid that in spades, usually for a small little pot. Fold or go broke.

What was I paying for this time? How does that saying go? Oh, that’s right, ‘no good deed goes unpunished’. That’s how we got into this whole mess, isn’t it old girl? We didn’t share, nor care about anypony else but our own. It should have stayed that way. My gang would still have their lives and my home wouldn't be a burning crater. Maybe things would be different now if I hadn’t tried to play hero.

Should have folded, could have run, would have made it...

It was a bad investment, and it was never going to pay out. Not now, not ever. I missed out on the chance for my score. Hindsight’s 20/20 and I do have a pretty nice ass, so I find myself looking back a lot. It didn’t do me any good.

There was plenty to think about when your life flashes before your eyes, an eternity in a single blink or the quiver of a quim. Nothing special to see, just the same old shit. The last thing I wanted to think about before I died was the “Dick-Beef Rangers” but that’s what I thought about.

They said I’d be buried in this armor, it would be the highest honor, armor was usually recycled for the next generation of rangers. Some damn honor that would be, I hated that job, and the life grafted to it.

The pay sucked. The company sucked. The sex was bland. This sucked too. Actually, some of the sex was pretty alright, I got to nail this sexy dyke of a mare pegasus, she was spicy, a real dynamite gal. I was feeling a bit randy thinking about it, a welcome experience compared to the concussive blast blowing out my eardrums. The seat of my armor was getting soaked on the inside, whether it was my arousal or me dumping my bladder in armor-soiling terror briefly reminded me of my most embarrassing secret--That I used to wet the bed as a filly. I’d take that personal knowledge to my shallow, unmarked grave.

The explosion floored me, skidding me a good twenty feet across cracked concrete, kicking up a shower of sparks to the cry of twisting metal. My armor was scorched black, the self repair was working at a snail’s pace to patch the damage, but it didn’t have the materials to do it. The heavily battered compartment that held scrap metal was flattened against my side. Visual systems seized, blinding me to everything except for my life flashing before my eyes.

I sailed into a storefront that collapsed around me, submerging me in a bath of ancient stucco and paint chip covered plaster. A chalky pile of moss eaten ceiling tiles and garbage bags softened my fall. A small family of radroaches became paste on my armor. I landed in the store everyone dumped their trash before it got carted outside. Trash day was Wednesday. Lucky me.

My helmet slid off my head, greased by my sweat--I felt that distinct, uncomfortable soreness over my temples, where two metal pieces in my helmet always rubbed raw. A sickness wriggled in the pit of my stomach, and to spite myself I drew in a sharp intake of hot, smoke polluted air before I colored the ground with my acidic feelings. Carrots? When the fuck did I eat carrots?

A few curious bugs roused up from the nearby bales of trash. Some flocked to my spew and began ‘cleaning’ the mess. The sight made me vomit again, right on top of them. They didn’t care, I was just another overflowing trash can.

Tremors pulsed through me, making my sore insides squirm. My armor was busted, there was no auto-injector working to numb my pain with pre-loaded Med-X. I hurt and felt queasy, shaking to the very tips of my hooves. My matted mohawk, heavy with sweat and diluted grease became an irritation to my eyes.

“Fucking...Ow.” I grumbled, unable to do more than sit on my metal clad ass, I rubbed my temple in slow circles. I couldn’t even hear myself, just that piercing squeal associated with shell shock.

One of the bugs paused in their feasting to give me a sordid glance. I grunted, “The fuck you lookin’ at? Eat your carrots. They’re good for yah.” The bug’s antenna flicked in my direction before it continued eating those mushy orange contents of my stomach.

It was hard to see, it was hard to think, it was hard to stand, even in motor-assisted power armor. I shook my head, scattering sweat. All my limbs were attached, I still hated everything about tonight, but one thing was oddly missing.

“Where is that idiot?” I demanded nopony in particular, “Staplecock? Staplecock, where are yah?!”

I looked around, the swinging pulse in my head thudding into my skull as I subjected myself to whiplash. I dug into the trash pile, threatened a few radroaches, and came up empty. He was nowhere around. Oh...That’s right, he had been in the fountain square. The same fountain square that was now a smoking crater.

Great. I’d be pissed at him if he wasn’t fucking dead! He got us into this mess, then he left me in it by getting himself killed. But he did save my ass, again. Then, when he needed me, I couldn’t do shit to save him. That double-dead douche, making me feel guilty even from beyond the grave!

In all my twenty-nine years I'd never met someone quite like him, for one, he was an abomination, something we all hated, a Deadmare. He looked like them, like all of them--white pelt, blue eyes, and red mane. The mass produced ones, the most common of them all shared those same features. No one really knew why they were all the same, but there was a theory that they were all spawned from Hades, who was some giant demon bug spawn of some sort from a distant planet. I personally liked the story of how they were all BDSM sex factory workers that were cursed by Discord for using his magic soda water as sex jelly.

He was probably clueless about all of that. I had no idea why I had tried to protect him from discovering that for himself, I could care less either way. Now it didn’t matter. Nothing really mattered.

Every idiot has their purpose, as I always say. He had proven plenty useful, shame he had to be a bleeding heart. He was an atypical male, a rare gullible, refined type of idiot that must have only been able to thrive in the peacetime before the war.

He wasn’t special, he was just defective. Now he was dead.

I tried to see it like he did, which is why I came with him, hoping to be some big damn hero. I should have listened to my gut and looked after me, myself, and I.

Fuck being a hero, it doesn’t pay to do anything for free for someone you don’t even know. So why did he do it?

I hated him.

Now all that was left was to pick up the damn pieces again and go someplace else. Get out of here, probably take the kids back to Greenvale Heights, tell em’ that Steelgraft’s dead. That The Big Top Blok fell. Those Striders that fled could be anywhere, so I could still be rightly fucked. Not like today could be much worse.

I might as well check that crater, I owed dick-butt that much, at least. Maybe I could peel some bit of him off the ground for a memorial in a tupper-mare box. Shambling step after shambling step, I ignored the pain, grit my teeth, leaving empty shells of my twisted armor.

Only my chest piece remained by the time I was peering over the twisted railing, wondering what to give as a eulogy. Cooling water rained down on me, feeling pleasant on my face. I took a deep breath, trying to wrangle my conflicting emotions. I had to say something nice, just once, just say something nice.

“Why did you have to die for nothing?” I started, talking to myself. No one else was around, unless you counted some of the horribly disfigured corpses in the crater. I wondered which one was Steelgraft. I was off to a bad start.

I bit my tongue, my nostrils flared and filled with smoke, I drew a breath and failed to swallow my spite, my lips curled over my teeth in disgust. “You idiot! You stupid idiot! Why, why, why the fuck did you care?! Why did you keep helping me? Why did you keep me indebted to you?! How could a piece of hardware and rotten meat pretend to care about anything?! You were just a defective piece of crap! Captain, Steelgraft, Whoever the fuck you really were, this is all your fault!”

My chest heaved, I choked, gagging and belching between gasps for air. I felt worse instead of better. The air was clear of my anger, but smoke still billowed heavily from the open casket of the once lively mall square. Dead, all dead. There would never be laughter here again.

That’s all there was to say, it was over before it ever really began. Typical. Unfastening the last of my armor, I planned to throw it off into the macabre fountain only to capture a new, wholly unwelcome surprise.

With a thud, a beast covered in bloody, muchy leavings landed before me--It must have barely survived, it was unrecognizable, covered in filth and burnt gore. I belted the beast in the head firmly with my chest piece with a fully powered toss of my telekinetic magic, it took the last of my focus, and a blood vessel in my nose burst, spewing blood all over my target like some pseudo-defense mechanism.

THWOCK!

The creature stumbled from the braining, sloughing off a coating of the caked on pony puree. I dove, taking the beast down. I knew a few more blows to the head might finish it off, and the nearest cinderblock was over my head in both my hooves.

“Just fucking die, you stupid freak!” I growled and slammed it down, the beast raising both it’s hands in defensive reflex, two sets of glowing eyes and jagged grins looking up from the muck.

“Gah, come on, Gangrene! You should be happy I’m still alive!” Came the whining, yet somehow still calmly irritating voice of my formerly deceased companion. He moved his hands, shifting away the crumbled fragments of the cinder block I had just crushed against him.

Staring, that’s what I did. It was all I could do, with blood running thickly from my nose and down onto his face. My mind comprehended that he was alive, but my emotions were conflicted, even more so. Apathetically, I slid off of him and let him pick himself up.

“So, you’re still alive.” I said, wondering how much of my eulogy to him he might have heard. “I guess luck’s on your side...” I pulled out a thin cigarette from my supply pouch and settled it in the crevice of my lips.

“I’m pretty sure luck’s my dump stat.” He replied, shaking himself out like some kind of mutt.

The flung viscera ruined my fag, the falling water had already drenched it, but I just wanted to blame Steelgraft. I tried to light it anyway before I threw it away in vicious disgust. “Fuck.” I added, poignantly.

“So, you’re not even the least bit curious on how I survived that?” He said expectantly. What did he expect, a medal? Maybe he expected a thank-you for saving my ass again.

I didn’t give it to him. “Oh, no, I ain’t the least bit reflective on your miraculous rebirth crawling from some floppy fat cunt. I’ve got loads of more important questions on my mind.” I sucked in air through my teeth, “Like where the fuck the cutlery crew went, how many there were, oh, and also, where I can get a smoke because that was my last one!”

He shrunk away, gazing at the back of his freaky prosthetics, “Yeah, uh, sorry about that.” Sorry was never going to be enough, he owed me for all this shit. The dolt turned around, looking at the ruins of the mall square thoughtlessly for a brief moment, going still and silent. Broken, again, this time it was only a few seconds, a stutter of function. “There were a hundred and fourteen individual IDs.” He stated firmly. “Seventy are still online.”

“Seventy? Oh, sweet fuck...Mind telling me how you know that?” That was a fucking lot, the explosion and Steelgraft’s meager fighting skills had taken out a decent chunk, but the lion’s figurative share was still out there, prancing around gayly to the music of screams like drugged up psycho ravers covered in deadly glow sticks.

“I don’t know.” He said, flicking the last of the crud off of him, and then using the falling water to get clean. He was looking better now, and I could have sworn I saw him licking my blood off his own face. “I just know.”

That was good enough for me, probing any deeper into the mystery that was the Deadmare would just lead to more sleepless nights of peppering my gash to a lewdy mag with a rifle close to my side. “Oh, the mysteries of the universe are boundless as they are fucked. Any idea where they went, Defective Detective?”

My insult didn’t bother him, either he was the most patient stallion I'd ever met or he didn’t mind me taunting him. Either way, he was an idiot and all of this was somehow his fault. It had to be, somehow. He kicked a rock into the chasm, his ears cresting back against his skull. “They’re heading for the movie theatre.”

Several tons compressed my chest, anvils of woe came crashing down upon my shoulders and a renewed throbbing in my forehead threatened another rupture, this time from my other nostril. My blood felt like ice cold barbed wire, forced through my veins by a heart that raced as if I was in a derby.

“What?!” I choked, “That’s where everyone is holed up! That’s the panic shelter! It’s fortified!” Oh goddesses above and daemons below, every rational thought screamed at me that no place was safe and no fortification stood up to the Deadmare long. They were already dead, all of them. Nothing we could do would save them now.

It felt horrible, but I was already thinking of running away, to save myself the trouble. The front gate had scaffolding I could climb, if I was careful enough, getting over the electrified gate by jumping off the guard station was possible. I formulated this plan, tracing my eyes along the uneven cobblestone tiles in the direction of the front gate around the smoking crater.

“Come on.” I ordered gruffly, stumbling to my goal, my own salvation. When I heard Steelgraft’s blatant hoof steps get further away, I looked over to see him walking the opposite direction.

“Where the hell are you going?” I demanded. A single plume of smoke curled between us, the area now drenched like it’d been raining for hours.

“I could ask you the same question,” He spoke with a calm tone, I felt like he was condemning my choice.

“They’re all dead! How long has it been? Three, four minutes? They’re all dead! Completely, irrevocably integrated into Hades’ bosom!” I yelled, spitting venomously.

“I won’t know until I check.” Came a simple minded response.

“You mean like this time?!” I pointed at the crater with a hoof, grunting as I stumbled. “Look, fucking look! You’d rather rush into another potential trap to save some folk you know shit all and die instead of foldin’ tah live another day?”

The crater received only the faintest of glances from the half brainless meat machine before he shrugged, turning around. “Yeah, I guess.” He said before he began to trot off, to leave me behind.

I winced, my lips curling in rage. The fact that I needed that dolt right now sickened me more deeply than anything else, I was too banged up to survive a night outside without shelter, and I couldn’t stay here. “No! Steelgraft, I need you with me! I’m fucked up, those things will eat me alive out there!” Was I begging? I was actually begging, wasn’t I? Maybe I should just prostrate myself before him and call him highness, it made me feel sick to ask a stallion for help.

He stopped. “Maybe you’d like to come with me?”

“Fuck no,” was what I wanted to say, but I found saying that phrase at this moment impossible. My lips mashed against themselves, working against my efforts to speak. I looked like an idiot, stuttering and mumbling to myself in the rain. The stallion grew further away.

“Why the fuck do you care?! You hardly know them!” I shouted, my ability to speak returning with a surge of anger I felt at the stupid git.

He didn’t stop this time, his response came back to me, faint but firm. “You know them, why don’t you care?”

“I really hope I live to regret this.” I panted, limping along Steelgraft as we kept up a brisk pace along the beaten path. We left a blur of shops and mangled, nailed up corpses behind us. It just occured to me, while stumbling along, that many of the corpses nailed up were pointing a particular direction, like signs.

More corpses were nailed up along the way, a dense forest of cadavers. Some were picked clean, some were chopped up. The ground was littered in cuts and scrapes. The Striders followed these bodies like markers. The Baker Barbarians were the pied pipers of the ever-hungering dead, leading them straight to the highest concentration of resistance. The only place they themselves couldn’t take, where everyone had been told to go because it was safe. Well, it was supposed to be safe.

“I’m just glad you came along, it’d be a dull FAP without you.” Steelgraft joked facetiously. He couldn’t take a single thing seriously.

“What?! I ain’t rubbing one out with you! Even if we’re gonna die, even if you were the last nice ass in Equestria, never!” I spat in response, which made him laugh.

“No, it stands for ‘Field Action Plan’.” He informed me.

“That’s the dumbest fuckin' acronymn I’ve ever heard!” I huffed, breathing in ragged, uneven pants. My mohawk flopped into my eyes during our sprint and I had to constantly shake my head to clear my eyes.

“See, Headcase? I’m not the only one who thinks it’s stupid!” Steelgraft muttered, giving a snort.

“...Who’re you even talking to?” I asked, already at the conclusion that he was seriously whacked in the head.

“I’m talking to Doctor Headcase.” Steelgraft replied. “You going to be okay? You’re starting to fall behind.”

I was falling behind, he was at least a yard or two ahead, when previously I had been in the lead even with my injured leg. The lumbering meat sack wasn’t as fast as me, but my endurance was finite. The competitive streak I had, while not as strong as Keena’s, was more than strong enough to spur me on a while longer, overtaking Steelgraft in seconds.

“You’re a headcase!” I smartly replied, extending my tongue at him and blowing a long string of ‘pbbtttttt’. I have him a nice view of my ass to stare at while we made great time for the Theatre. As much as I wanted to run away and survive, another part of me foolishly prayed that everyone would be alright.

We only had a little bit further, at the most it was a short eighth of a mile to get to the theatre from the square. The large, beaten structure loomed over all the other shops in the distance, with a large sign proclaiming ‘Cinemane Cinema’ hanging askew. The ‘C’ in Cinema was hanging only by a single rivet, and it swung back and forth. That was Bitch Fits’ favorite place to perch, the bitch of a pegasus could always be spotted there on rowdy nights, she wasn’t there now, for obvious reasons.

The faster pace was short lived, snuffed by my desperate need for rest. My lungs burned for air, my empty stomach growled, and my injured leg trembling with every forced step. My ass collided with Steelgraft’s face, making him sigh in disapproval. He dropped his head and came up under me, tossing my onto his back like a fat sack of potatoes. I grunted, the wind leaving my lungs and coming back in an inward curse.

“What thah buck fuck’re you doin?!” I hissed, forced to wrap my forehooves around his neck to avoid slipping off. I liked to imagine that I was strangling him, squeezing the life from him for adding this discomfort to me, especially when his short, bristled tail was ground against my sensitive feminine qualities.

“Wh--Hek...” He tried to speak, but my grip was blocking air from leaving his throat. It wasn’t like he’d suffocate, so I kept him quiet by squeezing harder. His bomb collar scraped against my fur, digging in. Ideas of tightening the collar so he couldn’t speak crossed my mind. Twice. No, at least three times!

Steelgraft was a ride smooth and pleasant as a sandpaper dildo. The ignoble steed, the pale horse, I was literally riding on an avatar of death. I held on tight, eyes shut tightly, yelling at him for every bump or jump he made. He responded with gurgled half words, which was a far cry from complete silence.

I opened my eyes, watching the shops rush by, the air in my face cool against my cold sweat. I occasionally saw a Left-Over, a remaining Baker Barbarian eating a charred, cooked corpse nailed up, but that was infrequent. Steelgraft bowled one over before he even saw us thundering down the road. I snatched the Bolter from the trampled corpse in my weak TK field. Swag. Doing so forced me to loosen my grip, enough so that regrettably I’d have to listen to Steelgraft talk again.

“Damn, Gangrene, I thought you were used to riding bareback.” A joke, the first thing he said was a joke about me being a whore?

His comedy was rewarded with some slapstick of my own design, I cracked him soundly on the back of the head with my newly acquired Bolter. “Ha-ha, you split my sides. I haven’t ridden on another pony’s back since I was a little filly!”

“Ooomph!” He grunted, his stride wobbling before he corrected it, despite the rather small welt he earned, he laughed, “Wow, got started early on that career path?”

I delivered another correction with a firm crack before I tugged his mane with my teeth. I regretted that, oily, sick, and musty--his mane hadn’t been washed in ages! I licked the grit from my teeth and spit. “Yeah, cuz I’d totally fuck my dad! Moron.”

“You know I can’t feel that, right? It’s just annoying.”

“Oh, then I guess I can do it harder, maybe you’ll learn to not be so stupid!” I growled.

“That’s just beating a dead horse.” He said smugly.

“I wish you had an off switch...” I muttered.

The rest of the ride, while unpleasant, was quiet. Steelgraft focused on the final stretch, cutting around a corner to lead us into the courtyard just before the theatre. The ticket booths were barren, remains of Baker Barbarians were strewn about, and there was a barricade in front of the long sets of doors.

The same movies were being advertised as they had been since I had rented a place in this dump. ‘Trony’, ‘The Hayn’gover Pt. 3’, ‘Captain Equestria’, and ‘Transformares 3: The Darkside of Nightmare Moon’. I’ve never seen any of those movies intact, the projectors were mostly trashed, and the last one that barely worked was used sparingly for fear it’d finally break and many of the old film reels were aged and decayed. All the film reels were spliced together, blending them into a jarring, incoherent mess.Still, they were good, even when the plot was untranslatable and random. Only here could a romance scene in a sci-fi setting followed by a pie tin showdown in a spaghetti western find common ground.

I had many good memories here, with the kids and my gang. Sneaking in radigator jerky under the watchful eyes of Misfit guards that gouged for caps at the concession stand, and even that one time I snuck up to the VIP seating and gave the saucy pegasus mare, Bitch Fit a firm tongue lashing twix her hooves.

Those memories, while pleasant, were ill suited to prepare me for the worst yet to come. I wasn’t going to making any happy memories here, I knew that. This was a trap, it had to be. Dealt a trash set of cards to win a priceless pot, this joker had better become an ace.

The fastest way inside was over the barricade and into the building. We hadn’t heard any fighting yet, which was either really good or really really really bad.

Click--The sound, quiet and ominous alone, but in a group, synchronized at once in a rehearsed fashion was a terrifying break in sanity.

Guns--About one-hundred all leveled in our general direction. It was the third highest volume of firepower that had ever been pointed at me, the highest amount was the time I left the Steel Rangers. The second most barrels ever to be pointed in my direction was on a saucy night at Donuts Extreme during bachelor night. So many sausages, all attached to morons.

Their angry gazes said, “Fuck you, Gangrene, and the horse you rode in on!”

I just imagined all the guns were cocks, and all the angry faces suddenly were comical. The gazes that said “Fuck you,” orchestrated a different definition to me, one that involved pounding my territories with suppressive fire. The best part was the mares, who for some reason had bigger guns than the stallions. Heh, futanari...

All the armed critters here were on edge, they all heard the eruptions and felt the shocks of the building shaking from that pyrotechnics show. I’d shoot most anything that came in through the front door sideways if I was them.

“Woah, woah, hold your fun guns!” I urged them as I slid off the back of my mildly stunned, stupid steed. “I’m on your side!”

The guns shifted off me and found a home with their crosshairs on Steelgraft. Somepony in the collection had a laser site, one single red dot settled right on his nose like a deadly little bee.

“Wait, I’m with her!” Steelgraft said while slipping behind me, a plank hiding behind a toothpick. “Come on, Gangrene, tell them!”

The Misfits, shop owners, and various other armed civilians were known for this brand of hospitality. Negotiating while kissing a barrel was common place for newcomers, especially ghouls. Poor Steelgraft was worse than a ghoul--He was something most people feared, avoided, or outright hated on the best of days.

“My faithful steed’s collared, he can’t hurt a non-hostile without his head touching the ceiling.” I reminded those present, sidestepping and tugging on the collar about the white stallions neck with a flicker of my horn’s weak magic. “Yah kin open that can of worms, I promise he’ll make you eat every wiggly woe inside.”

Most guns stayed leveled, centered on the bomb laden freak of nature. A rather boisterous merchant bellowed from the back as he stepped to the front.

“Hey, calm friends, I know this buck! He cannot even break clipboard!” The rotund male wore an armor of leather with clipboards fastened to it. Indigo, the owner of Indigo’s Indestructibles. That guy liked everybody, it wasn’t a stretch he’d take a shining to an enslaved toaster.

“Oh, look! Indigo’s alive!” Steelgraft shouted, waving at the fat stallion who waved back with greater enthusiasm than could ever be warranted.

The tense atmosphere cooled a bit, and the ponies backed off, moving to the concession stand or mingling near the restrooms. They muttered amongst themselves. The line at the concession stand was refilled, ponies were waiting for their chance at some rations, medical or otherwise. Red ropes on clips strung out between small based pillars separated the lines. The beige wallpaper was cracked and peeling, with movie posters in cases advertizing movies that would never be seen. It was the same as it’d always been, I had never seen it so packed before.

Wall to wall sweaty, worn bodies! The carpet, while red, had never had such a fresh or widely spread coating of new red. Many of the folk waiting in line were injured, in various stages of exhaustion, and burns of varying degree. Only one of the registers at the concession stand was open, handling one citizen at a time.

“Thanks for covering for me.” Steelgraft chuckled, “I felt a little on the spot there.”

“Don’t mention it.” I responded.

“No, I really owe you one.” He pushed, tugging at his explosive collar.

“Maybe you’ll let me tighten that collar so you can’t talk anymore?” I teased, “Then put that mouth to the only thing it’d be good for.” I batted my tail at his snout and focused my eyes over the lobby. “For now, we need to find Bitch Fit and tell her the Striders are coming. No idea why they’re not here now, but lets not punch a gift horse on the mouth.”

“But if I can’t talk, I can’t tell you how pretty you are anymore.” He chimed with that usual flippant tone. I was wearing a big grin at that, too. Every mare is guilty of loving compliments, I was no exception. If he kept buttering me up, I might warm up to him a little more...And by warm up I meant ride his face like a saddled bronco.

“I think they’re cloaked somewhere outside, waiting for us to leave.” He theorized succinctly.

“You’re prolly right, coming in here to this fire power through a choke point? They’re monsters, but not mindless. They’ll gank us the second we make a move out of a ‘safe’ zone...Or find another way in.” I grit my teeth, thinking of all the stories I’ve heard about sieges waged by the legion of Hades Eternal.

The stories were always the same; a single Deadmare arrives, sometimes it’d kill someone, sometimes it just left. Shortly after, a horde would appear, an all out extermination would follow, and not a single body would remain. There were ghost stories that involved survivors moving to a new settlement and making home there only to be killed by a Deadmare that looked like a relative or loved one that died during the siege of the previous settlement. The moral of the story? There are no survivors. Ever.

While grim, that was the reason why Steelgraft was so hated--neigh, barely tolerated. The only thing keeping him from being attacked was the blinking light on his collar telling everyone he was hacked--A repurposed tool, one under control. Selling him under contract would have been a golden ticket out of this dump, I missed out once already. After his three day holiday was over the collar would come off, then I’d be free to sell him under contract for big caps.

Once I was rich, it was the high life for me. One of those fancy bottles of apple cider I’ve heard so much about, a mare on one hoof, and a stallion on the other. I’d go to Las Pegas, far away from here. Open a home for the wayward youth, my own clinic right on the strip. Give the kids a better life. I’d officially be the best mom ever after giving them all a single beer and teaching them how to play blackjack.

That was a dream that helped me through a lot of hard nights. Las Pegas had to be better than here, they didn’t have Deadmare or Hades, no Deadzone or Warlords.

Meanwhile, in this little place called reality, we were plot deep in road apples.

“What does she look like?” He asked, briefly standing on his hind hooves to get a whole two heads taller. He could see over everyone except the three odd minotaurs standing in line.

I ran off a quick description of her, including some tasty tid-bits that were somewhat relevant for my interests. “She’s a Pegasus, Reddish-Orange, tons of scars. Mangy, hay colored mane, has a single forelock braid and a bird-skull at the end of it. Crazy look in the eye, gives great oral.”

“I think I see her.” He squinted his eye. “Behind the concession stand.” He fell onto all fours with an audible thud, navigating through the sparse crowd. They opened up before us like a zipper, all keeping clear of the monster I trailed behind. Like I said, every idiot has their uses, and Steelgraft was a social repellant.

His obvious nature had a doppler effect, repelling most while attracting a different demographic of issue laden morons.

The sound of metal hooves thundering over the moth eaten red carpet distracted my screening of the crowds for Bitch Fit. The Steel Rangers had stuck around. I had expected them to leave the moment it got too hot, seeing as most were prudes with both sex and combat. Without my armor on, they’d recognize me as the mare from the checkpoint and foil my carefully spun web of lies!

Slinking close to Steelgraft’s side, I began to shake, spitting into my hoof and rubbing into the dried blood on my face, smearing it around. I had to look as ragged as possible for this to work. My injuries were more than enough to work up some water works and put up a pitiful act.

Standtall cast a shadow over the unimpressive specimen that was Steelgraft, his head tilting down judgmentally. “So, you’ve returned.” He rumbled deeply. Two rangers flanked on his either side, one of them was the sassy bitch Silver Tongue and the other was another faceless peon. The giant of a stallion glanced around for somepony, raising his gaze over the barricade behind us before settling his attention on me. “Is this the only survivor from the Square? Where is Daisy Chain?”

“The square was--” Steelgraft was interrupted by my feigned and terrible cry. I threw myself at the ranger and clung to his leg, sobbing.

“Oh it was awful! There were Striders! And monsters! And so many explosions! I...” I forced up a well of tears, “She saved me...And him. She sacrificed herself to do it! She was so brave!”

The bumbling metal clad moron was as stupid as he was big, and he stuttered, a solution to my convincing act lost on him. I clung on hard and made sure to lay it on thick, thinking of all the things that made me sad; losing the kids, bad sex, bland food, and being broke!

“Ma’am, please, control yourself!” the Crusader ordered, trying to shake me off his leg. “Gah, wait! Is she gone? Really? What happened?” This was directed at Steelgraft. It would be a conversation between two equally stupid opponents. I had my doubts that Stitch-face would pick up on my cues, so I shot him a pointed look and gave a subtle head-tilt to the crusader.

A brief exchange of glances and Steelgraft’s expression became sullen. He lowered his head and his voice, “It’s all my fault.” He began his bluff, “It was my incompetence that lead to her death. I should have listened to her orders. She should have...Made me listen. We should have run when the Striders attacked. She held them off while we ran here. I don’t know how we managed to beat them here, they should have passed us...”

The large metal clad crusader stiffened, his armor giving a dull hiss as his muscles all clenched. “I see.” He rumbled through his teeth. “It is a sad day, then...Striders? Great, I knew we should have pulled out before the curfew became enacted. Now we’re trapped. Any idea where those things are?”

“M-maybe they got lost?” I suggested, hopeful that was the case. I knew it wasn’t, they were waiting somewhere while we wasted precious seconds with this charade.

“They would have followed the same path we had.” Steelgraft muttered solemnly, letting out a pointless sigh. “We need to get ready for when they do arrive, If you’ll excuse me.”

“Yes, of course. Would you mind taking this mare with you? I need to radio headquarters about this...” He shook his leg again, offering me to Steelgraft. I continued my crocodile tears, then slid off.

We were home free, he’d bought it. Now we had to go find that sassy pegasus Bitch Fit and tell her the Striders were coming. She had to be somewhere in this musk and sweat packed fire hazard of a theatre.

“Now wait just one minute,” The second in command, the sassy and bitchy Silver Tongue barked. “I don’t believe this for one second! They’re trying to make you a fool, sir!”

I bit my tongue, running the piercing stud over my lips. I was now kissing barrel with the wayward and observant firecracker bitch’s boom stick, her riot shotgun centered on my skull. This bitch was trouble with a lowercase ‘t’. “Drop your weapon.” The bitch ordered, “Or don’t, I could just shoot you.”

Safe to say that I complied, reminding her that we had bigger problems to worry about. She believed that the Striders, which was the only true part of my fabrication, was also a lie. I nibbled on my lower lip, looking to her commanding officer pleadingly.

“Stand down, Ranger.” Standtall grumbled. “Leave her be.”

“Standtall! They’re making you look the fool!” Silver Tongue growled tinnily.

I’d hate to be ‘that mare’, but it was pretty easy to make the large Crusader look the part of an idiot, a hoof licker through and through. This other mare, I knew she’d be trouble from the start. She actually paid attention and didn’t respect the chain of command. While I admired her spunk. I didn’t admire her being clever on my time.

“This mare’s the same one from the checkpoint! And that stallion’s a Deadmare! Why the flying pony feather would a collared, hacked DM toaster be all the way in Philly? It doesn’t check out and you’re buying the whole damn farm!” The rogue ranger was on a full tirade on my tapestry of lies, cutting holes in it with her sharp tongue.

“Hey now, come on.” Chimed Steelgraft as he fed one of his metal digits into the barrel of the large riot shotgun. “There’s no need for that, we’re all friends here.”

“Get your finger out of there! We are not friends!” Silver Tongue spat, giving a dull groan after. “Great, I spit all over the inside of my helmet, I swear, pull your finger out or I will shoot!”

“But you’ll ruin your gun!” Steelgraft mentioned in a near sing-song voice, “And of course we’re friends, we’re all on the same side, aren’t we?”

The back and forth between Silver Tongue and my loyal dunce made my lips quiver into a snort of suppressed laughter, breaking my distraught character. Standtall failed to notice, too focused on the battle of (nit)wits unfolding before him.

“We’re not on the same side! I’m a steel ranger, you’re a filthy toaster that should be stripped for parts, and this bitch here is at best some filthy tribal!” The mare growled, swinging to and fro to dislodge Steelgraft’s finger, but she only succeeded in snapping the gun from her mount, leaving the heavy weapon to hang from Steelgraft’s digit.

“Whoops!” Steelgraft said with a chuckle, popping the round magazine out and slamming the slide to pop the remaining round out of it. “This is a really nice gun, you know? Stampede, right? Ironshod made great guns, that they did.”

“Hey, give that back!” Silver Tongue demanded, advancing on Steelgraft. She was stopped by the tree trunk sized foreleg of her commanding officer.

“I said stand down.” He rumbled darkly.

“But...but sir!” She began.

“The only butt in this conversation is an insubordinate and undisciplined butt, soldier! You will listen to your superior and stand down!” His order was a clear warning--Even I would be inclined to obey if I was in uniform and still enlisted.

“I...” She blurted, her voice wavering. “I’m looking out for the best of our squad, sir!”

“And what will happen if you fire a shot at a civilian in a crowded area where we are clearly outnumbered? We would all die for your misconduct. We would do the same if a tribal visited our base and shot at one of our own, and they’ll do the same here. We have bigger problems to deal with--Those Striders are going to wipe us out if we do not fortify.” Standtall gave a reason for his order, something unlike most commanding officers I had ever dealt with. He was clear and direct, all without being insulting or condemning.

He was a bit atypical as far as commanders went. I briefly wondered by what miracle someone with respect and a teaspoon’s helping of common sense got so high in the ranks Chapter 25.

Reluctant to see reason, Silver Tongue begrudgingly agreed. She demanded her gun back from Steelgraft, but Standtall asked for it instead. The deadmare handed the shotgun to the mare’s superior officer with no objections.

“No problem, here you go.” The white stallion chimed.

“B-but, that’s my weapon!” Silver Tongue protested.

“And you’ll get it back after you fortify the barricade so the Striders cannot get through.” Standtall informed her. “I can make it an order if I have to.”

“No need sir...I’ll get right on it.” The defeated mare mumbled, shooting me daggers through her visor before plodding along, mumbling dark obscenities the entire way to the shoddy barricade of furniture and metal scrap.

“T-thank you.” I said, ”Bitch has some screw loose. Needs tah git laid.”

“Thank you for that opinion, miss...I’ll be sure she knows.” He replied with a nearly cheerful tone. “I am sorry about your friend, Daisy Chain. I’ll be radioing HQ now. Move along, soldier.”

I seized up my bolter and slipped away, dragging Steelgraft along with me. We really dodged a bullet, it was a good thing that my amazing ability to think on my hooves saved us a great deal of headache.

“That was really close.” I said, chuckling, “Good work on the improvising. Just don’t let me saying that go to your head.”

Steelgraft wasn’t paying attention to me, no, he was looking at the movie posters.

“What are you doing?” I asked, feeling my patience drawing short.

“Oh, just looking for myself in the posters.” He replied, “It is obvious from my performance just now that I was an actor in my previous life.”

“Your audience was just daft, dumbass.” I felt it was important to pop the swelling of his skull before it crushed his tiny brain.

“I dunno, I think I look kinda like this guy!” He replied, striking a pose similar to one of the characters in the posters behind him. It was a movie titled ‘Skyrates of Marebatos’--The character had a striking resemblance to him save for the pelt and eye color...And sex appeal.

“Your resemblance to Starstruck Nova is uncanny, you both look retarded and mis-cast. Now lets get in line before it gets even longer.” I said while about facing--The line had grown by at least ten ponies and a griffin in the time we’d already wasted. “Oh for brass n’ buckshot, the line’s longer than Division 25’s colossal dick!”

“We don’t have time to wait that long, we need to get to the front.” Steelgraft pointed out the obvious again. His keen senses of observation were astounding!

“No shit, Sherclop. Lets go cut in line.”

Getting ahead in line was a task that seemed impossible. No-one would permit us to get ahead of them, and the injured needed treatment. I had taken the Equetarian Oath, meaning I should do no harm through action or inaction. Cutting them would mean they’d be robbed of time, big deal! Waiting my turn would mean everyone dying when the Striders decided to come knocking! I did the only sane thing I could do, I pushed through the line aggressively, until one of the guards caught me and kicked me to the tail end of the line again.

Steelgraft had vanished somewhere, he wasn’t waiting at the back of the line where I was placed. I glanced around for him and found him at an unbelievable location--He was near the front of the damn line speaking to Key and Lock, the twin gate guards!

“How the buck did he manage that?” I asked myself before I stopped caring. I left the line and went around, pretending to head for the bathroom. Once I was close enough I snuck low along the line to where Steelgraft was chatting with the twins, I popped up nearby.

“Oh, you poor thing! Look at you!” One of them began, sounding worried about the status of the long since dead corpse that was Steelgraft. “You’re all banged up, sweety!” The tone was syrupy, like artificial sweetener.

“Is there anything I can do for you? Kiss it better, a little snug, give your dick a tug? I could stick my tongue in those gashes and lick them clean...” That was Key, obviously. He was being gross and broadcasting his love for ghoul fucking. Typical.

“No, you don’t need to do anything like that!” Steelgraft stuttered in response, “I was just hoping for a spot in line.”

“Oh,” said one of the brothers. “Why didn’t you say so?” Continued the other. “I’m just here to keep my brother company, you can have my spot, sugar.” Offered the sibling that had no injuries.

“Thanks, I appreciate it. So, uh, what happened to Key?” The deadmare rubbed his cheek with a fingertip idly.

“That’s Lock, silly.” Spoke the other brother, “And I’m Key. I thought you’d be able to tell us apart now that we’re no longer the same. Look at that nasty burn!”

“That’s what happened, it is awful.” Said one of the dark brown brothers. “My poor brother got smarted by one of those bolters on his shoulder.” Spoke the other twin. “Yes, now my brother resembles me less.” Said the other. “Just awful!”

“So you guys always want to look like each other?” Steelgraft asked.

Key was snuggled against a passive Steelgraft who paid no mind to the affection, tolerating it for the spot in line. Lock was the one that had the burn to his shoulder, second degree. It looked painful, the welt was ballooning.

“We’re identical.” Said Key.

“That’s the point.” Lock said with a wince, gritting his teeth.

“When my brother lost his eye,” Lock began telling this story again, one he told all the time, “I plucked out the one on the opposite side.”

"A ghoul gouged out my eye on accident." Key admitted sheepishly, "I had not checked if they had passed or not."

“That’s insane,” Steelgraft spoke crisply, “Why would you do that to yourself?”

“It’s called commitment, SG.” I butted in, slipping under the rope to join them. There was a protest in the line behind me, but I ignored it. “Hey, Lock, how about you let me treat your shoulder for your spot in line?”

“Hey there Gang-Gal.” Cooed Key, “We don’t want the wound treated.”

“Nope, we want the same to happen to Key.” Grimaced Lock.

It took me a split second to understand what they wanted. It took Steelgraft substantially longer. A grin split my lips and I clicked the stud in my tongue against my teeth. “Well, I have a bolter, the same weapon that they used to burn Lock.” I levitated the weapon to show them both. “Your spots in exchange for some scarification?”

It only took a moment for them to both agree at the same time. Key swiftly added a stipulation, he wanted Steelgraft to brand him with the superheated bolt.

“Sure, knock yourselves out.” I unloaded one of the bolts and held it aloft in my telekinetic grasp, offering it to the stunned deadmare. “Here you go, get to brandin’!”

“You can’t be serious.” Steelgraft replied, taking the bolt from the air. The burning hot piece of metal sizzled in his grip.

“They’re very serious, now get outta line and go get masochistic before the line riots about us cutting.” I said pointedly, the guards were eying us now. If they two brothers got out of line and gave their spots to us there would be no problems at all. It was a common thing to do in the theater, if you didn’t want to wait, you’d buy a spot in line from someone else. The closer to the front of the line, the more valuable your spot. The spot I had now, three from the front was prime real estate. The wait time would be less than a minute.

The hesitant, terrified expression Steelgraft sported as he left the line to follow the twins was priceless, I watched with a placid grin. The killing machine had his reservations about hurting someone, he had a familiar kinship with the twins. I suspected he secretly disliked them or was annoyed with them, because it did not take much for his demeanor to change. A little whining and begging and the bolt was applied to the stallion’s shoulder, the stench of burning flesh filling the air.

Key groaned and sucked in air through his teeth, letting out a long moan as he sprouted a stallion stiffy at the pain he was experiencing. I was wearing a grin all around my head as I spotted it and knew what was coming next.

“Mnnn~ You should finish what your started.” Key hinted, then he backed away as Steelgraft tried to touch him on the dick with the still blazing hot bolt. “No! Not with that! I wanted you to get me off!”

“Well, you weren’t specific,” Steelgraft muttered, “What exactly do you want me to get off?”

“I believe he’s cute as he is clueless, brother.” Spoke Lock, giving a chuckle while still nursing his wound. “That he is, would you like to tell him?” Chimed in the other. “Oh, no, you do the honors!”

A rapid back and forth was pitched between the two.

“Polish his pole,” said Lock.

“Stroke my stallion salami,” said Key.

Then, at the same time, synchronized as if rehearsed, “Right in front of everyone.”

“What.” Was all Steelgraft managed to say before shaking his head rapidly back and forth after he noticed all the attention had gathered upon him and the twins. “No, not happening! Not now, not ever!” Aw, what a spoil sport!

Key wasn’t dissuaded by the performance anxiety of a virgin, keeping on with the pressure to coerce him into public bonding. “Oh, you still owe me, remember? The three hundred caps? Just g-get me off, puh leeze?” The brown earth stallion begged.

I was giddy as a school filly, enjoying the thought of two gay bucks fondling each other and Steelgraft’s utter shame and embarrassment. I could taunt him about this forever!

“Come on, SG, you do owe them for that three hundred cap advance!” I chimed in from the line. I earned a cross look from Steelgraft that made me laugh. “I want to collect the other three-hundred!”

“You’re the one that made that deal, not me!” He shouted back at me.

“A deal’s a deal!” Was what he was met by, not by just me either, but by Key, Lock, and even several ponies in line who were equally invested in seeing a show. Some were quite disgusted, I was sure, but those prudes were lame, sad, and I had no interest in taking into account their existence any further than I had to. They were just the backdrop to this saucy porno improv skit! My favorites were always the ones where the submissive doesn’t want it at first, then later gets really into it! Those were the best.

“Eeeeeee!~” Who made that noise? Oh, it was me! I made that as soon as Steelgraft reluctantly agreed to go through with it, if only to get it over with!

“Hey!” Blurted the large, barrel chested minotaur behind me. “You’re next in line!”

“Just a sec for sex!” I growled, “Move a bit, you’re blocking the view!”

“Move or give up your turn!” One of the nearby guards called at me, making me curse. The minotaur ushered me forward with his bulge, slapping his meaty thigh against my face. I got a snout full of sour musk and stumbled away, slamming into the concession booth’s large wooden counter.

“Oooof!” I grunted out loudly, gritting my teeth. That minotaur had manners as bad as his crotch stench. I turned around quickly, hoping to catch a glimpse of the depravity. That same minotaur made a better ugly door than an ugly window.

“Next please!” Came the gravelly voice of the only ‘nurse’ manning the register. S(he) was an obvious, ugly thing that had the voice of a chain smoker that gargled nails. The scruff on their chin betrayed their feminine ‘allure’.

“Ah, buck. I’m missing the show...” I groused, giving my divided and limited attention to the fetching poster pony for the use of contraceptives.

The ‘mare’ manning the register rolled their eyes and coughed against their hoof, “Yes, shame.” They said in a light yet still grumbly voice, “I’m sure they’ll show reruns. What do you need? The line needs to move.”

I needed a lot of things--Looking through the dusty glass of the display case I saw an assortment of goods. I pressed my nose against it and fogged the glass. “Oh, I think I’m going to need one of your finest Doctor Bags, a few Health Tonics, and an audience with Bitch Fit.”

“Well ain’chu observant?” That voice made my heart skip a beat and sink at the same time--Then rise in my chest. My blood boiled then froze. Bitch Fit’s voice has that effect on me. It was an established love-hate relationship, heavy on the hate.

Over the counter, there she was in all her hedonistic glory. The official leader of the Misfits and the proprietor and founder of this delightful little Tartarus-hole. She lay spread out upon several crates of supplies, leaning against the wall behind her, fore-hooves crossed behind her head. The three unmanned registers at the counter now made perfect sense--The three other ‘nurses’ were busy servicing the reddish-orange bitch. Two stallions, one on each of her rear hooves, licking subserviently while the one female ‘nurse’ feast on her cherry pie.

“So you’re the reason why the line’s not moving?” I said with a hint of malice and a pinch of arousal. The sight was almost as good as the show I was missing, but it was a rerun. It wasn’t hard to catch the pegasus mare slutting around or seducing another scrub.

“I got a captive market.” Bitch Fit chuckled, locking her eyes on me while she forced the mare licking her gash to burrow in with a guiding hoof on the back of her head. Her gaze was petrifying to most, one eye was milky white, a war scar from her battles with the two major factions to lay claim to this place. Her other eye was an alarming shade of yellow, bright that cast off a light glow. It was a mutation she said, from falling face first into a puddle of radiation.

I’ve heard that story a million times while she was drunk. Then she’d promise to lower my rent and help with the kids before puking all over her own lap. She never remembered her promise come morning, leaving me to clean up the mess after she left my room.

The one cashier not busy with wetwork went about gathering my order, piling it on the counter after rummaging around and tugging one Doctors Bag from behind Bitch Fit. She gave a disgruntled snort as she shifted her position to get comfortable again. I was rung up for my total.

“Yah total’s 675 Caps.” I was told by the rather unattractive he-mare.

“WHAT?!” I shouted, alarmed at such prices. I checked the prices on the concession board, which still advertized pictures of hayfries, corndogs, and popcorn despite the fact most of the items weren’t served anymore. The names of all the items had been changed to various goods like water, drugs, and ammo. The listed goods were more than quadruple the normal price.

“Like Ai’said, captive market.” The butch butcher gruffed proudly.

“You’re taking advantage of all these folk in a crisis? That’s...Brilliant! You must be making a killing!” I squeaked with sudden appreciation for such shrewd business ethics. I wish I had thought of that! I shot a glance to the injured crowd behind me and retracted that thought, hoofing the line wasn’t akin to completely crossing it. “You know, uh...” I wrapped my hooves around the items on the counter and dragged them close, “Just add this to my tab.”

“Tab? Hah! Yah ever gonna pay me that six kilo caps yah owe me?” The mare taunted with a lewd moan, tossing her head back. I could read her tells like I could read prescription labels; she was close to blowing her gasket. “Y-yer already late on rent! ah yeh, Cherie, a lil more. Nip the bud! Ngh!”

“Well, about that. Place got burnt down in the attack.” I chuckled nervously, “Most the gang’s wiped out an--”

“You’re not planning on payin’ up. S’that all you wanted to talk to me for? You didn’t need no audience to tell me wot ai keen to be knowin’ already.” The mare cooed cruelly. She let her tongue loll out, her breaths got shallow. She mashed that poor mare between her legs, slamming her back and forth so hard her nose sprung a leek. I’ve been in her position plenty of times, nursing a busted snoz after eating muff ain’t any fun, she was always uncaringly rough. Bitch Fit painted that blood between her thighs thickly, like a clumsy painter.

The he-mare manning the register slammed a hoof down on mine, giving a low growl, “No sale.” He said gruffly. I exchanged gazes with him, frowning.

It was time to kill the mood. If I wasn’t going to get any goods or get my own rocks off, neither was she. I was missing out on prime-time shame at Steelgraft’s expense. The sample audience in the crowd behind me told me all I needed to know--Most were quite disgusted! “We have children in this line, you sickos!” was one phrase that tickled the darkest part of my fancy.

“So, you already know about the Deadmare being on their way?” I hinted, casting a dreamy look to Bitch-Fit to catch the precise moment her expression went from one of ecstasy to that of stone-faced dread. It was like salting a wound or pouring a bucket of water over fornicating ponies.

The mare that had been smashed against Bitch Fit’s cleft was cast away like a used piece of shit paper and both stallions caught a hoof to the teeth as the mayor of our fair town rose to her hooves. Bitch Fit’s wings extended wide, the light glinting off the razor bladed adornments to her wings. With both nostrils flared, she stormed up to the counter, muscling the he-mare out of the way. She cleared the counter of my provisions with a sweep of her hoof and leered over at me, her face a mere inch from mine.

“I’ll forgive yah this sick joke if you come clean now.” She said gravely, her upper lip brushing mine with every word. Even though I was no longer in love with her she still made the roots of my teeth tingle when she was this close. Or was that my cavities? Probably cavities.

“Read them an’ weep.” Was all that I needed to say as I deposited my proof onto the countertop. Two Strider-legs. The air around the glowing edges sparked and still smelled faintly of crisp ozone and burnt blood.

I slid them up between us, so she couldn’t ignore them. She had to pull away or risk getting cut on one of the active edges. Her face paled, eyes wide as she drank in every detail. “No joke.” She said finally, her haunted expression failing to betray her feelings.

“No joke, Love-Dove.” I chose to use my pet name I had given her when we were an item. It was our little secret I knew she liked. “Striders, at least seventy strong. They were air dropped in during skirmish.”

She folded her wings and fidgeted, turning her back to me. The scarred mare paced, like a tiger in a cage. She thought we’d just wait out another would-be hostile take over and push out the Baker Barbarians once they gorged themselves on food and liquor. The last three attempts on the town had ended either at the gate, or soon thereafter due to gross incompetence of the raiding party. Deadmare were a different hazard, and all oral history held one truth about them--They left no bodies and no survivors.

The eyes of those behind the service counter were on her, waiting for guidance in this revelation. Bitch fit was never a great leader, she was just a tenacious one, and she wore her feelings on her cuff. “In the gate. They’re in the fucking gate...And we’re in here after curfew. The gate was supposed to keep em out! Fry them up. Damnit...” Her lips pressed into a thin line, her teeth grinding together.

The line behind me was getting unruly, the injured were growing into a frenzy. Somewhere between the unmoving line, the prices, and the unwanted sexual show given to them by a ghoul lover, they’d had enough.

“Play or fold, Love-Dove.” A terse phrase was shot to her as a reminder that I was still there. “It’s pay to play, avarice ain’t legal tender.” An understatement, perhaps of the century. Taxes and rent were high, folks paid them for the promise of safety. Safety they weren’t getting anymore. “It’s time you gave back or these folk ain’t gonna be fit for a fight.”

Finally, after a thousand years in a deadlocked stare, Bitch Fit finally lashed out. She pushed those under her employ to get to their registers and start handing out the supplies for free. “I didn’t stutter, cuntrag, I need these sods at 150%, got me?”

A whole cornucopia of supplies were thrust against me, Bitch Fit herself barking that she was ‘all in’. I suspected she was just being nice since she thought we were all going to die.

A moving line, a healed populace, and a redeemed leader. I could scratch this as my good deed for the day, which I’d already filled the quota of in full eight times over today. I deserved a pat on the back, a few thousand caps and a week off from any and all work. Bruise would give me a long backrub and he’d sneak in the accidental plot touching that he never thought I noticed. Yes, days off would be great!

It was high time I rejoined the fiascoes of my colleagues and catch the tail end of their copulation that shakes the nation. The show was over though, I found Key alone where I’d last left them with no Steelgraft in sight. Key looked very pleased with himself, a dreamy, content smile drawn on his face. The floor was soiled in his fluids.

“I missed quite the show, huh?” I said with a dry chuckle. “Where’s Rweedle Dee and the dumb one?”

“Oh yes, quite a show.” Key said with a beaming smile, “Lock is being a dear and waiting in line for me again.” He rubbed his cheek with a hoof. “As for my darling Steelgraft? He’s oh so very shy--I saw him running for the loo after our romance. Poor thing, he’ll come around.”

“I’m sure he just needs some time.” I mumbled with a roll of my eyes. “Say, I’m going to check up on him, you get yourself taken care of.”

“Oh, this is new--You’re worrying about me?” Key laughed softly, tilting his head back as he picked himself up. “You know I always handle myself. If you’re worrying then it’s something big, isn’t it?”

“More dead heads coming.” I huffed laconically. “And it’s bad manners to take a payment off a corpse. You still owe me the other half for your fun with my ghoul man-servant.”

“Sounds like a party,” Key replied calmly, a dim smile still clinging to his lips. “Oh, yes, that payment...” He fished around in his leather armor and produced a small bag of caps, offering me the entire thing. “He was worth every cap! Consider the extra caps his tip!”

“A pleasure doing bus’ness with yah.” I chuckled, stuffing the caps into my saddlebag. Tip? You mean my pimp bonus! I just got more bonus pay and didn’t do a lick of work! Swag! I had been in the wrong business this whole time, raiding slave caravans? What was I thinking? Pimping was where the real money was at! I just didn’t want to make a habit of slutting out SG since I was such a nice pony. With the deal finished, I left the sadomasochist corpse humper to his own designs. I had to collect my hoe, find Keena, then the kids.

There just ain’t no rest for the wicked.

The stallion’s restroom, the haven of porcelain poop chutes and upwards urinals used to cart away shame and waste. I’d been in here numerous times, every time I’d slunk past the swinging door that creaked on its hinge I was greeted by the stench of ass. It was like Curbstomp was alive and well, if only for a moment, my memories lingered on him. Then the flush of a toilet captured my attention.

There were rumors the mare’s restroom was in better condition. These rumors were false. Nearly identical save for the upright wall-spanning piss waterfall both were in horrid condition. The same cream colored, graffiti covered walls, the same trash and piss soaked white tile, and of course the overflowing trash cans nobody ever bothered emptying. A few used syringes sat discarded in a far cubicle, a popular place to shoot the breeze and ride the tainted rainbow. I was lucky that drugs injected while in armor were delivered through an enchanted system preventing addiction, otherwise I might be craving a little prick and some drugs to go with it.

I was propositioned no more than three times by a few suitors, one of them while they crapped on the john with the door wide open. Typical males. I located the elusive pussy among cocks; Steelgraft was near one of the sinks in the back. The water pressure was non existent and the cyberghoul was desperate to wash off the leavings that coated his freakish metal hand-thingies.

The waterflow was pitiful, an oozing drip. It was due to the main water line rupturing when the square went kablooey. Even if we survived the attack and beat the odds, this mall was a useless fortress without working water. I had to hand it to Hades and his underlings, he knew how to do a prim and proper war decking; stacking the odds against us and making any victory almost as fruitful as a defeat.

“Hey slick, how was wet work?” I asked the feverishly scrubbing bloke.

“Gah!” He cried, turning on me wielding a plunger. Why he had it was anypony’s guess, but I had a feeling he had not been plunging the sink.

“Whoa, calm down. I don’t need no buckles swashed.” I scoffed, eying the plunger judgmentally, “Especially not with that foul thing.”

He lowered the plunger and dropped it to the floor, resuming his frantic scrubbing in the shallow water that remained in the sink. “Sorry.” He mumbled, “I don’t think I’ll ever be clean after what he did to me.”

“Is that why you have the plunger?” I guessed, suppressing a giggle. SG visibly cringed, giving an involuntary shudder. Him getting in sticky, gross situations was indeed trending.

“Let’s just agree to never speak of this again.” He said with dismal disdain. “It had better have been worth it. Did you warn your friend?”

I let out a snort, my nostrils flared. I drew in a deep breath and quickly regretted it as fetid air filled my lungs. I gave a soft gag as my eyes began to water and leaned over a nearby sink, spitting up a dry gag of phlegm. “Friend?!” I laughed weakly, “Yeah, we can call her that if we redefine the word to mean backstabbing, cheating bitch!” I wiped my nose and straightened my mohawk. “I gave her a warning. They know. Now we just gotta grab the kids, Keena and hit the hills. Oh, and I also got the other half of the payment for services rendered.” I jiggled in place so he could hear the caps jingle, I did another shake for good measure incase anypony was giving my ass a gander.

“Great, good thing we got...Paid.” He mumbled. He turned off the tap, dried his hands on the tattered remains of his coat. Greasy, smeared cum stains blended in with the pallette of gross on his canvas. “You’re still planning on running away?”

I thought ever so briefly on this before I surrendered with a sigh, “Not without the kids.” I admitted. “Or Keena.” I met the entrance with a stiff hoof, slamming the door open. I cast a glance over my shoulder, “That good enough for you?”

“It’s a start.” He relented, following me out. “What about everyone else?”

“Oh, you mean like Key?” I teased. “Wouldn’t want to leave your boyfriend behind, now would we?”

He didn’t respond to my jest, choosing to remain silent. Fools who hold their tongue to seem wise or however that old saying goes. I wore an infirm grin from ear to ear, oblivious to the true feelings of my companion.

The moment I felt the hot, musky, humid haze of the lobby hit me I almost missed the stench of the restroom. At least it was cooler in there. No circulation, none at all. No open windows or doors thanks to the barricade, the air was stagnant. To top that all off, the air ventilation ducts must have been on the fritz or blocked.

Finding Keena was as easy as following the blinking lights and sounds of the few active arcade machines in the lobby. We braved the sea of sweaty bodies to find her, and I only had to threaten to castrate one obstinate goat that refused to budge. The goat was a companion of one of the nearby minotaurs, the wall-eyed sentient beast of burden was laden with two barrels of black powder. The minotaur swept the goat up and set them over one of his broad shoulders. The mountain with horned peaks offered a brash apology.

“Yeh have such spirit for uh little pony.” Huffed the minotaur in a thick ale-aided accent. He puffed out his broad chest and wore a stern expression. “Ah like that. Sorry for mmmmmy powder bearer. He’s ah clueless mmmmooooof.”

The large white and black splotched minotaur was adorned in a simple cowl with decorative beads and timberwolf bramble skulls as a fastener. He had markings carved into his horns, but I made no effort to decipher them. He carried on his person a large war maul with a rocket above the flange where the anvil shaped-head met the heavy black iron shaft. Minotaurs were known for their explosive close ranged weaponry and legendary metal smithing.

“Just get outta the way, wide load.” I grunted, skirting around him.

“Quite a few minotaurs in here.” Steelgraft said observantly. “Where do they all come from?”

“You could ask their mothers, SG.” I snorted, not caring to answer him honestly. The minotaur overheard him though and tended to his question with a boisterous chuckle.

“Ah, laddy, I’m here for pilgrimage from the Mmmmacintosh Mmmountains.” The barrel chested brute replied gruffly. “Looking for culture and glory!”

“I haven’t seen much culture yet.” Steelgraft responded. He took a moment to look around on the ground as if he’d dropped something. “Or glory,” he added with a shrug.

I stopped, giving a groan, forced to join in on the conversation to extract my comrade. “You could have chosen a better time to visit. Look, we got places to be, things to do. Excuse us, will you?”

“Of course, spirited one! Mmmmmay your journey lead to song.” He thumped his chest in salute and went about his own business, whatever that may be.

“Wow, all the way out in the Mmmmacintosh Mmmmountains.” Steelgraft parroted. “Wherever that is.”

“You don’t have to say it like that! Like I said, we got things to do. He and his buddies will find plenty of glory when the Striders decide to finally do something.” I said, feeling my patience become a grand sum of zero. I seized my tagalong by the collar in the grip of my magic and dragged him the rest of the way.

“Hey, I can walk! Ah, hey! Slow down! Quit tugging!” He protested, making no effort to stop me.

“Shut up or Key gets free nookie,” I threatened.

“I thought we agreed to never talk about that again!” Steelgraft whined.

“I didn’t agree to anything.” I stated, giving a harsh tug to the simpleton corpse.

“That’s so cruel...” He sobbed unconvincingly, stumbling along. his crocodile tears only convinced me to tug harder.

We met up with Keena right where I suspected she’d be; at the arcade machines. The hippogriff was blowing off steam, laying claim to the high score of another reflex shooter game. ‘Zebra Safari 2: Revengeance’ was a popular game even now, thanks to anti-zebra mentalities carrying over generations after the war.

Zebras popped up on the screen, within moments they were gunned down with shots to their vitals. With steady claws the hippogriff manipulated the controls, wielding the plastic gun as she would her own rifle. I knew that any attempt to break her concentration would be pointless, the world around her didn’t exist.

My bumbling stitched companion had yet to learn this. I wasn’t one to keep a foal from sticking a fork in a socket or a hoof off a hot-plate, they had to learn by consequences. That and I wanted to see what would happen if he tried to interfere with her game.

“Keena, it’s great seeing you’re alright. How’re the kids?” When she didn’t respond, SG tried again to no avail, waving a hand at her. He escalated things, grabbing her by her braided sable tail and giving it a yank. “Keena?”

A trained reflex spun Keena around, she held Steelgraft at gunpoint with the blue plastic rifle. He raised his forelegs, sitting on his haunches, the barrel of the gun upturning his nose. I withheld a snicker. The painted hippogriff spun back to the game the moment she heard her character grunt in pain, alerting her to having taken damage.

A growl escaped her, her beak clicking in agitation. She cursed under her breath.

“It’d be best to let her finish Steelgraft.” I said with a chuckle, “Unless you unplug the machine, nothing will break her concentration.” That wasn’t exactly true, I knew of two things that would shatter her concentration. Neither would be appreciated and both would potentially harm or end my friendship with the russet feathered horse-bird.

He unwisely followed my advice and went around for the plug. I spoke up to save him from a horrible fate. “And only pull the power cord if you don’t mind seeing what the inside of your ass looks like.” This phrase made him freeze and drop the cord without contemplation, scooping back from it cautiously as if it were a poisonous snake.

“That perspective doesn’t sound refreshing.” He commented, giving Keena a generous gift of distance.

There was no end to the zebra baddies onscreen for the foreseeable future, this was a good time to patch myself up. I was worried about finding the kids, but if I kept walking on my injured leg my condition would only get worse.

“Hey, staple face, keep that eye out for the lil twerps while I patch up.” I told him, squatting down right on the floor. There was no good place to work on myself, so I made sure the floorspace I chose had the lowest ratio of garbage to carpet.

Lacerations, bruising, and a hairline fracture in my cannon bone right below my hock. I could hardly walk on it, it was high time I fixed that. I applied a splint after casting a common numbing spell I knew to the afflicted area. I had a simple tool, a piece of whittled wood a few inches thick wrapped in padding and twine. It was a ‘grit stick’--Something a doctor would put in the mouth of a patient to bite down on during operations without anesthesia. I got a ton of use out of it, in the fields of war and love, bed and battlefield respectively.

With this held tightly in my jaws I began the quick, unapologetically uncareful binding of my wounds. A splash of Wild Pegasus over the enchanted bandages ensured they were sterile. Halfway through my quick-minute patch job I was tackled and flattened to the ground by a small egg-shell blue form. The grit stick stopped me from biting my tongue but didn’t prevent me from chipping a tooth.

I sat up only to be tackled by additional tiny bodies, the wind leaving my lungs and launching the grit stick into the air. The grit stick spiraled in the air before wetly sticking to my forehead below my horn. Spitting out the chip of my tooth, I groaned.

“Gangrene!” Came the chorus of a half dozen foals and one odd minotaur calf. “You’re alive, we were so scared!”

“Hey kids...” I wheezed, pain throbbing through my body.

“Oh, Gangrene, I found the kids!” Steelgraft announced chipperly.

“I know.” I mumbled, it was hard to be mad with a group of adorable colts and fillies squeezing the life out of you, but I managed. “Told’ja ta keep an eye out for em!”

“I did, I watched them run from the pinball machine all the way over here to tackle you,” Steelgraft explained. “They look happy to see you.” He was just a passive observer, he made no attempt to rescue me from beneath the pile of children.

A solid minute of trembling, smothering hugs, each one was trying to choke the life out of whatever part of me they were holding onto. Once they got that out of their system I was able to sit up and suck down a few gulps of air. I threaded my tongue through the new gap in my teeth; one of my front teeth had been chipped. Great! Now there was no way I’d ever get the centerfold of Play-Pony!

“You all here?” I scanned the small group, mentally doing a headcount. Two--four--six--eight...Eight. I felt my heart sink. Four kids were missing, Bruise was nowhere nearby. It wasn’t long before the foals started getting noisy.

“I’m hungry!” Said Gulag, a butterball of a foal whose parents had been from Stalliongrad. He was a stumpy, short thing with a slight pudge under his belly, wearing a most unhappy frown on the most pinchable cheeks Equestria has ever seen.

“I’m thirsty!” whined Shag-Rag, named after his long, messy fetlocks and mane. His bangs were so long I couldn’t see his eyes, his pelt tied in clotted clumps and curls. I didn’t remember his story, I think Blister found him tangled in a barbed wire fence a year ago.

A third foal tugged on my tail, giving a soft gag and coughing at the taste grease.

“What is it, Taffy?” I asked the timid, scrawny teal unicorn filly. Her story was simple as it was sad, her parents had tried selling her into slavery to pay off debts.

“I...I have to go potty.” She squeaked, eyes brimming with tears. “I’d go alone, but I’m afraid there are monsters in there...”

“Well, uh, pick a corner!” I said, pointing in a random direction. Taffy didn’t seem pleased with that solution and stared blankly at me. All it took was one tear to slide down her cheek before I regretted even suggesting something like that.

Every single one of them wanted or needed something, none of those needs had been met while I was gone. We were surrounded by fully grown adults of several different races, in the absence of me or Bruise you’d think someone would look after them. Maternal instincts applied only to your own crotchfruit unless you were a sucker like me.

I wasn’t getting any help. Steelgraft was just staring at me, a perplexed look on his face. He looked at me like I was queer as an eight legged pony and twice as strange. Keena was still playing her stupid game, but now I was moments away from pulling the plug on the arcade cabinet and chewing her out.

“Hey, stitchface, you kin quit keeping an eye-out now, I need a bit of help with the kids!” I said with a bit of urgent force in my voice.

He snapped out of it, shaking his head quickly, “Sorry, I just...You take care of all these kids on your own?”

“No, moron, I have help. It’s just most my gang is...” I chose my words carefully, knowing full well the children weren’t privy to the condition of the others, “Not with us.” Even when I chose such soft words, the equally soft hearts of the children ached. The youngest of them started sobbing as I opened up the wounds fresh in their minds. It made me feel like a monster. I grit my teeth, “There was another adult with em, Bruise, but he ain’t anywhere ‘round here, and four tots are still missing.”

Rebel Riot had been unusually quiet, sitting right in front of me. He’d been the first to tackle me and usually he’d be the first to start yapping too. He was staring at my front hooves, mumbling softly.

“Hey squirt, speak up.” I said, raising his chin with a hoof. Tears welled in his eyes, snot running from his nostrils.

“ Gone,” the boy bawled, choked up.

“Gone? Where did he go?” I asked, blinking a few times, an ear flicking in bewilderment. My mind was scattered a thousand places at once, so many foals pining for my attention and so many worries dancing around in nothing but socks.

“A’said he’s dead! Fuckin’ dead! D-E-D!” He yelled at me, “Yah stupid or something?!”

Rebel Riot’s outburst silenced the others. Pacified to sullen silence, they hung their heads. I was afraid to ask what had happened, recalling that field of knives I’d seen when I found Steelgraft and Rebel Riot alone. Losing Bruise hurt, more than I cared to feel.

Rebel Riot tried to tell me what happened, stuttering through his silent tears. His story was nearing a climax, one which he desperately wanted to spew out but he was interrupted by Steelgraft who pulled a box tied with twine from his taped and stained saddlebag.

“Which of you said you were hungry?” He asked, unfastening the lid and peeling it off. Inside that box was another box, this one was revealed to have a small pile of fresh-looking pastries. I stared at him in complete and utter disbelief.

The hungry, growling tummies of the children won out over their woes. They crowded around the box, all save for Shag-Rag, Rebel Riot, and Taffy who weren’t hungry.

“One for everyone, come on, don’t be greedy! Hey, you, pudgy, I saw that! Put the second one back!” Steelgraft chided, waving a hoof at Gulag who had tried to make off with more than a fair share. He was sharper than usual when dealing with children it seemed. A real foal-at-heart and he was just about as wise too.

Shag-Rag smacked his lips, eyeing the strange stapled together stallion. “You got any juice? Ah’d love juice or water. I’m not picky-wicky.”

That request was met swiftly as SG pulled a canteen out from his box of many wonders and popped the cap with his thumb. Shag-Rag plodded over and took a swig, holding the threaded top between his teeth. Before it was all gone, it was pulled free by the strap, leaving the shaggy colt to sputter and cough in protest. Another foal was given a turn with the canteen, round robin to each thirsty foal until it was empty.

“Where did you get a canteen of water and a box of fresh donuts?” I asked.

“Donuts Extreme.” He answered me while making sure none of the foals choked as they ate like little pigs. “Got them as a free sample.”

“Oh, you did, did you? Got some sweet action and took a dozen to go?” I said, snorting derisively. “I should have pegged you for a pervert.”

“It isn’t like that! I had to pick something up.” He said with a shift of his eyes.

“I get it, so what did you order?” I asked, quite invested with my interest now. “Was it the Donut-Hole Plunge, the Sweet Suckle Truffle, or my personal favorite, the Plump Rump Romp?” Their names fell in line with a flavor and sexual act--That’s just how the extreme menu was for Donuts Extreme. I always ordered from the extreme menu for one reason, their star employee, Glazed Marshmallow, had the sweetest honeypot of any mare around, and that was before they added the sugar.

“I had a helping of secret things,” He replied in a whimsical tone.

“Not one to kiss and tell? A’ight, I respect that.” I told him with a knowing smile, giving him a playful nudge. He wore a smile on his cracked white lips, a spark of life and kindness in his one blue eye. I wondered what pain lurked behind that smile, what secrets lingered under his skin.

With one of his heavy hands he reached down for the sullen Rebel Riot, who had not taken a share of the food or water. “What’s the matter, you need something, scout?” He almost sounded patronizing, like I did when a foal whined about a little cut.

“I don’t need nottin.” Rebel spat. “Not from you.”

“It’s not your fault.” Steelgraft reckoned.

“You...You shut up!” Rebel snarled. “You were there! You saw what I...What I did...”

“Yes. I was there. It wasn’t your fault,” he avowed again with a voice soft and caring. I was caught in it, their exchange lost on me without context.

The eggshell blue colt smacked the metal hand away, “Yeah, whatever you say big guy. It don’t change how I feels it.” He left a smear of matter fur on his foreleg as he wiped his nose. “S-some super hero you turned out to be.”

“I’m not very super.” SG replied sadly. “I’m not like Mare-Do-That.”

“Mare-Do-Well.” Rebel Riot corrected him.

“Yes, that’s what I said.” Steelgraft lied, tilting his head up. “I think I did pretty well, you made a great sidekick.”

“Me? The sidekick?!” Rebel Riot’s eye twitched. No longer were there tears, but instead sarcastic laughter. “You spent that whole time running away and you let the bad guy get away! If anything, you’re my sidekick!”

“Alright, I’m your sidekick.” Steelgraft said chipperly, taking a stance as heroic as possible. In my opinion, he looked about as coordinated as a beached whale trying to rollerskate.

“I think I’d rather work alone.” Rebel Riot groused. “You’re fired.” With that said, the colt stormed over to a bare spot on the wall near the arcade cabinets and sat down. He still looked miserable, but he’d survive at least.

“Ouch, staple cock...fired by a kid.” I clicked my tongue against the roof of my mouth and felt the distinct new gap between my front teeth. I blew air through it and discovered it whistled. I was going to have a ton of fun with that later. That was sarcasm.

It’s funny, ain’t it? Your whole world can come tumbling down and suddenly a little something sweet or a bit of kindness can just make the fresh pain seem so far away. It would be brief, Detrot would erode away this spark of joy and hope soon enough.

Their faces covered in sweet sugar, tummies full, and thirst parched they were much more docile. Except Taffy, who continued to do her little potty dance.

“I still gotta go potty!” Taffy exclaimed with urgency. “Really badly!”

“Why don’t you go with Steelgraft? He likes to make himself useful.” I suggested, gesturing to him with a hoof. SG stood there, blinking dumbly.

Taffy took one look at him and squeaked, shaking her head rapidly. “No, he’s a boy!”

“He’s hardly a real stallion.” Rebel Riot called out from the wall.

Steelgraft sighed and checked between his legs, “Hey, I am a real stallion! I got the bits and everything!” He pointed to Rebel Riot accusingly, “He lies.”

“Gangy, please. I have to go!” Taffy urged.

I gave a soft groan, rolling my eyes, “I’ll handle this!” I said, pulling the plug on the arcade cabinet with my magic. The arcade died just as Keena had been entering her name for the high score, her progress lost forever.

“Sunflaring cuntrags!” Keena shouted at the top of her lungs. This was one of the two ways to get Keena’s attention off of games, perhaps the worst of the two as well. Her amber eyes traveled from the cabinet’s power cord that I spun in my magical grip and to me. She looked quite unhappy.

“Ah, sorry Keena, but now’s not the time for games.” I told her.

The hippogriff clicked her beak, one of her eyelids flickering. “What did you do that for? I almost had the top score!”

I pointed a hoof to the dancing filly, “She needs to pee.” I then pointed to Steelgraft, “He can’t take her because he has a cock.” I then pointed to myself, “I need to patch myself up and look for the other kids.” I then pointed at her, “And you should have been watching the kids from the beginning and not playing your games!”

Keena’s headcrest flew forward, her eyes wide as she looked around. “But...I...Zone Control said she’d watch them! I was stressed and needed to let loose!” She fumbled with an excuse, her anger crushed under the weight of her irresponsibility.

“Is that what happened at Record Wrecker’s, Keena? Those kids that got took weren’t being watched cuz you were playing a stupid game! I bet you entered your name into the tops score before you went to save them. You’re supposed to be responsible!” I dug into her, venom in my voice. I knew her reputation, she’d gotten in trouble plenty of times before for not paying attention to her charges.

“That’s not how it went, I just...I lost track of time.” She rambled for a moment, grasping at straws. She must have felt guilty, the noble, passive hippogryph was tugging at the sun emblazoned medallion about her neck.

I got right up in the hippogryph’s beak-space and locked her in a battle of glares. “No. It’s one thing to screw up watching your own, another when you do it for mine. You take Taffy to go potty right now and do nothing else.” I sternly pointed at the still dancing filly and watch the russet feathered duty-dodger slink off shamefully to the task I’d given her.

“You think you were a little hard on her?” Of course Steelgraft would ask something like that. If anyone here that knew me would ask something like that, only he would be inexperienced enough to ask me such a thing when it came to how I ran the show.

I shrugged, binding my wounds quickly before anymore distractions popped up. “She has to learn.” I told him, “This isn’t the first time her shirking responsibility has been an issue. Better to nip it now before it isn’t for something as minor.”

“I defer to your judgement.” He replied softly, “But maybe you shouldn’t be so coarse.”

“Not like you got a say in the matter--I’m in charge. And it’s better to have a few scratches on your pride than in your hide.” I imparted some much needed wisdom on him while reminding him who called the shots in this little group of ours. It was my show.

Two minutes passed uneventfully. The new splint on my leg was holding and it would be a fast second for my wounds to be healed. Magical healing items were always a wonder, I’d healed naturally enough times to really appreciate how fast a potion and magical bandages worked. I hated wasting them too, which I’d done plenty on one particular stallion who was immune to the effects of healing magic. I cast a silent, thoughtful glance at Steelgraft and huffed. Three potions! Three! Why had I even bothered?

When Keena returned with a very relieved looking Taffy, I knew it was time to move on. I had scanned the entire crowd sharply and spotted no other foals. It was then I realized that the young would be safest in one of the theater rooms, along with the others that were fit but could not fight.

“See, Keena, isn’t foalsitting easy?” I patronized her with a cruel smile, “Especially when you’re paying attention.” I could see the proud hippogryph bristle, her feathers ruffling in agitation. She gave me an unkind glance with a frown that conveyed her feelings easily. She did not like to be treated like a child.

I organized a double file line, quickly directing Keena to the front with me while Steelgraft took up the rear. Hah, take up the rear! He was good at that. No foal would get separated from the group, and I made it known the consequences of wasting more of my time. An hour of tongue polishing my raiding armor--which was covered in soot in the remains of our burned down home.

Together, we left the lobby, a train of oddities and youth. I purchased tickets from the door guard; 200 caps for all of us was highway robbery! I begrudgingly paid the sum and took the tattered ticket stubs to pass out.

“I hope hornets fly up yer ass, you cap gouging dunce.” I grumbled irritably.

“What was that?” The greasy looking ticket-sales pony demanded hoarsely.

“She said she hopes hot, horny fillies see how charming you’d be to date.” Steelgraft lied convincingly. This caused the guard to flash an unwashed, gap-toothed smile.

“My break’s in fifteen.” He fired me a crusty-eyed wink. I think I vomited in my mouth a little.

The Cinema had three theatres, each marked and named. The Crescent room was used as storage, the Rising Sun Theatre was used for adult films and live action exhibits, I snuck only the quickest of peaks. There was no show going on, but instead I heard the tell-tale sounds of pony copulation. Zone Control wouldn’t be in there, not unless she was one kinky pregnant mare. The last and most obvious place for her and the other kids would be the Twilight room, where less than R(aunchy) shows were played.

“Oh, they better be in the third theatre,” I fretted aloud. I felt a panic attack coming on. If anything happened to my kids, I didn’t know what I’d do.

“Thar yeh are!” Came a voice from behind. It was Frisky Fritter, the three legged owner of Donuts Extreme. I knew him about as well as I knew his donuts, we were familiar by flavour. He was a nice enough buck, if a bit rough and rugged.

Frisky cast a cautious look in Steelgraft’s direction before he quickly looked over the kids. “Been lookin’ fer yeh. These snuck out from the theatre while mah wife waz watchin’ em.” He snorted softly, “Gave her a panic attack, yeh did, yah varmints.”

“Hey Frisky.” Steelgraft greeted with a friendly wave. He received a coarse grunt in return as they exchanged barely civil pleasantries. “Hey deadmare,” Frisky replied gruffly.

I had a few scolding remarks prepared for the children now that I knew a bit more to the story. “So, they snuck out in the dark while something was playing.” I stated, my hypothesis was not far off from what actually happened as I soon learned.

“We were lookin’ for you, Gangrene!” Rebel Riot blurted.

“The guard...Uh...Wouldn’t let us out thah barricade.” Shag-Rag added. “So we looked around the Lobby.” He blew his bangs from his eyes with a huff and snorted loudly, swallowing.

“I wasn’t even supposed to be watching them.” Keena informed bitterly, “I didn’t even know they were in the lobby.”

Okay, so scolding the kids and I might owe Keena an apology. Well, probably not, ahe was still very irresponsible. “That doesn’t change anything, Keena. You should pay more attention.” I chuffed.

Rebel Riot let out a whimper as I tugged one of his ears with my magic.

“Ow! What’s that for?!” Rebel whined, squirming hard.

“I’m sure you’re the mastermind of the ‘lets go and give Zone a heart attack’ plan.” I replied scoldingly. “I wasn’t born yesterday. You’re always trouble.”

“How about we go meet up with Zone Control?” Steelgraft suggested. “It would be better than sitting out here while that nice mare worries.”

“You know, that’s a half decent suggestion.” I agreed. I pulled Rebel riot from the line and kept him close by me. “And you’re in deep, mister. Real deep.” The foal whined and squirmed, blurting out how innocent he was. The other foals refused to cover for him and affirmed my suspicions.

“You traitors!” Rebel Riot whinnied balefully. His punishment was to stick close to me, he wasn’t going to be allowed out of my sight for a good long while.

“Yeah, no need to make her worry a hot second longer.” Frisky said with a curt nod. He turned around, adjusted his apron and battle saddle, then the way to the theatre at the end of the hall.

The third theatre room was called the Twilight room, and like the previous theatre rooms it was marked by a symbol over the door. A mark of a spark of magical power with several other sparks alongside it. Keena held the door open and everyone passed through the door, everyone except Steelgraft. He stood there, eyes fixed on the symbol over the door.

“Hey, SG, you going to la-la land on me?” I called to him after a brief moment of silently waiting at the door.

He kept staring a moment longer before he returned to the land of the living, shaking his head back and forth, “Huh? Yeah. Sorry. I just...I was just remembering something. That symbol is familiar.”

“Oh, that symbol? Yeah, it should be. They say each theatre room here is named after one of the princesses. You were around back then, when cave ponies wandered the Earth, right?” I taunted warmly.

“Yeah, they called me Captain Caveman.” Steelgraft smirked.

When we rejoined the others, Frisky was already chatting up his wife, the blue unicorn known as Zone Control. She was a friendly sort with a bit of a bulging belly, a good six months into her pregnancy. Pediatrics wasn’t my area of expertise, but my well rounded medical training allowed me to a smattering of versatility.

The four missing children were also with her, laying to rest my own worries and allowing me to relax. Another mare was there as well, a somber and sullen Glazed Marshmallow, the painted mare trembled in her seat beside the one I took. We were all here, save for the gang members who had not survived. At least we had not lost a single child, which in and of itself was miraculous.

Trailers for flicks that would never be finished played on a loop from the projector overhead. Ironmare 3--For as much as I like the protagonist out of suit, in costume she resembled a Steel Ranger with the fashion sense of a chariot racer. That ruined it for me.

“It’s good you made it,” Zone Control sighed in relief, “I was worried.”

“It wasn’t easy getting back.” Steelgraft replied grimly. “And it might not be so easy getting out of this town.”

“What do you mean?” She asked, her brow creased with worry. She was going to have so many wrinkles by the time this night was over.

“Some complications.” I butted in, “The kind that wipe out entire settlements and leave no survivors.”

Packed like sardines in a roiling hot tin, it took a sharp tongue and a bit of coaxing to vacate enough seats along the center row, for everyone to sit. Each of the foals were forced to share a seat, crammed in next to one another they pushed and occasionally bit.

I made Rebel Riot sit in Steelgraft’s lap for safe keeping. The brat protested of course, but I wouldn’t hear it. Stitch-face wouldn’t let that kid incite any mutiny. Zone Control and Frisky were in the seats across from mine and Glazed Marshmallow’s. Keena took point near the end of the aisle, her rifle at her side.

It was time I brought them current.

“Seventy Striders?” Glazed Marshmallow gasped, trembling. I placed my hoof on her thigh and rubbed in comforting circles. She didn’t seem to mind the contact, then again she never did. I was one of her regulars, afterall.

“Welp, we’re doomed.” Frisky fritter whispered dejectedly. He beat a hoof against his armrest, a grimace crawling over his lips. “Figured today couldn’t get worse. Ah was plum tucker wrong!” He added with a growl.

Keena just snatched up her rifle and held it close, giving it a swift inspection before she settled the stock against the sticky, messy floor.

Some of the kids found candy on the floor and were noisily eating it. I didn’t want to hear it if they got sick!

“No look, it ain’t the end. We’ve got a hundred guns out front and we have supplies and a fortified position.” I hissed between my teeth. “We’re safe here. The only one that’s gotta worry is Stitch-Face, his collar’s going off tomorrow morning!”

Speaking of Stitch-Face, he was being quiet. He was tapping his collar thoughtfully while Rebel Riot sat in his lap pouting, forelegs crossed.

“I mean, Steelgraft here, he’s tough but he couldn’t beat a hundred guns! We’re gonna be fine here, right SG?” I said smugly, attempting to lasso him into the conversation. “Don’t you think so?”

Goaded into response, he took in a needless breath, then said solemnly, “Nowhere is safe anymore.”

“See? Steelgraft thinks w---Wait what?! How could we not be safe here?” I knew it was a lie to say we were totally safe, but it didn’t stop me from saying it. Out of anypony, he was the least I expected to be a neighsayer! Where was his happy-go-plucky attitude when it was convenient for me?!

“A’hundred guns ain’t haff’ thah power Tomb Town, fell the same it did.” Frisky mentioned gloomily. “Ah know dead meat, tah down it yah need stoppin’ power, ahn the right kinda power behind it.” He rubbed his cheek with the stub of his arm, “Iffin Ster Racer twer around, she’d be mighty useful.”

“Star Racer?” Steelgraft inquired.

“Was one of our ol’ team mates from back when. Enclave tech’s a deadly damsel tah a deader lahke yerself. Shame we ain’t got none ah that magical tech.” Frisky Fritter continued, “Then again, Ster Racer’d likely shootcha, dead-head, she ain’t lahke yer heritage much.”

“There’s plenty that’d shoot me for less.” Steelgraft replied with a chuckle. “I’ve got a Can Cleaver that does the job well. It’s almost broken.” He patted his saddleback and a rattling sounded. “Lots of loose parts.”

“You have a few screws loose?” Zone Control asked.

“Sure sounds lahke it hun, and his weapon’s soundin’ bad too.” Frisky Followed up with a snort. I was made to roll my eyes at that one and joined Zone Control in giving Frisky a very perturbed stink-eye.

“What? It was a joke!” Frisky excused himself.

“A bit of a rude one,” Zone Control quipped.

Frisky shrugged, “Yeah, I guess ah’m sorry.”

Steelgraft was too busy snickering at the joke to accept that half-assed apology. “Screw loose! Hah, poor Frisky,” Steelgraft lifted one of his heavy gauntlets, pointing at a bolt holding the assembly together, “Can’t even recognize a bolt from a screw!”

Rebel Riot used this brief moment of freedom to rummage around in Steelgraft’s bag, pulling the deadly instrument of death out emitter first in his teeth. Every strand of fur on my body stood on end, so much so that my mohawk had a mohawk.

“What are you doing?!” I growled. “Drop that!”

The foal ignored me and began tooling around with it in the seat. I wanted to grab it and pull it away, but doing that might trigger it to activate due to their shoddy craftsmare-ship. Rebel was done in moments, dislodging a tooth from the casing and tightening a few loose panels.

“There, you should get a few more swings out of her.” Rebel chirped, slipping his tools away.

Steelgraft took the weapon back, inspected it quickly, then slid it away. He tied his saddlebag shut, scooting it under his seat. “Yeah, thanks.” He said, patting the foal on the head and messing up his frilled mane.

Rebel shot me a condescending look that I weathered only because the little snot did something useful. He was lucky his backside wasn’t weathering a paddling from my grit-stick right now.

“Maybe we could pray to Celestia for guidance?” Keena suggested sheepishly, tugging at that golden medallion around her neck again. “She sent us a champion, she wants our victory to be earned.”

A dumb look was my first response, and my second was to laugh, “You want to pray? To Celestia? Oh, come on! She does about as good a job looking after us as you do when you babysit!”

“Gangrene!” Zone Control shot warningly.

I continued, oh I wasn’t done, saying I was a bit angry was a vapid understatement. “Earned? Plenty of my friends died, how much does it take to earn victory in eyes of your goddess?! And where is this champion, huh? I don’t see one!”

Stern and certain, the hippogryph pointed a talon at somepony, that somepony was Steelgraft.

“You ate too many stale communion wafers, Keena.” I droned out blankly, slapping myself in the forehead with a hoof. I gestured to the stallion in question in exasperation. “This guy’s just a defective deadmare I met in the Deadzone! A useful idiot, but hey, he’s a nice idiot.”

“That ‘defective idjit’ is the fool mah team wiped tah wake up.” Frisky Fritter interjected.

“I’d like to think we went on a wild adventure for a reason.” Zone Control added.

Clarity drew across my throat and bled the hope right out of me. Everyone here was connected. I felt like a fool for not seeing it before, but here we were in the same place, all of us tied by one common factor. We all knew the defective deadmare. Trouble followed him like a plague.

“We’re not safe here.” I said in sudden realization, eyes locked on the stitched stallion. “You’re right where they expected you to go.” I checked my ticket stub, if we were exactly where we were expected to be, then this film was going to be a doozy!

“Anypony know the tick-tocks?” I asked fretfully.

Frisky moved his stump to check something by habit before he remembered his entire leg was gone. “Ah dag nabbit, fergot it’s gone.” He snorted, “Ah miss mah ole pipbuck.” He flailed his stump in a wholly disgruntled manner.

Zone Control rolled up the sleeve of her barding and checked the flashing green screen of her weathered pipbuck, “It’s five past nine.” She stated. The blue unicorn offered her husband a comforting nuzzle and shushed him soothingly. “I still have mine, it’s okay.”

“Neat, ya gots yerself ah pipbuck! Where’d ja ge-tit?” Rebel asked, his small eyes sparkling with youthful curiosity.

“Nonyah, pipsqueak.” Frisky Fritter growled, he was secretive about his past. Not that anyone should pry, but it was always curious how the mare and stallion one day showed up with a huge wealth of caps in order to open up the Donuts Extreme.

“We came from a stable,” Zone Control chimed in, much to the ire of her husband.

You learn something everyday, don’tcha? I always had them pegged for being odd, but this was an entirely new revelation. They were a bit too capable to just be the average Stable-fresh scrub; the way Zone control handled a shotgun was masterful and her husband spared no ammo when he sprayed a hot lead load.

Sure, we were all interested in Stable stories, but there’s a time and place for pointless banter. Now wasn’t the time! While everyone else rocked in their seats or anxiously prepared, I was piecing together every part of the puzzle.

Nine sharp, it was the time for the next showing of the warped recordings that pass for films at this filthy theatre. It was the same time marked on our reprinted and reused ticket stubs. The people that ran the theatre dug the tickets out of the trash and just fed them back into the machine, there were so many reprints on the stub it was hard to decipher.

It was past Nine Sharp. The next showing was late by a whole five minutes. Maybe my worries were wrong, maybe it wasn’t a trap? The guy from the speakers in the square sounded like a finicky control freak, he’d never be late to taunt us as he revealed that we were in yet another masterfully laid plan that the ‘hero’ has stupidly fallen into again.

We should run now! But what if that was the trigger of the trap?! The seats could be trapped with explosives! I leaned down to check and only found a few decades worth of used chewing gum. The vivid colours on the seat panel was an expressive piece called ‘Oh where is thy dustbin’ by lazy blokes who can’t be assed to throw it in the bin! Disgusting!

Everything that moved in the corners of my vision was an enemy. I felt nervous fear wrenching in my guts. It was invisible fear, I tried to appear calm and in control, but I was sure Glazed Marshmallow could feel me shaking. Her hooves held mine, electricity danced up my spine.

A flicker on the screen made me jump, the screen darkened before a new film reel was set in. A hiss of static whispered in my ears, a chorus of taunting snakes, vipers.

The projector hummed, the reel clacked and the images projected onto the screen. A crackling pop echoed from the speakers before the sound synced. An eldritch hiss came from the deepest bowels of Tartarus and whistled into the darkness. This was it! We were doomed!

“Are you sick of being a average?” Began one voice, it belonged to a mare.

“Are your enemies just too savage?” Chimed in another.

“Then you should try Shim-Sham’s patented Carbonated Harmonic Cider!” The two mares spoke at once from their recording. The screen flickered and flashed, showing off a bottle of the elusive and hard to find grog that promised power. “Distilled of Discord, this potent tonic cures what ails you and corrects what fails you!”

It was a commercial, I could breath easy.

Scritt-Scritt-Scritt-Fssssssh.

The reel began to skip and jump, then burn in the projector. That has happened before, and the patrons groaned and began throwing their snacks at the screen. Boos and hisses became near-deafening.

“It’s time to leave,” I choked out, hardly able to breath. Panic was an acceptable response.

We were all in agreement, but as we rose a piercing cry bellowed out from the speakers and shook the walls. “Stay there!” It barked, “Right there I’ll be right with you!”

I froze, staring slack jawed at the screen. The other patrons murmured among themselves, in excitement, a new movie? Why that was cause for celebration!

The screen went red and the voice returned, “I am so sorry for being late with this.” The voice of Cradle Robber chimed cheerfully. “I was teaching my new minstrels a new song. They have to be ready to play it for the party.”

“Get to it, Cradle Robber...” Steelgraft ordered darkly. A few other ponies threw objects at Steelgraft, demanding his silence.

“We’s tryin’ tah watch thah movin’ picture show!” One of the unruly patrons shouted, tossing a half empty bottle of sparkle cola at my stitched companion. The bottle shattered, soaking his pelt with the flat, sugary beverage.

Steelgraft was unbothered, but Rebel Riot growled his disapproval at being soaked. The foal smacked his lips and licked the sugary sweetness off himself.

“I don’t take orders from you anymore!” The voice of Cradle Robber boomed. “You’re looking all washed up, a has-been that hadn’t been there.” A series of images flashed onto the screen, rapid and too fast to follow. I could make out a school among the rapid pictures, but that’s the only thing I could make out. “Hades has a message for you...”

One name drop was all it took; the patrons were in an immediate panic. A stampede of ponies made their way for the doors, trampling over one another. Screams and cries were softened, a tingling sensation filled the air. It was magic.

“Twice now, old friend, you’ve betrayed me.” Came a voice of unparallelled depth and distance. It was loud despite it being a whisper. “In life and in death you seek to undo the work of your comrades--You stand for death and would allow it to continue in this world. Have you forgotten the sting of mourning? I shall enlighten you to the pain that built the ivory tower and bring in line your understanding.”

The pictures slowed in framerate, to a point where it could be seen by the naked eye. A school, it wasn’t in Detrot. A fancy, lovely looking building. I’d seen pictures like that before, and in history I’d heard of that place--It was Luna’s School for Gifted Unicorns. We were drilled on that, and on every major attack on us by the zebra nation while in Steel Cadets; I didn’t buy into the propaganda, but that was an awful event.

I shot a glance to him, the stallion that was called ‘Captain’ and ‘Old Friend’ by even Hades. How was he tied to that school? The stallion was stock still, his pupil a pinprick, rattling in the white of his eye. The panic waging on in the theatre room was nothing compared to the struggle he must be fighting in his mind. I knew that look, it was the same look Rebel Riot had worn when he lost his father--Lost in fear and pain, surrounded by suffering.

“Your own progeny learned and died at that very school--You weren’t there, you couldn’t be there, you could not see what I had seen. By my words you believed there was a need for change--Revenge with direction.” Hades proclaimed this over the recording, one that seemed to be alive and changing. A morbid and heavy presence pressed us to our seats, to weather his entire monologue. “ Now you have forgotten my words, so now I shall lay bare in effigy the final moments you did not witness. I shall share with you the evil begotten by the zebra nation so that you may remember your mourning. Those that turned you against me hasten their undoing. That is what you embody to everyone you cherish; a death sentence.”

My fears became real, the stagnant air moved, the vents belched and rumbled before a pink, ethereal gas began to fill the room. It was the most feared pollutant and weapon the zebra had ever used against pony-kind, a necromantic weapon called by it’s visual appearance.

Pink Cloud.

...As the GM I must say, ‘wat’. That entire chapter was nothing but one big analogy of sex! You almost broke rating three times! I just...Here’s some exp. Listening to the story from Steelgraft’s point of view is just...Well, he’s a moron. Still, hearing it from a hooker’s point of view isn’t much an improvement. Oh, as for the boot? You should come back next chapter. We’ll be telling the story from its point of view. (Not really, but it is a funny idea.)

Chapter 10.5: You Monster

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"You Monster"

You and I, by perspective, the same.

“Endlessly depressing.”--That Stallion With The Glasses.

“You will never forget it!”--Some critic.

“This is insufferably pragmatic as it is laconic and nihilistic”--Zero Punctuation.

“Series one was better.”--Some hipster.

This is what I imagined the pre-screening critics would say about this stream of consciousness, this endless movie. The convoluted images flowed on for eons, into a boundless envelope of space populated solely by shifting silhouettes.

A leviathan river of epic coiling reel filled the goblet of my braincase, rupturing the delicate tension at the brim before running over the sides. The swirling kaleidoscope of ink followed the path of least resistance, surging in heavy waves crashing over everything. I tried to breath but found no purchase on the air, pulling the foreboding liquor of bitter memory into my bursting lungs.

The black ichor crawled into every crevice and washed over my vision, sinking me into despair. I could see everything, everything I’d ever known or will know, everything I’ve done or will do. Overwhelming emotions, toxic hate and rage connected my motives and made a line branching out before me.

“What’s black, white and red all over? Any zebra that crosses my path.” Words filled my mind, my own voice echoed brief snippets of memories, damning thoughts filtered through hate and malice.

“Just promise me you’ll stay out of the war.” I could hear the voice of my wife, urging me to make a promise. A promise I must have broken to be where I am now.

“Do you have any idea how hard it is to raise a son on your own?! I’m a good father, old dog! Far better than you were!” I was such a bitter and angry person back then. Why, why was I so angry? Where did that come from?

“This won’t be a war, this will be an extermination.” I had been right on that occasion, it had almost been an extermination. It had become an entire mess. A mess I’d played no small part in, if the subtle overtones in these memories was to be trusted.

One point became the focus of these memories, the scene shifting back, the sun and moon cresting over the horizon of the placid black sea. Back in time, to the beginning, or maybe a little after. I saw the world as it had been, the ink swirling into the intricate shapes and patterns to allude to their likeness.

***

You closed your eyes, the images haunting you even in the relative safety of your mind. When you opened your windows to the world, you broke the surface sitting bolt upright in a cold-dead sweat. The unnatural movement caused your spine to protest, seizing up until you collapsed back onto the bed with a hoarse, dry-throat groan.

Minutes passed like hours, and just as you were on the cusp of sleep, a disturbance robbed you of that sweet embrace you longed. You just wanted the headache to go away--Sleeping would solve that for you, it always did.

Clink--Clink--Clinkity clink clink! Crash!

Noise, noise that hurt to hear, your ears flicked. You rolled over and grabbed the pillow, holding it over your head to muffle the sound. The sweat-soaked casing smelled of alcohol, musk, and a hint of vomit. The sound didn’t stop, but grew louder, closer, and more frequent. A weight shifted on the squeaky springs of the mattress and made towards you--the clinking became less frequent. I just wanted to sleep! Who the buck is bothering me at this hour?! You wanted to think that, but all that processed in your mind was; Brehlehmffffnnn. You were so barren of cognition that you couldn’t think in sentences.

“Dad! Dad, wake up!” A small voice urged, pushing on your body with little hooves. Once again you rolled over away from the pestering and groaned, tangling yourself in the sheets like a protective cocoon.

It was a battle of wills, one that your hazey, booze addled mind could not win in the end. The brief tug of war ended with the colt lifting the edge of the sheets with a powerful flicker of magic and spiralling you in the air to land in a thick layer of bottles on the floor, scattering them with a symphony of mind-screeching annoyance.

“Alright! Alright, I’m up!” You said with a guttural tone, signifying your defeat by waving an imaginary white flag with a forehoof. After floundering around in what you discovered to be a small ocean of empty booze bottles, you managed to sit upright. You had yet to open your tired, sore eyes, but you knew what was waiting just beyond them.

A kingdom of bottles all around, on every surface of the room. The once homey Trottingham inspired nautical decor was bleak and rusty instead of rustic. Everything was a mess, nothing had been cleaned in months. You were as miserable as you were unmotivated, even with your son sitting on the bed staring at you expectantly.

“Whatcha want, kiddo? It’s--” You shot a sour glance at the clock, giving a dull, head throbbing pulse of magic to clear the bottles obscuring it on the nightstand. “Eight AM.” You concluded finally. Smacking your lips, you noticed how parched your throat was, your stringy saliva a noticeable, swinging ballast on your stiff upper lip.

“It’s a school day,” The boy replied, wearing a disconcerting frown. You had forgotten, it wasn’t the weekend--Unaware of the day you had drunk yourself stupid on a Sunday night. Reflecting on the night before you can hardly recall it, you had scarcely left your room and you hadn’t even bothered visiting any friends in at least a month. All your thoughts, which were already a trainwreck, caught fire when the young colt used his magic on the blinds to the bay window, knocking an obelisk to your vices over in the process.

“Augh!” Your hooves made a poor shield against the bright light, driving a spike of discomfort straight into your sleepy frontal lobe. Your pounding head screamed the roar of a jackhammer against your temples. Rubbing the sleep from your eyes with both hooves, you groaned, letting them fall away after a few moments. A few more blinks adjusted your eyes to the light, yet the constant throb of a heartbeat behind your eyeballs remained.

“Come on, I started breakfast.” Your son chimes with strained cheerfulness. He has been so patient with you, Luna bless him. You wouldn’t be so kind if the roles were reversed. The knowledge of this did not motivate you to change, but robbed you further of any drive that remained.

He vanished after he leapt off the bed and sank into the collection of bottles, only his horn poked out. A small avalanche ushered him through the frame once he opened the door. “Come on, lazy bones!” Nopony should be this cheerful on a Monday--Especially not a foal on a schoolday.

Leaving your room was a chore every morning, with bottles up to your withers, getting to where your things were was a task second only to finding them among the piles of refuse and dirty dishes. Old grey cloak, boots, top hat(Even when down on your luck, you still had to have some class), and all your belongings were in various hiding places that took you every ounce of coordination to achieve the habitual dance of the morning routine. Ready but unwilling you slid into the hall, stumbling as the whole place shuddered. The wood creaked and the heavy metal pipe running along the halls belched steam as rancid as your morning breath.

FlickerJack was on her last wingnut. The latch to the storage galley broke and spilled the contents of a thousand adventures across the short hall to the main gallery. Groggily, you scaled it and tumbled over, kicking the old sea-chest and the various old forget-me-nots and souvenirs from various venues of versation. Every piece had a story, you were sure, you just couldn’t remember any of them nor care at this point. Well, you did care about that old vintage bottle of Gulag Grog that got added to the hallway’s growing pile. Good thing you never threw anything out.

When you sauntered in nursing a bottle of old booze, a common sight greeted you. Rowdy, your son, was incredible with magic(A trait he’d inherited from his mother, Luna rest her soul.) and he managed precision control of the entire kitchen with merely semi-consideration on the spell’s incantations. This of course, left him with more than enough focus to show his disapproval at the bottle of booze you found.

Without so much as a word he set your breakfast down in on the table and placed a kiss on your cheek, standing on the table briefly to do so. “Eat up, pops.” He squeaked. He went back to the small open kitchen to finish his preparations, packing his school lunch all by himself. It took you awhile to notice he was wearing that thing again--That thing being the frilly pink apron that had belonged to his mother. He’d been picking up a lot of slack since she’d passed away, and while dwelling on it, you downed a quarter of the bottle to burn out the cold feeling swelling in your guts.

You ate in silence, as usual, the only sound was the clinking of silverware and creaking of the airship’s old boiler engine. You downed another fourth of the bottle after taking a few bites of food, sating your non existent appetite.

Rowdy cleaned his plate and finished off his juice box before clearing his side of the table. A table made for a crew, but with only two it seemed superfluous.

“Aren’t you gonna eat?” His expectations were always met with negatives, you don’t know why he ever bothered asking anymore. “Do you remember what day it is?”

“I’m not that hungry...” You answer, pushing the plate away. “It tasted good though, thanks.” You returned to nursing the bottle and left only a scant few drops. “Ermf, it’s Monday. Just another Monday.”

“At least you’re always thirsty.” His bitter words followed his actions, the plate lifting up before it crashed into the sink, shattering. You didn’t react, not even a flinch. You should be surprised, but your dumb mind was too addled by booze. “It’s a school day! You shouldn’t be drinking!”

“Piss off.” You reply, giving an indignant snort, slamming the bottle down. “I’ll drink when I want.” It was this again, it was always this with him--He never understood why it hurt. Why you had to make the pain go away. The little brat!

It was a challenge--A flicker of his horn’s magic and it was on. He tried to forcefully take the bottle, and since you were so plastered you almost failed to react. Twenty years as an adventurer had honed reflexes and muscle memories to the point of automation, but those memories were blanketed by a thick slush of booze.

In the brief struggle of wills, he won out, nullifying your grasp with a simple shield spell around the bottle, blocking your influence and drawing his prize to him. He dumped the remaining booze into the sink, setting the empty bottle into the nearby trash bin. “There, now that wasn’t so hard.” His face was briefly cheerful, knowing he’d bested his old man and gotten what he wanted--Briefly because when he turned around you produced a fresh bottle from under your hat.

He couldn’t win. Even if he dumped all the bottles in plain sight, there were plenty hidden in secret spots he’d never found, even when he wandered the ship with curious, foalish eyes as a lil pup. He glared daggers at you, storming over and leaping on the table. “Dad! Dad!” He huffed, snorted, then yelled out in a harsh whinny, “DADDY!”

You drop the bottle. He hadn’t called you ‘Daddy’ since, well, forever! For once your spotty paternal instincts cracked the whip and you gave your son undivided attention. You expected there to be more anger, more fighting, but only pity remained in his eyes--The brilliant hazel orbs he’d inherited from his mother.

“What is wrong with you?” He asks, his patience had just run out completely.

To find the words, you had to take a few breaths and think, through the fog you mutter, “You wouldn’t understand. I just...” You lower your head and tilt your hat down over your eyes. You wanted to avoid his gaze, to escape thinking about her. “I want to forget.”

“Forget mom.” He states blankly. “You want to forget mom.”

“No, I just...You don’t get it! How I feel, how it hurts! I need this--” You found any excuse now, losing ground. Your hooves were over the open sea and you didn’t know how to swim.

“You act like you’re the only one who lost someone! Well I lost someone that day too, I lost my mom!” Rowdy cried out, “And now I’m losing my dad...”

The bottle, you really needed that bottle. The pain throbbing in your chest spread out, like a crack widening in the hull after a winter’s freeze. You retrieved the bottle, sparing a bereaved glance to the puddle under the table. Having a shot was better than getting shot, and the liquor like bitter honey danced on your tongue.

Hazel eyes brimming with tears, he declared his anger in a roar. He hated his selfish father that didn’t care. “Forget you dad, I hate you!” Rowdy bawled as he grabbed his lunch and abandoned the apron. Before he vanished up the stairs to topdeck, he called back one final declaration, “And this ‘just another Monday’ is my birthday. Not that you cared to remember!”

You urge yourself to follow him, to stop him from leaving; your body replies by sitting there numbly, feelings blanked by warmth filling every limb. A warmth that soon faded to hollow, misty eyes. Time passed at a crawl, that is, until the alcohol was purged from your system. A vile taste remained in your mouth, the poison sticking to the back of your teeth and roof of your mouth as it furled out onto the floor.

Unburdened by any real guilt, you went for another bottle on your person, checking your jacket sleeves and coming up empty all while failing to notice you were being watched. The absence of your booze was compounded by the loss of your hat, which now sat at a jaunty angle upon a rose-colored mare’s head.

At her hooves were eight bottles, all of them yours, pilfered off your person. The sneaky pegasus mare, while noticeably more curvy(Celestia help you if anypony ever called her fat) was a far better sneak thief than even you. She also had next to her a mop and bucket, with fresh soapy water--This bucket’s contents was thrown against you, drenching you while she practically beat you senseless with the wet mop, cleaning both you and the floor in tandem.

It was almost her solemn duty to look after you, as she always did. Without even a word shared between you, you knew what the other was thinking. Her disappointment was only matched by her worry and she’d heard every word.

Noisily she moved around you, her wood and cable prosthetic scraping over the floor with sharp creaks--It, just like the ship, was now more putty filler than wood and it showed its disrepair. “You really mucked up this time, Captain.” The mare, your navigator and lifelong partner, tells you. “Nevermore’d get a kick out of this--You prove her wrong then you go right back to being a loser.”

You open your mouth to say something in your defense, only to get a mop pushed into your face, drowning you in suds. The mare uses her wings to power the old, raggedy cotton mop head into your dirty, scruffy white face all the while explaining to you how much she wishes she could look up to you again.

This battery doesn’t stop for a good solid five minutes, and when it does, it only halts for a moment so she can splash another bucket of cold water over you. “I know how hard it was to lose Recoil, I lost a leg and I went to the bottle. I was just a lush. You? You’re just...Pushing everypony and every non-pony that cares about you away...”

She wasn’t just a lush, you know that--Her depression ran deep for a long while, but she always hid it or snuck away to handle her vice in privacy. She was never bold like you, to wallow in her issues at the expense of her loved ones. She tells you you’re a jerk, an asshole. Those words are almost too nice for you.

Finally, it’s over! You’re sitting at the table, looking groggy but clean. The rose colored mare uses a near comically sized billows in an improvised manner to blow you dry. Once again, you open your yap to say something in your defense before your pelt fluffs up with air as it dries. A single eyelid twitches as you knit your aggression together in the form of two angry eyebrows.

What are you angry about? Everything! Nothing! You didn’t know! Everything was a mess and you weren’t doing anything about it!

“Here.” The mare says, setting something wrapped in an oiled cloth before you. You wonder briefly what it is, unwrapping it as she continues to talk, not like you can get a word in edge-wise. “This always helped you find your way when you were lost--I can’t believe you pawned it for more booze. This is the last time I’m bailing you out.”

The Compass--yes THE Compass. It’s a proper name for a proper and powerful magical artifact. It has always found a heading, even in places where magnetism was disrupted--Through illusions and even to find objects long thought missing. It belonged to your father, or more precisely, the creature that had fathered both you and the rose colored mare.

The simple brass casing popped open of its own accord revealing an inlay of jeweled faces, the needle spinning in lazy, aimless circles. The gems flashed lightly before it chimed and popped open at the face. Music played from inside and stored memories played out in the shaped of a primitive single color hologram, like a diorama in a bubble.

The last thing that had been saved in the compass’ auto-memory was the Krew reunion , your wife and son in attendance. It was the last time you’d done something as a family, and the last time you’d ever been happy.

“There’s wrapping paper and a box somewhere in the storage galley. It shouldn’t be too hard to find if you use the compass.” The rose colored mare spoke crisply. “You should hurry up, Captain, you have a party to plan.”

She was pointing you in the right way to redeem yourself, she always pointed you in the right way. You didn’t know which was more reliable, her and her maps, or this mystical ancient compass passed down the family line.

“I’ll need my hat,” you tell her. This makes her chuckle and she pats the hat on her brow.

“You mean the collateral? You get it back when you bring your son home all smiles, deal?” She said to you, offering no alternative.

“Deal.” You agree with a sigh and a roll of the eyes.

She was right, as usual, about how easy it was to find things using the compass. You just spoke a rhyme and it showed you the way--By painfully dragging you through the entire mess wholly. It was probably worth mentioning that the compass was designed to be set into a recess in a ships’ forecast deck at which point it would assist the ship in the direction, even against gale force winds. You weren’t a ship, but it tugged you just the same, painfully, mind you, through the mess of the galley.

There were many boxes, the smallest and easiest of which was a one that stored a small medal, an old warrior signet from the Pegasus tribe before the unity of the three tribes. You briefly considered its value before shaking it out into the pile of other artifacts of dubious value. The wrapping paper was, oddly enough, in the old gunpowder 34-pound cannon, aptly named because it would launch 34 pounds worth of mashed potatoes at enemy ships, which was as messy as it was impractical. It was one of the worse yet delicious ideas for nonsensical seadog warfare that was prevalent in the bygone era of sea piracy, second only to the pie slingers of Appaloosa today.

That was then, nowadays it was all metal. Metal to flesh instead of flesh to fun like it used to be, in a more peaceful era. Your wife was just one of the many casualties of the war, collateral damage dealt by the Zebra Empire and its zealous ambitions in doing whatever it is they did. You didn’t stay up to date on politics or war, not anymore, your interest lay in history and adventuring, or, at least it did until you found solace in a bottle.

Your ability to do short term menial tasks while afflicted with a hangover would be the ultimate undoing of your depression, leading you on the redeeming adventure of calling in a ton of favors. The Canterlot Museum’s head owed you, which got you in contact with a few higher up ponies, which in turn went higher and higher until you got someone of grand importance.

If you were going to throw your son a birthday party and win him back, you’d do it with the best you could find--The best just so happened to match his favorite color. Pink.

What secret backroom deals did you have to make to get in contact with the Pinkius Pie? You’re unsure to it, actually. In fact, maybe it was her that called you. It was really lost in the shuffle there for a while, and after playing phone tag with three secretaries, their secretaries, and enduring mind numbing music you somehow got ahold of the Cakes, who then got her to call you back at some point in the confusing shuffle.

Pinkie Pie. A legend among party hosts, and a bearer of an Element of Harmony. She was the self proclaimed ‘hostess with the mostess’! “Try saying that ten times fast!” She said, before trying it herself. She messed up by the sixth time and came out with, “Hopsteps train mess.” At which point she giggled, snorted, and you heard the distinct sound of her falling over and waving her hooves at the air. Yes, you heard this over a phone.

You had her time, so you told her your story, briefly, explaining to her how you needed help to get your son(and yourself) happy again. By the end of your tale, the pink pony was sniffling sadly, blowing her nose.

“Of course I’ll help you! I’ll have a party ready in a hop, skip the jump, and done!” Well, that was easy.

You try to tell her that you haven’t told her a location, time, or anything, but the mare says everything is already prepared and the emergency party brigade was already prepping the balloons and bouncy castle. Baffled, you simply nod numbly and thank her, for once feeling a genuine smile coming on. That smile on your wary lips makes the pink mare gasp happily--a squee sounding. “I just love making ponies smile!” She exclaims. How she could detect your smile was even more alarming.

You stare at phone as if it’s cursed before hanging up and leave your room, which is noticeably cleaner since you tossed all the empty bottles overboard. Then of course, remembering you were moored in Canterlot and you just tossed a bunch of bottles out onto the street below makes you briefly panic. You decide the best course of action is to sneak away while the royal canterlot guards are writing littering citations and pasting them to the bow of your ship. You’ll deal with THAT later. Much later, like never showing up to Canterlot Court later.

For once you were at the top, or at least rising there swiftly. You didn’t know how much Pinkie Pie would do to help, so to play it safe you bought a small, modest cake (vanilla, because everypony loves vanilla) and used a payphone to make a few more calls to some of your old Krew. Everything was arranged just in case Pinkie Pie failed to pull through, you had your old teammates running emergency backup plans B-LMNOP.

It was a full day’s worth of work, at at least most of the morning into noon. You wondered briefly what could be a better surprise than getting picked up from school early and concluded nothing could be better! Giving yourself one last look in the reflection of a shop’s window you passed, you decided you looked somewhat presentable, if a bit scruffy and unshaven. You smiled at the glass, then frowned. What if your son didn’t forgive you?

It doesn’t hurt to try, though, right? Just try to be a good father. Just this once to turn it all around and be the stallion your wife married. Your determination is unbreakable, your heading is sure, and you take deliberate steps to go to the prestigious academy your son now learns at.

Luna’s School For Gifted Unicorns.

You’re feeling good about yourself, so you take a scenic route and run into a pony selling balloons. Pleasantries aside, you purchase a set of three and go on your merry way to your final destination. That is, until, every step begins to sink cold dread into your chest.

You see it far off at first, a barricade of ‘Do Not Cross’ and first responders. Fireponies and medical personal, guards, soldiers, and hazmat suits. It’s all just a blur of pure dread that is focused into a thousand-yard stare at the place just beyond. The school.

Concerned parents are rallied at the line, clamouring for thier loved ones, sirens sound and the world around you falls apart. Nopony is getting through. No answers are being given. Your voice is drown out by distressed cries. Muscles you haven’t used in ages ache as they tense, a stern, calm demeanor washes over you. You’re going to get through, over or through. Nothing will stop you.

You bolt straight for the line and thread into the crowd before leaping up and deftly onto several faces to vault over the line--While they had prepared for pegasus fly overs, they didn’t expect a unicorn to rush the line or to be so quick--Nor did they expect you to phase right through the front line of first responders. Incorporeality, a rare spell among unicorns allowing one to slip themselves through solid objects or escape harm. Most baby unicorns can do this automatically, a reflex of self preservation that they lose when they grow old. You, you’ve never lost this reflex and it has saved your life countless times.

This time it might get you killed. Your heart is thundering, your muscles screaming, and you leave six guards in various states of injury in your wake. Halfway up the courtyard you slam into a barrier--A masterfully crafted one you cannot slip through. You slam yourself against it over and over until you collapse into a slump. Somepony had surrounded the school to ensure nothing that crossed the line got in without clearance, and that somepony was the Captain of the Guard.

Shining Armor looks down at you, not angrily, but sadly as he places a strong hoof against the middle of your back, pinning you down. “I’m sorry, but I need to take you into custody.” You’re familiar with him, everypony has heard of Shining Armor, husband to Cadence. You thought he’d been replaced here, while on leave protecting the Crystal Empire. Turns out, he was here visiting his family at the time of the incident, the incident with only one survivor.

That survivor was not your son.

They called it Pink Cloud, a deadly agent that melted down the flesh and internal organs of its victims. You didn’t want to think about it, how much that must have hurt to die in such a fashion. It was a terrorist attack by the zebra. They took your light, but not your silver lining. The only survivor was your best friend, Rowdy’s teacher, Goldenblood.

So there you sit, in the back of a police wagon, watching three red balloons sail into the sky from behind a set of bars. Your release is surprisingly expedient, all charges are generously dropped, and you’re free to go. This makes you late for the party, one that Pinky has spared no effort to make into a bash. When you arrive, you get to have the wonderful privilege to break the news to everyone there--Pinkie takes it the hardest, her hair losing its air like a punctured balloon.

And there you sit at the party, the darkness looming over you unbearable. The party is dead as your soul, the balloons do nothing but remind you of your fresh new wounds in your heart. Still, you hold three lines to three red balloons. You do the same when you visit Goldenblood in the hospital. And the same when you identify the body of your kin. And the same at the funeral, three red balloons.

You never get your hat back from the sad, rose colored mare, you don’t want it. That deal is set in stone. You didn’t bring your son back all smiles, you didn’t bring him back at all. Time passes and the pain stays, it lingers in your heart, compressing every ounce of joy from you.

You wake up every day, but not to a sea of bottles, but to a new project, anything to distract you from thinking. Anything to not dwell. You traded your grey cloak for a red duster. Your ship has never looked better and you’ve never been in better shape. Days to months, time passes. You never miss a scheduled chess game with Goldenblood after--Sorrow and pain brings fellowship between you.

When he offers you hard apple cider, you abstain.

“I never want to forget.”

And nor would you forgive.

That is where your end began and I became. You are not me, but I am still you. I am all the hate and anger left, all that remains of you. You trapped me in a body that cannot feel joy or happiness and stole from me eternal rest.

You became a monster and I am all that’s left. A fragment of a monster. What good remains in me is merely a trick of the light.

Chapter 10.75: Boot, Meet Head

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"Boot, Meet Head"

Oh, and PNK-3 says ‘hi’.

The crisp night air was cleaved by the heavy hull of the sailing object, a tail of burning air igniting behind it as it soared with incredible speeds. For a hundred years, it has slumbered, in wait for its master to return to claim it and its twin. Now, it flies alone, briefly, in its quest to be found by its rightful owner.

White hot with heat, the metal lining its outer form burned as the friction made it appear like a shooting star, but even in this environment it did not wear or tear. It was built of sterner stuff than that; it was built to outlast all others like it. This, of course, rendered it a deadly projectile compounded upon it by its designed and original purpose--An additional power granted merely by its massive inertia and boundless potential energy imparted on it.

Thoughtless and determined, it carried no voice, held its tongue and refused to bare its sole to the world, it had no ties to the world save unto itself and its duty to return to its master and become whole. The method that propelled it was waning, it had no method of self propulsion, so it would likely rest where it landed until found.

The world had changed so much while it lay behind the wood pulp walls of its prison, a bleak world or muted colors now spread out beneath it. The clouds overhead were just beyond it, the enchantment deep in its very being longed for the embrace of the clouds, to taste the sweet kiss of the sky. Two lovers, apart, separated by a distance the breadth of an outstretched leg that may as well have been a million miles.

As bloodthirsty as its master, it sought to rest only after it bludgeoned the very life from an enemy in its descent. Whether by bad fortune on the part of that enemy, or good fortune upon the ruthless throw that had propelled it, the armor turned comet slammed into a slate grey earth pony mare with wild eyes and struck from her memory all that she was. The last thing drawn upon her mind was her ass as her skull was torn and dragged right into her posterior by the vengeance of the object’s heated hatred laced with fury. For all the weapons held aloft by this mare’s power, none of them could compare to the sheer destructive power of the spiteful spear that lanced through her form, and none could have defended her.

The companions of this mare could only shout and scream in surprise and fear, huddling in the wreckage of nearby sky wagons until the smoke cleared. With curious, beady eyes, the Baker Barbarians inspected the ruined remains of their squad leader, the mad Pastry Witch whose power had done nothing to shield her from a force of nature such as this.

All they could say, all they could shout at their discovery, and to the heavens themselves that scorned them was; “Where the fuck did dat boot come from?!” They could only stare in awe and fear at the unmarked, undamaged gore filled boot stuck firmly in the skull of a mare many had thought ‘immortal’.

There can only be one! Or in the boot’s case, two.

She was dead! The Pastry Witch of the Baker Barbarians lay slain by a unique force of nature. To the survivors go the spoils, well, if they could agree on who got what. The remaining Barbarians were arguing with one another in a heated shouting match, the larger of the group bumping chests and exchanging foul breath as they roared at each other.

They all wanted a disproportionate share of the loot off Meatpie’s body, and of course, none but the scrawniest of the Leftovers among them wanted no part in the debacle. It’s not like the ponies fed table scraps and routinely beaten into obedience would ever have the balls to step up and stake claim without becoming a snack to the bigger, meaner Barbarians.

“I wants her Can Cleavah!” Roared Beatmeat, one of the larger Meat-Beaters in the group; Drugged up, insatiable murder jockeys with a love of up and close sadism. His body was an all-over pockmark, his greasy complexion covered in small pustules and boils, and if anyone was stupid enough to get under him and his heavy iron spiked kickers, they’d find him to be a bit small under the carriage. Substance abuse, Buck in particular, had a way of reducing one’s masculinity in a very ironic way--big muscles, small dick. Of course, noone dare make a joke about the massive meat monster, not unless of course you were somepony like...

“Oi, pissant! How jou say common fewl, I have claim on her knives, dey are mine afterall. They wur on loan.” Cinder Crisp, the group’s Chef, a bold and spicy dapple unicorn mare. She was well armed with a powerful flame-spitter and a blazing flame creating propane powered porksword. Meatbeat hated her with a passion, but he loved her cooking, which rendered her nigh immune to his tantrums. Of course, she’d just burn him to a cinder if he dared to get too fresh; an impossibility because Beatmeat had no balls, literally.

“Are you challengin’ me?” Grunted Beatmeat as he narrowed his eyes, his bloodshot, beady orbs shrinking as his large nostrils widened.

“Moi? Perhaps. Shall ve eat ze cake?” The mare said with a cruel smile.

There was only one way to settle this, a game, one that every Baker Barbarian of the clans knew well. Its reputation was spread out through all the groups as the most intense game of confection ever. It was quite popular to make starving captives play it, betting on who would survive, then starving the survivors further until the next match!

The game was aptly named Cake or Death.

It was as simple as it was deadly--You could play with as many ponies as you’d like, as long as they had the necessary item to play; a bucksnack or sweet pastry of some kind. You also needed a roulette table, unicorn, or three coconut shell halves to play proper. Really, the game was so fluid and simple, making changes to play it anywhere with anything on hoof was pretty common and acceptable,

Each pony supplied their confection and put something in it or left it ‘plain’ and they would spin the wheel or use whatever method of randomization available to swap the foodstuffs around. Each player would take a bite, last one alive won the wager! Of course, one could always ‘pony out’ or ‘pig out’ during the game. Pony out was simply giving up while pig out meant you ate a number of the pastries in play and all opponents had to eat just as many or lose.

And finally, there was the audience participation! An audience member could add their own additives to confection or tamper with the game(without getting caught, that is).

The wager was simple and the game was set. Beatmeat and Cinder Crisp would play the game for the right to have all the goodies on Meatpie’s body. Each selected a delectable looking treat from their person and submitted it. The rest of the group chipped in as well with whatever they had to keep it varied and interesting and made bets amongst each other on who would win.

“Crisp’s got this! She’s gonna burn Beatmeat out!”

“You’re on! Beatmeat’s gonna pig out and win!”

And so it began, the pastries were swapped around at random with a flick of the mare’s magic--she even closed her eyes to not look at what she was doing (resulting on one pony getting a razorblade filled cupcake to the eye). She stopped and opened her eyes to see the confection before her, an eclair with an obvious knitting needle in it. With a roll of her eyes, she ate the eclair around the large needle and left the dangerous sharp tool behind, licking her chops and giving the stallion a wink. It tasted oddly salty to her.

“Dat wez tasty, but sad.” She purred tauntingly.

“I hope yeh liked mah special ingredient.” Beatmeat chuckled, reaching up to press his hoof into one of the ripe boils on his face. The geyser erupted with sick yellow-white phlegm that came out like curdled cream, matching the exact texture of that foul eclair! The sight of that gross puss made Cinder Crisp wince, gag, and swallow hard. She couldn’t lose her lunch thinking about it, she’d lose if she did!

“Jou still haff not eaten yur pasty!” She groaned, narrowing her eyes. “Try it...”

Rolling his beady, sunken eyes the brute chowed down carelessly on the green frosted meat pie. At first it was mild, fine, and savory sweet. A peculiar, queer thing in his mouth if the mare had made it. “Mmmmnot bad. Kinda makes me feel bad fer makin yah eat that zit eclair.” He chuffed out with a chuckle.

“Oh, just wait.” Cinder Crisp clicked, her voice dripping with venom.

Meatbeat’s mouth caught fire, wiping that smug smirk from his lips. A river of blood tinge saliva left his mouth as his tongue swelled, his eyes raining twin waterfalls of tears down his chiseled, zit covered face. It was so painful, a perpetual never ending inferno. “Gyeh wush yuh prut in thish?!”

“Death Pepper extract.” She replied smoothly. “Von’t kill jou, but it vill made zeh wish jou were dead.”

The match continued much like this, with each party getting equally fortunate and unfortunate as the game progressed. When Cinder Crisp got her own pastries, she was ready for them, but it was still painful, and eventually both their faces were red, puffy, and swollen. At one point, cinder Crisp had gotten a razor bladed cookie and was sporting a new split down her tongue. Meatbeat was wheezing, hardly able to breath, seeing as he was allergic to gluten. Neither would give up, so it kept getting more outrageous.

A final fit of desperation lead the berzerker to ‘pig out’ as many as he could in his turn, forcing the mare to match his four he’d managed. Her mouth was cut up, lips bleeding, and body sick from whatever it was they’d put in these things.

They were down to only two pastries--Which meant sudden death! The first one to eat their pastry would win and get the loot!

These last two pastries looked oddly ornate, large, and delicious as if they’d been made by a master pastry chef; Red velvet cupcakes with pink strawberry lemonade frosting and a preserved cherry on top. Both raiders chowed down at the same time, both pulling back with frosting covered faces and a grenade pin between their teeth.

The confused glance the competitors wore before it turned to pure horror, then to red sprayed gore was nearly priceless. All the surrounding raiders were atomized by the concussive fireball caused by a rupture in the flamer’s tank. If only had Cinder Crisp thought to turn off her pilot light on her flame spitter and shishkebab there might have been a few severely marred survivors.

“Oh, wow, maybe I overdid it on the sprinkles!” PNK-3 chimed as she came out from hiding. The pink orb of fearsome cute swiveled around, surveying the battlefield before she giggled, “That was a really fun game! We should play again sometime, but I have someplace to be!”

The pink ball of random searched through the remains, found the still undamaged boot, and left wearing it like a hat. Her destination? The enormous tent looking structure far into the distance, the Big Top Blok. “Oooo, I’ve always wanted to go to the circus!” the bot chimed cheerfully.

There’s a moral somewhere in this story, I’m not sure where it is, but it’s most certainly there. Just remember, kids, if a floating pink ball of random offers you a cupcake with extra sprinkles, just say no. Oh, and don’t be an evil cannibal either, that’s a good place to start, actually. Also, what the hell is PNK-3 doing going to the Big Top Blok? I don’t remember putting that in the script for the next encounter!

50 points to Griffindor! Oh, wait, wrong universe! 250 exp to PNK-3 for her stealth kill on the foolishly gambling Baker Barbarians!

PNK-3 Leveled up!
“Oh, I wanna name my new perk!”

What? But I’m the GM!

“Whose perk is this?”

Fine, you do it...

“YAY!”
“New Perk: Pink’d Programming
While PNK-3 is in your party, locked terminals and maneframes are one difficulty level easier to hack--Easy peasy terminals are automatically unlocked with this perk!”

You’re not even a companion, PNK-3! You’re an NPC! And that perk’s useless!

“Nu-uh, I’m totally a companion character! PNK-3 is everypony’s companion! Lookee!”

This isn’t a character sheet, this is a coupon for 15% off at Sugarcube Corner!

“I knooooow, so that should make us square!”

What...Are you...Bribing me?

“Nope! It’s just a gift for my bestest friend, and bestest friends do favors for each other!~”

That’s subtle, real subtle...

“That means I’m a companion now, right? I’m plot essential!”

No, you’re just a pain in my plot. Fine, unimportant side character role!

“Main character!”

No, no more than a side character!

“No later than Friday!”

What?

“I want my own mini-series! Friday, that’s the deadline!”

No, no more than companion, and that’s final!

“Okie Dokie Lokie!”

...Damn. She's good.

Chapter 11: Cost of Living

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"Cost of Living"

It isn’t what you would expect.

One would seek the wonders of the world, in the past, and find beauty in places, but in this time, there is only ruin. Equestria was always a land of wonder. That has not changed, those wonders have just become more deadly. The sins of the past inherited the future, leaving a debt this generation pays eternally with diminishing returns. Their lives are on loan, short, fleeting, and they have been left with so little to strive for other than survival. The cost of living, the debt to live is paid by everyone. Someone else dying so that you may live, and eventually, you'll pay that price too. It's an unwritten law, illiteracy notwithstanding, that governs the actions of all life now.

"I do not want to die." Is something I have heard so many times, among other excuses from even the most ruthless of raiders. They barter with their executioner that they were forced to take lives to continue their own. Foals, it is a debt we all have to pay someday. Die and leave supplies for scavengers, or be killed for your supplies. Die near a place with danger, your skeleton a grim warning for others to keep their distance. Die so others can live, the cost of living is ironic. It is death. I wonder, when my time comes, how will my death serve another? A raider will kill me for what little I have, more than likely.

A typical life and death, in this world, is interchangeable. No special snowflakes, no one in a million, only a menagerie of fleeting lives postponing their post-mortem debt collection. You can’t change it, and even if you could, there’s nothing to replace it with.

---From the Journal of Nevermore

There’s a lot of things I’ll stand. I can stand a bit of back talk from my subordinates, I can stand harsh routines and hard hours, and I can stand not questioning my orders like a good soldier. But this, I cannot abide, I cannot stand it. The way the tribals--the civilians look at me.

It’s in my name, Standtall Stillshot. I’m a Steel Ranger of division 25, demoted Senior Paladin, now a Crusader and the leader of squad Delta. Delta was the known dumping grounds of renegades and free thinkers. It was often I had new members assigned, to replace the ones lost in battle. This happened far too frequent for my liking, and I’ve been the sole survivor to more than one deployment. Being the biggest stallion, and perhaps oldest, of my entire division has lead to a life of being a bit of an odd ball, with eyes always on me, always watching with interest or trepidation.

That’s not how these civilians are looking at me. They’re looking at me with hate, anger, and scorn. They avoid me, moving aside without prompt, even if I was not even trying to get past them. When I ask for things, they refuse, even for help with the barricade or for ammunition. Common procedure dictates I just take what we need in a time like this, but we’re outnumbered, and tensions are running high, I don’t need to give them a reason to open fire on us.

It might be paranoia, every ranger sometimes feels it, like those tribals would greedily murder us for our gear even though they have no capacity or reason to use it. Ignoring that gut feeling that everypony wants a piece of you is hard, especially when you know you have to take things from them to protect them from their own ignorance.

Tech level 7 and up are not permitted in the hooves of tribals. This pretty much means anything Stable-Tech(or sometimes even a radio) is grounds for confiscation. It sometimes depends on the mood of the ranger’s superior, personally I’ve only ever had to take a toy from a foal once, Joyboys in working condition were too rare. The crushed soul of that foal may haunt me, but I’m confident he made a recovery and went on to better himself. Or maybe I just took a brief moment of joy from him in this bleak, crushing existence and he lived a bit more miserably. That was thirty years ago, that foal had likely grown up and died by now.

Compliance and confiscation, follow our demands and you won’t come under scrutiny or ire. That’s the rule we follow. We make no distinction between these unfriendly Friends and the tribals that now surround us. We’re surrounded on all sides by Friends, raider kind that out do each other on insanity, and they’re no friends of mine. Friend is just a term for especially violent raiders, coined by natives of the Moohave and adopted by patrolling rangers when they picked up the colorful radio banter. All it takes is one problem and everypony turns into a ‘Friend’, giving ‘Friendly Fire’ a very exciting double-meaning.

It bothers me, not that it’ll happen, but that it’s not happening. Their xenophobia towards us is justified, but instead of acting as our command has taught us they’d act, they are simply tending to their own, working with each other to hold together. A community. Command also says they’re not keen enough to use the tech we confiscate in ways other than harming one another. That we are protecting them from themselves.

We keep the roads clear! All we ask is for all that they couldn’t use otherwise! Can’t they see that if they don’t work with us they’ll all die? No, all they see is a big bully wrapped in a big suit of armor. Because that’s all we are.

Disgrace.

We’re at war, constant war for our survival. The entire city is always in flux. There’s a massive hole at the heart of the city where all the best supplies are still plentiful, but we cannot get to safety. No, we’re forced to the outer ring to live off the scraps, and each faction stakes a claim, taking bites out of a limited pool of resources to survive.

South Quadrant, East Quadrant, West Quadrant, and North Quadrant; these are the territories remaining that are ‘fit’ for survival, each with limited resources.

The Rangers have dominated the Northern quadrant and made it safe(r) for trade, the use of our bunker makes us hard to remove while our knowledge of old tech has allowed us to rebuild large sections of tram-way to allow us rapid transit between sectors. Well, as long as something doesn’t break down and the tracks stay clear...

To the West are the Whirlybirds, a faction of ruthless smugglers and parts traffickers, specializing in chop shop cyber parts and mob mentality justice. They make their home in the old business district, their home is a trade hub built on a winding and elaborate terrace built into the top levels of the still standing skyscrapers. Below in the streets, feral timber wolf packs roam endlessly, dense and vicious.

South is the Baker Barbarian Clans, enemy to all things made of meat, they’ve had a long standing feud with the Whirlybirds over the now contested Big Top Blok. The Rangers have long since wanted their territory, since they made their home in the industrial park, a location of high value to us. There’s also a lot of ‘non-hostile’ settlements in the Southern Quadrant we could gleam tech from if we could institute compliance and confiscation.

To the East, are our mortal enemies, the Zebra Remnants, lead by the vicious Redstripe and his merry band of cowards. All they do is continue this endless war with any pony still alive, no matter the cost. Detrot had at one point been a refugee hotspot during the war, the income of war-torn zebra families and strife gave birth to the Striped Slums.

It wasn’t all bad, due to Detrot’s high zebra population, the city was passed over for megaspell attack. That was until the Remnants dropped baelfire forty-nine years ago. They hated the thought of the city recovering, of there being hope. The filthy zebra killed off their own people to keep Division 25 from preparing the city for repopulation once Stable 22 and 23 opened. That’s just how stripeys are, ruining anything and everything good, no matter the cost!

Of course, the striped snakes tell a different story, that it was King Hades punishing the hubris of one would-be hero that rose against his rule after the fall of Tomb Town. The Ivory Tower was summoned with the wave of the God-King’s hoof, its very appearance ruining a majority of the city. I think it’s a zebra lie, you can’t go outside to see this tower, it doesn’t exist. Sure, the deadmare were around before, but in far lesser numbers, enough for Division 25 to handle. It bothers me though, that the zebra would weaponize our own dead against us by creating something like Hades and his kind. Equestria would have never done something like that, we honor our dead. I wonder just how spread out they are, though, since Steelgraft is from Fillydelphia, reprogrammed by the technicians at Division 44...

The last group worth mentioning has no territory their own, The Fallen, who are nomadic, cling to the inner ring and roam. They’re mostly ghouls that believe we should atone for our sins by suffering, and they stop most scavengers from getting into the Dead Zone’s easier to plunder areas.

One thing all these groups have in common is that they drain resources from the city, and through infighting ignore the true threat; King Hades, the biggest player of them all. For as much as I’d like to cast off his crown, the chances of the Rangers trying anything soon are narrow and slim. Defense is the best offense, but I’m feeling more like we’re boxed in our own coffin sometimes. What happens when we’re the only ones left and every other faction is dead or subservient?

We die.

The tribals all suffer for it. That’s why they hate us. I just watched their leader, a tight hooved pegasus mare, hand out all the supplies for free. There wasn’t enough to go around, and spread so thin, it did little good. I grit my teeth, thinking selfishly how long those supplies would have lasted for my squad alone--it would have done more good, a squad of fully nourished and healthy rangers would be more tactically sound than a gaggle of self trained flunkies drunk on drugs and booze. It was a waste. I couldn’t protect them from their own stupidity.

“Maybe I’m asking the wrong person, but you’ve been around longer than me, do you have any wisdom?” I finally finished, looking to the phoenix I’ve been talking to this entire time.

She squawks and preens her amber, blazing feathers, perched upon the trashcan I found her on. She raises her tail and lets out a blazing dropping into the trashcan, which bursts into flames. Her disinterest is a clever cover to the true nature of her sagely wisdom--Some just like to watch the world burn and do nothing to quell the fire.

“I don’t think that really applies here...” I explain to her with a dull grumble, tapping a hoof to the side of my helmet. The companion of the phoenix is staring at me, not in a wholly negative manner, but one of coy understanding. She was a simple mare, wearing a woven hat with a pointed top--her demeanor easily spoke of her ancestry to Neighpon, a very wise and understanding people as any I’ve had the priviledge to meet. Well, when they weren’t yelling at you in Neighponese.

“You talk too much.” The mare grumbled, her firebird keening softly with a nod. The mare stabbed a withered carrot over a sharp skewer and began roasting it over the fire-bird. After babbling near non-stop at the bird about everything, it was disinterested in interacting with me at all.

A brisk trot like the clanking of a dozen tin cans alerts me to the approach of a ranger, while my HUD gave me a notice of that same ally on a small mini-map. I gazed down to see the approach of the smaller earth pony clad in identical heavy armor, a small floating nametag overhead.

“Sir, I’d like to request my firearm returned to me.” My subordinate, Silver Tongue asked, not even bothering with the formalities of a salute. I let it slide, due to the circumstance. “Were you...Talking to animals, again, old man?” She added, and even though she was in armor, I could read the inflections in her voice, she was raising a single eyebrow questioningly.

“I’m an Earth Pony--Talking to animals is our thing.” I explained briefly, before changing the subject to her work, “Give me a status on the barricade.” She often disrespected me, so much so that I had punished her near a thousand times for insubordination. Nothing worked, so I eventually gave up on the notion that this mare could be tamed. The Dossier said her family came from Mustangia, so that explained a lot for me--Including her hatred of being cooped up in the bunker back home.

Silver Tongue was tense, she felt naked without her weapon, even while in that thick armor. Any ranger would feel naked without their weapon, maybe this was the only punishment that had any effect. “The barricade’s made of rubbish stacked double your height, sir, but it won’t hold long against a Strider. Maybe ten seconds?” Her voice was filled with scorn, she didn’t like busy work. “We’d have done better if we had more hooves and--”

“I asked for results, soldier, not ‘what if’ or ‘what could’.” I barked softly, I hated raising my voice, especially around an animal like a phoenix that could easily be spooked. I left the mare and her flaming companion be to perform an inspection of our fortifications.

The wall was twice my height, making it double the height of the large double doors lining the entire front of the theatre. A quick punch with a hoof made it rattle, but it didn’t budge, and Silver Tongue was proud of her work, as evident by her soft laugh. “It’d be so much better if I had some sandbags, but I made it work!” She said, looking up to me for approval. With a snort, I nodded, returning to her her prized Stampede riot shotgun. With a squeal of glee she took it from me, snapping that it was, “About time!” But a stern glance from me made her add a quick, “Thank you, sir.”

It wasn’t enough, it wouldn’t do. A barricade of rickety, old wooden benches; trash bins and wooden crates. Even I could barrel through this in a matter of moments. Would it do? Probably not, but it was the best we had for the moment. It was time for me to get my squad ready, the attack could happen at any moment after all. I scanned the lobby for them, they should all be together, I had not given the order to be ‘at ease’ or ‘mingle’ with the tribals.

“Hey, you didn’t tell me if you liked it or not, come on, don’t be so tight lipped, Juggers!” Silver Tongue barked at me, tapping a hoof against the shoulder of my armor--which was the highest point she could reach on me with her forehoof. ‘Juggernaut’ was a nickname I had, mostly because of my size and my ability to soak bullets, two things I had in common with a brick wall, and anypony that had things in common with brick walls were either uninteresting or too interesting.

I spared her any honest comment and elected to just push her over with a playful shove while she was reattaching her weapon to her mount. The toppled mare sputtered out a curse and growled, picking herself up, “Gah!” She picked herself up quickly and gathered up her scattered shells and weapon utilizing her suit’s onboard pipbuck utilities and engaged the auto-equip and let magic do the rest. “Stupid jerk, you ruined my manual reload!”

“You use your suit’s auto set functions, soldier. I don’t need you making a mistake mounting and you jamming mid-firefight.” I reminded her, perhaps for the fiftieth time now that she should be using her suit to get her job done more easily. I was met with a begrudging grumble from her before she gave a nod and half-assed salute.

“Yeah, yeah, excuse me for takin’ pride in my manual mounting.” She said, using a tired old excuse--One I tended to agree with. The Earth Pony way is certainly not a bad way, but a time and place for everything is important.

“Are you guys talking about manual mounting versus auto-mounting again?” A radio communication from another in our group shot in. I’d left the channel open, the rest of the squad could hear everything I said.

“You guys should just screw already.” Interjected another of my subordinates with a snort. “I bet Silver Tongue’d love to manually mount you, sir.”

“Shut up, Wise Crack, don’t clutter my coms with smut,” I ordered.

“Yeah, don’t piss off Silver Tongue,” Added Bombshell, “Or she’ll show you how she earned that name.”

“Oh, I’m so scared. I’m ploppin’ deuce in my armor!” Leeway chuckled.

“Wait,” Another ranger, Greenhorn was his name, “Can we actually poop in our armor?”

“ ‘Course, go ahead and try it!” Chimed in Wise Crack, a known jokester, “It’ll be good for a laugh!”

Voices died out as I cut radio coms to scan the crowd, my attention lingered briefly on a rather interesting minotaur in the crowd, I recognized the weapon craft and manner he held himself in easily. That and the small goat laden with black powder and a saddlebag was a dead giveaway, he was a Macitaur. They originated from the Macintosh Hills but moved to a nearby mountain range due to climate issues when the Badlands spread, though the dossiers on their group mentioned a deadly behemoth running them out of the hills as well. He was likely here on pilgrimage, and I could tell from his manner and jovial stomping he was bragging to the group of ponies that surrounded him about his exploits. I picked out a few words from his loud conversation, and heard mention of a battle with ‘Vikeans’ who were another...Odd, lesser known group of these parts. I’d never seen a Vikean, mostly because they could never get past the mountain ridge settled by the Macitaurs.

“Och aye, it’s a guid tale it is, abit th' time Ah beat a vikean wi' a soft bat!” Bellowed the Macitaur, who lifted his meaty, black-splotched, white arms and swung in a faux-dramatic style. “Those bairns waur cryin' aw th' way haem, they waur!”

It sounded like such a riveting tale, one with wiffle bats and heroism, which when together with drunken minotaurs, lead to great drinking songs. If he fought half as good as he bragged, we’d have half a shot at making it out of this.

“Sir, you know you can stop wasting time LOOKING for our men and just hail em on the radio? You know, use your suit’s utility functions like you just bitched at me for?” Silver Tongue chided, much with her tongue in cheek. “Then again, I don’t blame you for killing your coms, they’re trying to get Greenhorn to drop apples in his armor.”

“I’m getting a layout of the battlefield,” I told her, “And seeing what we have on our side.” When the mare asked me what we had, I bluntly dissected my findings, “A bunch of rusted guns on clueless ponies, but that Macitaur’s going to be good in a pinch.” I paused for a moment, “Are they really trying to get Greenhorn to soil his armor? The waste management system on his loaner armor’s broken, right?”

“Yup, totally busted. He doesn’t know that though,” Silver Tongue chuckled, “And if he plops, I get twenny caps.” She then shot a glance over to the Minotaur I mentioned, cocked her head and nodded, “Yeah, those guys’re crazy in battle...And when drinking...And all the time, really. I can’t believe how nice they are, something that big--” The mare stopped right where she was speaking and glanced to me, then reconsidered what she was going to say. “Well, then again, we all know not all big things are mindless brutes, right, sir?”

“Nice save.” I replied. I was unsatisfied with what I had seen, all the vantage points, of which there were few, no cover, and really, the only places to fall back to were the theatre rooms. This packed place would be a bloodbath without enough room to maneuver because of all the bodies standing around, stumbling over one another. “Send a ping to the rangers, tell them to meet on this position. I’m hailing headquarters.”

“Yes sir.” Silver Tongue affirmed.

Opening a hailing frequency was easy, it was automated by the suit I was in, and it used radio frequencies on the emergency channel at 1640 kHz. External sound was disabled to limit interference and noise pollution, I could hear nothing outside and no one outside my suit could hear me either now. I started with a ping and followed up with, “Break-Break, this is Delta K, do you copy? Over.”

“This is HQ Operator on emergency channel 1640, reading you five-by-five, Delta K. Go ahead.” Came the response, oh good, they had someone on the line for once!

“Code Black, current location in Southern Quadrant is dire. Requesting extraction team at our coordinates for an entire evacuation of settlement.” I responded, making it known what I required or deemed necessary from my superiors.

“Roger, processing request. Standby.” This was going swimmingly, who said that bureaucracy was a useless tool? It was working for me tonight. While waiting, I watched as my unit formed up before me, waiting for me to address them. I waved a hoof, signaling an ‘at ease’ while I waited for a response from HQ.

“Delta K, do you copy?” Asked the operator. I responded affirmative. “Your request is denied, your position is beyond operating orders. You’re on your own. Out.” Oh, great, that wasn’t good. It was true, we were in a place we had no ties to, and an extraction in force for Code Black was a ton of resources to mobilize.

“We demand to be patched through to HQ-Actual!” I shouted, very glad my unit couldn’t hear me. “Do you hear me? We’re trapped in a hot zone, Code Black, and if we don’t get reinforcements we’re all going to die! Now patch me through to Elder Haywire right now! Over!”

A brief pause followed, “Wilco.” Came an affirmation of my request.

“HQ-Actual, Haywire speaking. You mind why you’re out there at Big Top, Crusader?...Over” The dark, rumbling voice made my insides cold, and I swallowed at a knot of freezing ice in my throat, “Yes, sir, we intercepted distress, the Baker Barbarians began an assault. Over”

“That isn’t a Code Black, soldier. Code Black is...Regrettably a lost cause for any settlement. Are you certain, this far out from the Dead Zone, that it’s Code Black? Over.” Haywire was being unusually patient, his voice calm and smooth, never raising in pitch. He hated wasting time, but for me, he was always a bit nicer. Why? Because I served with his father, the last Elder, and even though I was demoted, he always remembered who babysat him when he was a tyke.

“Affirmative. 70 Active Striders by estimates. Several hundred civilians in danger. We need full evac. Over.” I lodged my request to him, personally.

“Delta K, not only are you out of boundaries, but you are endangering my equipment on a fool’s errand to rescue tribals? If it was a valuable piece of technology or information I could understand, but wasting our resources to save civilians? I thought your age would make you wise, that is just feckless wishing. Now, if you do manage to get back in one piece, I’ll give you a lenient court marshal and assign you a new squad of underachievers. As of now, you’re on your own. Out.” Haywire cut the transmission right then, and no matter how many times I hailed, I heard no response.

My Rangers all looked to me, waiting expectantly for me to break the silence, and when I turned on external sound and audio feed (hesitantly, I might add), I was met with a silent shuffling of metal hooves.

“What’d command say?” Asked one Ranger, Greenhorn, the newest and youngest of our squad. He quickly gave an unnecessary salute, and fumbled with a request to speak freely. Really, he was a scrappy, if cute kid. He was shifting around in his armor, waggling his back end.

“Something wrong, there, soldier?” I asked, rather amused.

“Uh, no, nothing, I just...I think my waste management is busted and I...I...” He sounded so embarrassed by this, like he was about to cry. “I plopped and it smells and...Can I go to the loo, sir?”

“After briefing,” I told him.

Jabbing him in the side, several of my other rangers teased him, laughing. “I can’t believe we got him to bomb his armor! AHAHA! Twenty caps to the lady!” The banter grew and got a tad out of control, with bro-hoofs galore. “Yeah, good one, guys, you got me!” Greenhorn said, holding his hoof up, expecting to be included. They of course left him hanging, so I met the recruit’s hoof with mine, to lessen his discomfort. He was such a good sport, I was proud of him.

This immature celebration ended when I cleared my throat, “Code Black.” I said first, which got them spooked, they recoiled as if gunfire had gone off nearby. “Seriously, sir,” mumbled one, and a flurry of worried mumbles followed.

“That’s an affirmative soldier, and headquarters said that...” I looked at them all, sizing each one up, each one was something of a friend, a responsibility, and an ally all in one metal-clad package. A band of brothers(and sisters) of battle. “Reinforcements are coming.” I lied, unable to bear the thought of this final battle with them filled with hopelessness. “A full evac. We’re saving as many as we can.” Heroes, we’ll be....Heroes. Yes, that’s how we will die.

How many squads have I lied to, put in danger, all under order? Too many, I’ve seen too many rangers die in service, doing what I was told. This was different, this time my squad would die because of me, this time, my own actions would lose me another squad.

“You’re a disgrace to your Ministry and your mare!” That ghoul, that peculiar, strange civilian from Division 44 had called me a disgrace. Maybe he saw it then, saw into who I really was. Things in Division 44 were different, I imagined. It was personal, meant, and more than likely true. If Applejack met me, she’d be ashamed of what she saw; a big, old ranger without honor, jaded pessimistic to hopelessness.

There was an awkward silence among my squad, each fidgeting nervously, avoiding my gaze. One voice broke the shuffle, one head tilting up to break the foul mood that lingered. “I’m not scared!” Barked Greenhorn, “We’re gonna be heroes, like in the stories! We’ll show these civvies that we’re the good guys! They’ll never forget us!”

Bravado was met with a ‘HOO-AH!’ from the entire squad. Prepared for battle, my squad took positions at the ready, psyching each other up with comical radio banter. They took bets on whether or not Greenhorn would be the first to die or not, and while good spirited, it made me feel uneasy. “Hey, Greeny, if you live, I’ll fraternize with you long time!” -- Silver Tongue’s jokes were always met with roaring laughter from the stallions. “Yeah right, I’m cleaning out my armor now, I’m not trusting you guys again!” Greenhorn squeaked as he took leave to the loo.

“Don’t worry, scamp, you probably still smell better than Will Helm!” Silver Tongue added stingingly, “He has this uber superstition that cleaning his undersuit is unlucky.”

“Pinkie Keen and sure as overcast, nothing’s proved me wrong! I haven’t gotten sick in months!” Will Helm defended his strange quirk against the laughter and jabs. “Yeah, only cuz the smell scares the germs, not to mention the mares, away!” Wise Crack burst in with his high pitched hyena laugh.

Head-butts, hoof-ups, and playful shoves, they all seemed happy. With a heavy heart I tried to participate, to enjoy this while it could last. “None of you are allowed to die before me,” I said to them seriously, “And that’s an order.”

“So serious. Look, if we can’t die before you, then we aren’t allowed to die.” Deadpanned Leeway, “Period.” They thought me invincible, and they had reason to think that. In all my deployments with them, I’d never suffered severe injury, my armor soaked damage like a thirsty sponge. I was their shield, their cover, their iron curtain. I was the reason we were able to be deployed so far from base, a mobile piece of siege equipment in grossly oversized pony form.

Far past my prime, I hadn’t had the mercy of being put out to pasture. This was one old nag of a soldier that could still pull plow with the best of them, if only because of the armored suit I was sealed in. If any of my squads had seen how feeble I was, outside my armor, they would be less than impressed. Maybe I’d finally die this time. Then I wouldn’t suffer the shameful return to HQ alone, once again. Or maybe some of them would survive this, just maybe.

I was disrupted from my disparaging thoughts by a private message from Silver Tongue, “Holy suns, a settlement evac for Code Black? You must have said some choice words to get that. Course Haywire’d hate to lose his father’s old favorite, guess you being leader isn’t so bad.”

“Yeah,” I muttered, “Some choice words.”

Time passed, as it always does in a tense situation, at a slow crawl. Seconds were minutes, and minutes were hours. No one could predict when the assault would come, but they all knew it’d happen shortly. The time was just past Nine, and all was quiet, no more songs and stories, only the licking of half-healed wounds and the hugging of rifles and notched clubs.

Of those gathered, most knew not the horror to come, most were ignorant to it. Bitch Fit would wager that a panicked people would die far more quickly than a mildly surprised one, and spread the rumor that a the Warlord Muffincake himself was planning a march on their stronghold tonight in a final bid to pry free their hold on the territory.

At five minutes past Nine, a single section of lighting fell from the roof, injuring several ponies. A brief panic erupted and several shots were fired off into the air, striking the ceiling until Bitch Fit screamed a cease fire.

“You fuckin’ knobs, it’s just an old lighting fixture! Ain’t nothing to be afraid of!” The pegasus growled, hoving over the lighting fixture. A drip from the ceiling hit her ear and she felt it with a hoof, “Oh great, the ceiling is leaking again, thanks for shooting it ya---” She gazed at the black, sticky mucous on her hoof in horror, consequently gazing up to discover the host of her horrid, sudden realization.

A ripple of reality encased a single entity hanging from the ceiling on sickled claws. Hisses erupted to shrieks as more ripples appeared until the surface appeared to be one whole writhing mass of refracting light.

One Strider dropped down, reduced a once stout earth pony to giblets, then moved onto the neighboring group of densely packed equines. In shock, the ponies turned on it and opened fire, doing more damage to friendlies than the Strider in question.

“Shoot the fucking ceiling, now! STUPID GITS!” Bitch Fit roared. Crossfire zipped past her ear, leading to a spit of scarlet and a stinging howl of pain. She ducked low, spitting out a short stream of curses, “Melee! Melee!” She cried, “Melee the ones down low, shoot em on bloody high!” Common sense, it was so rare in the wastes Bitch Fit could consider it a super power, casualties to friendly crossfire outweighed the loss of life to their foes within the first few seconds.

Standtall gave a similar order to his rangers before he widened his stance and aimed his heavy autocannon up, the feed mechanisms whining before the gun began lobbing heavy shells into the writhing, half-cloaked mass of deadmare that had yet to drop. Over 4,000 pounds per round of recoil energy slammed into the crusader, his suit compensated for the massive force by locking his legs and grounding him, each heavy, 30 millimeter shell tearing out great chunks of the ceiling and making it rain black blood.

After a hundred rounds in the first half minute from Standtall alone, there was a decent amount of remains dropping from above. His weapon was built for this, it was typically a vehicle mounted weapon, but thanks to his size, he was pretty close to being a tank. Small fortifications and most armored opponents withered under the fire of the heavy autocannon, which rightfully earned its place as Delta squad’s plucky mascot.

In that same half minute, however, many civilians had died, many from accidental friendly fire as the deadmare weaved through the crowd like deadly sewing needles. Large crowds and enclosed spaces were not the best place for a hundred guns to be blazing, and in retrospect, Standtall regretted his order to make a barricade. Any thoughts on breaking it down were abandoned, as the Striders moved in to cut off escape routes and laid low those that had wisely turned to destroy the obstacle. The lights dimmed and flickered, and more lighting fixtures dropped down into the crowd, leaving a gaping hole leading outside. The phoenix and several griffons took their chance to flee, only to be rewarded with swift death to crossfire. An explosion of fire screeched out when the firebird died, raining down ashes, triggering the sprinkler system to belch rancid water for a few seconds. The main water line had been destroyed by the earlier attacks, there was not a drop left in the system now.

The Striders put down by gunfire were back up moments later, the air heavy with death, and their bloodlust unquenchable. The only thing that put them down for any reasonable amount of time was complete dismemberment, which the Macitaur was dealing in spades. A single explosive disk would be tossed up by the goat, and the large rocket propelled maul would catch it against its magnetic face plate before flattening a strider to paste, the resulting explosion from the hammer drop propelling the weapon back up for a quick, consecutive swing.

Bitch Fit herself was a bit of an aerial duelist, matching a set of Striders move for move and parrying them at every strike with the blades along her wingtips before she could deliver a sawn off ‘kiss’ from her favorite gun.

At first, it seemed like it was an even fight, where only the weakest or most inexperienced died quickly, the most of which were now strewn across the floor in various states of dead, dying, or wishing they were. In a normal battle, it’d be about the strongest against the weakest, and Striders were far from strong. Deadmare won by tenacity and attrition, the mindless drones themselves lacking creativity, they left that up to their masters. For every gallon of blood spilled, for every death on the battlefield, a downed Cyberghoul would rise like a phoenix from ashes to kill again.

For every combatant on the field that dies, a horde gets more ravenous, their pleasure centers tickled with a joyful jolt of stimulation at every act of violence. Oh, and of course, those dismantled parts could reassemble themselves into rather odd abominations given enough time, if their matrix was not destroyed, which was steadily happening now, just minutes into the battle. It’s a sight said to drive ponies mad, seeing flesh and metal mesh, their once living companions drawn into the bosom of undeath to become part of a nightmare.

“Oh fuck, there’s so much blood! So much... blaaargh!” Greenhorn was the first to lose his mind, witnessing such an act, just feet away from him. The young stallion had vomited into his helmet and fallen prone, falling victim to a twisted husk. “No! AH! help me!”

Med X is a gift in most situations, a suit of Steel Ranger armor pumps it straight into the bloodstream at the first signs of trauma. In this situation, it’s a curse. Several stabs lanced right into the armor, past any defense, and seared the wounds shut as the blade sawed back out. The armor prolonged this torture, which would have been brief otherwise.

Sixteen times. The blades on the Strider’s legs bit into the underbelly of the toppled ranger sixteen times in a vicious, happy dance before Standtall ceased suppressive fire and charged to aid his comrade. Shrieking, the monster thrashed about as it tumbled end over end and was pinned to the ground by the blazing barrel of the autocannon, with which a single roar pressed the beast into a well beaten puddle of steaming, sparking goo.

The crusader stood over his fallen charge defensively, spreading his stance out, “We’ve got a ranger down, ranger down! Medic! I need a medic!” Standtall called, pinging for assistance. The vitals of two of his other squad members were in critical and one had just recently flatlined, the display in his vision condemning him as a leader. Their medic, Bombshell, was already dead.

“You’re a disgrace,” Standtall’s mind murmured.

“Hah...Look at me, disobeying an order. On the bright side you can’t court marshal me...” said Wise Crack, nearing his last breath. “Ha...Ha...Ha.” The sad irony of his death was that he hadn’t been harmed by a Strider, but instead was dealt a fatal wound by careless friendly fire by another squad member. That Squad member had been their medic, who was now a headless corpse inside her armor.

“We just lost Leeway!” Will Helm screamed. His own end came shortly after, with a crackling burst of static and a high pitched squeal over the radio.

One by one, each of Stand Tall’s squad were downed, each one screaming over the live radio link between their squad mates until only three remained. Standtall, the mortally wounded Greenhorn, and the cursing, violently running and gunning Silver Tongue.

“B-be strong, commander.” Greenhorn rasped weakly, “It’ll all be...Fine we just have to...Be strong until they get here. I just wish I coulda been stronger.”

“You’re the strongest I’ve ever known,” Standtall replied to his comrade, just as the rookie’s vitals went flat. Standtall had never met a young ranger with more heart than Greenhorn, that was true. The optimistic stallion had been the heart of the squad, the butt of the jokes, and he never complained. It was a wonder why the poor buck got dumped off into Delta, it was probably due to squeamishness or poor battle performance. The kid should have just been a scribe...

Anger, pain, and adrenaline mixed together to form a concoction of unending rage. Blades came at the crusader, but the magical blades glanced off the ablative armor coating. Had they given that to his squad too, they might still be alive, but why squander resources on disposable soldiers?

Forsaken by his own, his squad gone save one, the juggernaut let loose a fierce cry that shook the entire lobby, his voice amplified by his speakers; “Get down, I’m laying lead!” He broke free of the few Striders upon him, bucking them away and taking stance, locking his legs. The long-barreled death dealer came to life with a whir before it laid down a layer of lead in a controlled, sweeping arc, his S.A.T.S. kicking in as he rapidly selected target after target, shoulder high to strike at the Strider’s vital matrix components.

Those in mid battle tossed themselves down as the bullets whizzed just over their ears, some weren’t as fortunate and were ended clipped by the crusader’s stray rounds. He hit more civilians that Striders, but he hit very few Striders as it was. The bladed monsters leapt up along the walls and retreated away from the fire, just as Standtall focused fire on one of the larger reassembled abominations, turning it into a hole strewn mess of sparking parts and gore.

Whirrr clakka psssshhhht--The chamber clicked dry and the overheated barrel groaned, hissing hot and glowing, smoke wafting from the warped bore. Everything was still, save for the curling, rising smoke as time sped up once again for the Crusader.

“Yuh bleedin’ clipped mah, yeh sage pod folly wocker!” Roared the rather angry Macitaur, “Gaud mess tho, fer ah branded folly!”

“What were you thinking, old man?! Have you lost your mind?! Where’s our reinforcements? Sir?! Everypony else is....They’re all...” Silver Tongue couldn’t sum into words what she wanted to say, picking herself up off her belly. There was a minute of calm, as if the battle was over, Several ponies took that as the end of the battle and began picking through what was left, they had missed seeing the Striders flee and cloak, and assumed them all slain by now. There was no cheering, save for Bitch Fit who strutted proudly as a peacock. “What did I tell you, this is my house, my rules! House always wins, even against the so called King Hades!”

Just then, as if to mock the pegasus for her hubris, the doors to the theatre rooms burst open, and panicked civilians filtered out, trampling over one another. The cloaked Striders, waiting for this set upon this new source of potential and began the killing anew, and all the downed deadmare surrounded by survivors sprang up to kill once again.

The theatre room was choked with the gas, pink was pretty, especially when contrasted against melting flesh of one’s gooey, red innards. The crowd, in a panic, had rushed the doors to escape a fate worse than death, only to trample one another and end up in another proverbial fate worse than death scenario involving homicidal death blenders dancing the razor’s edge.

Gangrene stayed behind, wisely waiting for the crowd to disperse before even thinking of getting out those doors. Her head throbbed with aching pain, her brow knit in concentration as she maintained a shield spell around them all, the cloud misting the barrier and weakening it. The mare had to bite her lower lip hard to maintain consciousness, blood trickling down her chin.

Images danced through the dense pink fog, still holding Steelgraft in a trance, his single eye a pin prick as he was trapped in a continual loop of his previous life’s worst memories. Stuck in his lap was a frantically squirming Rebel Riot, whom for the love of taffy could not free himself from the cyberghoul’s frozen grip.

Bawling brats and heart attacks, Gangrene needed a plan before she died where she stood maintaining such a high level spell! Juggling another thought made another blood vessel rupture in her sinuses, and blood weakly oozed from her nose. “I ain’t holdin’ this fer much longer,” She groaned, “Keena, three legs, baby mamma, sweet cheeks; when it drops, get the kids out.” When the hippogriff argued she couldn’t possibly carry that many at once, Gangrene growled out that she’d have to manage like she was. Frisky was rather petulant about being called ‘three-legs’ but agreed to carry two of the ‘little snots’ while Zone Control carried three, and Glazed Marshmallow chipped in, taking two on her back. The rest would have to run, and hopefully not trip or stumble, though if they did, Zone would more than help them along with her magic.

Keena nodded, calling the children over, reassuring them before she got around to sweeping them up, struggling to keep hold on them. “What of Rebel?” Keena asked, whilst juggling her unseemly large load.

Frisky snorted, insulted the hippogriff, and took another bundle of joy from her and said, “There, now I got another, stop yer whinin’!”

“I think I need to pee.” Said Gulag, the chubby foal he’d just snatched from Keena.

“Yah’ll better not, punk.” Frisky chuffed, “Or Ah might take a spill ahn leave y---aw, really?!” He trotted in place, holding the foal out away on his single foreleg, trying to avoid the spreading pool of warmth.

“I-i’m scared...” The foal whimpered.

“Well stahp bein’ scurred all over the floor!”

“What about Steelgraft?” Zone control added, her tone deeply worried. A moment of pause lead her to shoot the dancing Frisky a glance, shaking her head at her husband’s current antics. “We can’t leave anypony behind in this!” She was unwilling to just leave Gangrene like this, the plumes of pink weren’t sitting well with her, and she wanted to brave as little as possible.

“I’ll handle it!” Gangrene hissed, “Z-gurl, grab the health potions, douse yourselves now!” Zone Control followed the order without hesitation or asking ‘why’, because it’d be stupid to waste time and she knew a bit about the effects of that horrible cotton candy pink toxin. A preventative measure to it was to douse oneself in healing potion, of which Gangrene only had three to spare, which spread among so many was a very sparse sprinkling. “You got three seconds tops with that afore you start meltin’. Make them seconds the most important seconds of your life.”

“We’ll miss you,” Whined Taffy. The other foals shared similar sentiments.

“I’m not dead yet, stupits! I’ll be right behind yahs, buckin’ babies.” Gangrene snorted with a strained eyeroll. “Be ready on three...One...” Her eye twitched and she felt the last of her strength drain, the shield broke and she roared, “Three!” A startled Keena flapped her wings, squawked, and leapt up, barely clearing the theatre seats and making it out the wide, open door while the two earth ponies ambled with their loads behind a surprisingly spry six month pregnant mare. Gangrene could have sworn Frisky slowed down just to check out his wife’s kiester, but she had nary a fraction of a second to consider such obnoxious depravity.

These were, after all, the most important three seconds of her life. While in the shield, Steelgraft was statuesque and unreachable, so she didn’t waste time trying to talk to the comatose stallion that clutched the foal and instead set her sights on the projector high up in the balcony. Bolter raised, she strained to concentrate, her magic faltered, and she dropped it into the seat. With a curse, she swiftly propped it against the back of the theatre chair and aimed, using the manual trigger to fire two bolts. The first missed, but the second clipped the projector and shattered the bulb inside before the intense heat caught the whole thing on fire.

Steam boiled off her skin as the potion’s coating wore off, pain kissing every pore and kneading into every muscle. She tried to hold her breath, but the cloud just pushed into her lungs, spoiling her air and making her cough. Weak from injuries, it didn’t take much for her to succumb, sinking into the chair with a weak rasping of breath. She could only hope that Steelgraft would come out of it and rush Rebel out of the room, dragging her along if he had enough foresight to notice her in the congested room. Dying like this wasn’t what she wanted, but maybe that’s just how it’d work out. Her world faded to black.

My world had a touch of pink; a color I detested, categorized along with the likes of Mondays, red balloons, and party clowns. Things I hated for some reason but could scarcely remember why, or if I did, I wanted to forget, which I couldn’t. Not anymore and not ever again. Yet, I know I’ve felt this way before.

Have you ever had that feeling where you’re experiencing something for the first time and it feels like you’ve been there before, doing that same exact thing, yet you know you’ve never been there before? What was it called, deja-vu? Yes, that’s right, I wonder if there is an expression for the opposite, for when you’re in a place you recognize and remember but it still feels unfamiliar.

Jamais-vu’...You simpleton. It is a French expression. “Ah, yes, the universal language of surrender!” I replied internally to the voice in my head. This voice, belonging to a mare, snorted in disgust; Uncultured as you are simple, Captain. Keep your wits about you and witticisms to yourself, you might live longer by keeping that tongue wise with silence. Just what I needed, more bleed-over from my memories as auditory hallucinations.

“Old friend--you seek to undo--your comrades--and would allow--the sting of mourning? Enlighten--the pain that built--your understanding. --You--couldn’t--change. --Revenge--forgotten.--In effigy--witness--the evil--you may remember.--Those that-- embody to everyone--death.” More whispers, voices around the edges, just out of sight where I was looking. Like echoes, weaving deeping into my mind and leaking out into the world. I didn’t know where it came from or why I was hearing that dreamy voice that spoke in mollifying tones.

You know what that said? It said vendetta, personal, not business. Whoever Hades was, he had no qualms about getting even through nefarious means of gross collateral damage. If he had the resources to orchestrate this vicariously through some puppet like Cradle Robber, ekeing out by the skin of one’s teeth was the preferred best outcome. Playing host to the full attention of one such being, warlord or not, was not an honor any sane, sentient creature would want to humor.

Who was Hades? How was I connected to him? An entire theatre full of ponies (Griffons, and the odd sheep included) had trampled one another to escape this room, even before this pink gas started filling it. I didn’t know a single thing about this entity, other than him being universally feared, even more than the Warlard Muffincake; a fat glutton that ATE his victims. Then again, it shouldn’t be too surprising if he commanded armies of the cybernetically enhanced undead, like me, to slay the living. Briefly reflecting on the message to me, hidden in his words, I wondered if I really wanted to know our connection.

Knowledge is damning and ignorance is bliss. I could probably sit in this gooey, pink frosting mist forever and think about all the ways I hated it if not for the fact I noticed in my lap a trembling foal whom had a sick aversion to it, or of the mare wheezing noisily at my hooves, a bolter glued to her foreleg--No, not glued, it was her flesh melting against it. It hit me just then, a force of memories pulsing from the back of my skull to the front, making my horn jolt at the juncture between my skull and bolt fitting, my left eye burning with searing pain beneath my bandages.

Stop. Wasting. Time.

Acting on this impulse, I thoughtless complied, seizing up the mare and foal(and the bolter stuck to the mare’s foreleg). Every step echoed memories from my recent life as I tread over trampled corpses pooling on the floor with a consistency of melted taffy. I had to briefly consider that everypony from Greenvale Heights was a plot basket for forcing me into this crazy job that just so happened to include a side quest of unwanted self discovery.

Waking to a pink fluffy cloud filled room poorly prepared me for venturing into a scene I could only describe as the aftermath of a giant pony juicer set to pulp, coating all surfaces in the sickest splatters of gore. A protracted battle hopelessly waged on, because there was nowhere to retreat to. Bladed abominations and several larger, cobbled together beasts coated in twitching blades ambled about, picking off the remaining resistance. A group of ponies dashed past me and then back again, indecisive between dying via amputation or the pink fluffy mist that slowly spread out into the hall. Living creatures did not find its company agreeable.

A large group of survivors, twenty at most, squeezed in behind the concession stand, Zone control, her gimped husband Frisky, Keena, the brats, Marshmallow mare, and the rest of my acquaintances among them. Keena was taking pot shots at Striders that were otherwise occupied and managed to save the life of one overwhelmed mare using a set of chains as her weapon of choice. Zone was on point, at the edge of the counter, peeking out and keeping a watchful eye in case something came upon them, leading me to greet the barrel with a friendly boop to my nose.

“Whoa, that sight really never gets old!” I said nasally, raising both my forelegs and presenting my palms in a non-threatening manner, “Parley?”

The blue mare softened, lowering the shotgun, “Steelgraft, oh thank goodness, I was worried one of those cloaking freaks would sneak up an--” Her eyes widened, once she recognized the sputtering, coughing ponies draped over my back. “They look horrible!” The mare took my wheezing passengers, calling for somepony to bring whatever leftover medical supplies they had.

“Comin’ I’m comin’!” Grumbled an earth pony of undecided gender. The ugly, scruffy faced nag performed triage at a glance to the ailing pair. “Good as dead.” He decided, giving Rebel Riot a soft kick in the gut. The little buck demonstrated symptoms of life by sinking his teeth into the stallion’s leg. “Gah, get offah me! Ow, ow dat hoits!” A feeble swing to his dangling apple sack sent him into a fetal position, the scraggly buck could do naught but sing in soprano--That was a feeling I certainly didn’t miss. It wasn’t soon after that Gangrene regained consciousness as well, and she had some choice words, curses, complaints, all with a voice of gargled gravel.

Gangrene wheezed, giving pause to spit on the downed buck as she stumbled into the counter. “Good as dead, he said? Yah don’t know the difference between a speculum and a stethoscope!” Gangrene still had her aplomb demeanor, as graceless as it was. The yellow unicorn snorted, coughed, spat, then shook the extra weight added to her foreleg. “Fudge packin’ dilweed. You took a w-while gettin’ us outta there. Look at dis!” She aimed her hoof at me, complete with heavy industrial boltgun melded to the side. “This ain’t an improvement!” She was also charismatically mouthy despite her sickly condition.

“It looks cool,” Keena interjected between shots with her rifle, “You’re like Megamare.” Gangrene didn’t know who Megamare was, and waved a hoof as the gamer hippogriff tried to briefly summarize the game up in a few words. “Don’t care, it hurts! Gonna rip it off...Like a big metal band aid.” The unicorn mare groaned, peeling it off, leaving a fat, flapping piece of pelt hanging off the weapon’s stock.

True to her nature, she looted a couple healing potions off the downed ‘nurse’ and chugged one for herself and forced one on Rebel Riot. You’d think the foal preferred the taste of that unwashed stallion’s leg over the taste of the potion given his resistance. “Come on, yah brat, drink it or it’s a spankin! We nearly died in there cuz somepone’s a slow assed molly.” The unicorn shot me a glare of daggers.

“Glad to see you awake, love to chat, but I got that to deal with.” I didn’t bother further elaboration to my statement, and merely pointed over the counter. Gangrene followed my fingertip to the battle waging between the living and the dead not twenty yards away. It wasn’t going very well at all. “And the cloud stuff? That’s spreading,” I added.

“You really got us in it this time,” Gangrene said in a rather airy, bemused fashion, “I hope there’s a plan brewin’ in that putty you call a brain, cuz I can’t fight worth applesauce right now.”

“I’ll come up with something,” I muttered noncommittally, vaulting onto the counter. “Just stay right here and wait for a signal. I’ll clear a path.” Gangrene looked more disgruntled than convinced and the others were a bit busy covering the counter to give any disparaging remarks with jaded, justified spitefulness.

I took only what I needed from my saddlebag, the three syringes of combat enhancer, specially made for ghouls(Headcase warned me to read the instructions), and my nearly worn out Can Cleaver. “Hey, three-legs,” I said, tossing my bag at Frisky Fritter, which knocked him over flat, eliciting a stream of reactionary curses involving a rubber hose and some parts of my mother. “Watch my stuff for me.”

The stallion had been huddled behind the counter near his wife, where I’d expect him to be. Near him, one of the supply crates was toppled sideways, and many of the foals had sought shelter there as if the flimsy old wood would offer them more protection. All bawling, of course.

“Is there something I can do, Steelgraft?” Zone Control asked, and I knew she’d do anything I told her. She was a good mare and she was going to make a wonderful mother. Ponies like Zone Control and Gangrene gave me hope that it was all worth it, that the world hadn't changed so much afterall. You know, except for the robot zombies, the raiders, the magical fallout, the warlords, and the lack of any good mental health care facilities. You know what, scratch that; the world sucked now.

“Yeah, stay alive,” I said to her, jumping the counter. It was time for me to enter the foray going on in the lobby, and I moved at a methodical trot, catching glimpse of what struggles were the in most immediate dire need.

The enormous Steel Ranger was hunkered over the fallen form of a smaller armored ranger, and all about the battlefield the rest of the squad was slain, as evident by the errant metal covered limbs glistening from the clotted stew on the floor. A fat, reformed culmination of tattered Strider parts repeatedly lashed him with a heavy segmented limb, ending in a crude spade of magical blades. The crashing sound rang out, and evident to the dents and damage to the armor, he could only weather a few more minutes of prolonged abuse.

“Aye, comin’ tah gitit a’e yeh, blauthit vones? Ah’ll wrap yer cutlah’ey intah armbands fer mah clan! Ah bet even tha’ Vikean could best yeh serreh finks!” Bellowed a war-weary, but battle savaged minotaur. His ham fisted grip on his remaining arm trembled around his maul, fatigue allowing only the occasional swing at the murderous can openers on all sides. The vultures circled him, waiting patiently for him to bleed out. His goat companion was incapacitated, slung over his broad shoulders like a boa.

“Go get ‘em, tiger!” Cheered Key, whose voice alone could make me cringe. Oh, of course he had to be among the survivors! It was a near morbid expectation for that stallion to be flirting with death, trying to copulate a bladed monstrosity.

“Waht’s the signal, yeh rotter?” Frisky belted at me from over the counter, “Are yeh a fool? Yeh ain’t tol’ us tha signal!”

A fool, yes, it’s a part I play well, it’s a wonder why, when I once wore a hat, that it had not been of the attire of the jester, complete with bells. Was this suicidal? Yes. Was it a trap? Obviously, it had been, and very clever too. My quarry knew me well, even better than I knew myself. I glanced back over my shoulder, frowning, “Just wait for an opening.” Yes, and let the amnesiac, unhinged stallion you probably hated pick up the slack.

I had the beginnings of a plan, a dragon in its shell about to hatch. It began with getting the attention of every combatant on the field and drawing them to me, granting some relief to the tired civilians that fought desperately against a pitched, uneven battle. Little dots danced over my vision, green and red, where the red outnumbered the green. There were forty-three active Strider units on the field that I could detect, some could be cloaked. These odds were stacked, chances of me winning? Slim. Brute force wouldn’t work--But if I got all attention on me and kept it on me, then that big guy, Standtall, could take out the barricade and everyone could get out before that noxious pink cloud spread to the lobby.

You know this probably is only going to get us killed, my thoughts projected to me a skeptical, morose outlook on what I had planned. “You got a better idea?” I asked myself. When I didn’t hallucinate a response, I knew that meant there really was no alternative. My instincts agreed with a simple blurt; Lets. Buck. Plot. “Groovy.”

Euphoria washed over me the moment my hooves graced the hallowed ground, anointed by the blood of the innocent and occupied by the guilty. Saliva built up in my mouth, muscles twitched at memories driven by lust for glorious battle. Seeing so much carnage had lost its bite on my sensibilities. I’ve seen a forest of corpses, what did seeing this matter? It was worrying, it should bother me, it should bother me because they were alive, talking, laughing, and living their lives just moments ago. I should care, but I didn’t, at least not right now, even while fetlock deep in their blood. There was a sense of irony not wasted on me, the walls were covered in crooked posters featuring heroes standing stalwart in the face of certain danger; Families came here to watch those films, to find escapism through fantasy. Not only was I no hero in any sense of the word, but now those trapped in here would be lucky to escape this place alive.

Ponies were right to fear me, to hate me, if this is all cyberghouls are capable of, our crowning achievement was genocide. To become what I am now, I must have been a bad pony, a very, very bad pony. My memories pointed to that conclusion, and if I was going to fight with knowledge I may die, I wanted to know; what happened next? What did I do? I enlisted and I fought--For revenge. Nothing had changed, I couldn’t change. I may have forgotten the reason, but I was still fighting, blood for blood. It’s just the nature of things--My nature.

Felled by a blow that crippled a wing, the reddish-orange pegasus mare scooted away on the twitching remains of fallen comrades, dry firing a sawn off shotgun held in a mouthgrip. The Strider lunged for her and came up fruitless as I snagged the mare by her remaining wing and tossed her over my back and into the concession counter. “Hello, beautiful,” I purred with a grin, slamming my open palm against the beast’s throat, “Mind if I cut in?” A harsh clamp seized about its throat like a vice and I tore upwards, freeing it from the ground. It scrambled and whined until I put it down hard into the floor and dug into the protective metal sheath in its back and tore out a glowing, prismatic core with a free floating cube inside. The beast writhed and hissed as I took a large bite out of it as if it were an apple. I spat, remarking how disgusting it was before killing the beast by crushing the reliquary.

They took notice. Not one; but all. The method I used was irreversible.. Without a matrix, a deadmare ceases to be, and anypony that knows where the core’s located is usually a top target to reduce resource loss in assaults. How do I know this? Mr. Exposition, aka Headcase, that smart lipped head in a jar with an affinity for info dumping had explained it to me in far more words than the following--All deadmare are connected via Necro-Net in conjunction with a peer-to-peer connection where they relay communication and data amongst each other, calling for aid and pinging important objectives.

“Now that got your attention,” I said, waving them over, “Come on, I’m on a tight schedule, so don’t worry about one at a time. I’ll take you all on.” I then pointed to the bigger of the reformed abominations, a bloated thing with bladed, segmented tentacles, “That includes you, fatty.”

A collective shriek echoed and every single one left their current target, much to their target’s relief, and came barreling for me, a straight, quick line with blades at the ready, intent on lashing me limb from limb as quickly as possible. I didn’t plan to dodge, they were driven on bloodlust and were ravenous, making them faster than I could match. I didn’t expect them to be that fast though, and I found myself recategorizing my ‘plan’ as an assisted suicide. I selected two of my three syringes of combat enhancer and plugged both my temples, a pneumatic hiss sounded as the thick bore needles drove into my brainpan and delivered two battle brews straight into my noggin.

Who needs instructions, I had thought, when I tossed the instructions soon after I’d gotten the box from Undertaker. Highly concentrated drug cocktail, inject directly into temple! Self explanatory, cute little diagram of a ghoul stabbing himself in the head; Headcase mentioned they were called Headshots due to how they were injected, amusing but grim considering a slang for ghoul was zombie. Racists! In retrospect? Should have read the instructions.

Reality slowed down, the air became molasses the Striders now lazily swam in, my perception changed in depth and breadth. A pop-up from my integrated iseeU told me the drugs I’d just injected once the effects were identified ’Wreckless Stampede’ and ‘Overclocked Turbo’ which were highly concentrated versions of their normal counterparts, fatal to anything but a ghoul. My enemies were obscured by the highlight reel of details my cybernetic implants pulled up for me. What a stunning list of endless negative side-effects; Severe anal leakage, fever, paranoia, increased appetite, loss of inhibitions, cardiac arrest, the ability to taste colors, hallucinations, and on, and on, etcetera, etcetera.

Hiss!--I’d finally manually closed all the info windows dancing around the peripherals of my vision, only to come face to face with one of my assailants. Countless blades from numerous angles played hopscotch in my chest cavity, the magical gleaming blades sinking in and causing splits along my body. Black ichor shot from my wounds, crystallizing and shattering mid-air. Light vanished as the swarm overtook me completely, the Striders careless as they caused each other harm. We’re dead, you idiot, D-E-D, wait, no, D-E-A-D! We’re toast and it’s all your fault! This. Is. Bad.

It’s not like I haven’t been pin cushioned before! At Stable Heart Hospital, I woke up nailed to a wall with comically large surgical tools. This? Well, these were notably bigger blades, attached to vicious, deadly monsters, the resulting injuries were much more dire in scale.

**Damage Assessment_Update##%**
//System Integrity: 6%\\
==Status Critical
//Emergency Parameters met\\
**Disengaging Safety Protocols**

Bright lights flickered far into the dark distance of my vision, at first I thought I was dying, then the light broke up into panels of information that noted a significant change in system output. My body was forced into a final act of desperation for the sake of self preservation ushered by several vibrant warning prompts that tasted like lemons.

Unconscious reflex took over my body as my thoughts drifted away on confused tangents, mentally chasing butterflies while the primitive part of my brain became master control. I shot up my fist and caught a Strider in the faceplate and squeezed, my servos whining as they overheated with power, the faceplates shimmering brightly against the spew of ichor. The loosely packed striders on me were knocked aside with relative ease, the death filling the air slowly rebuilt the damage I suffered, the aroma alone was a meal.

Wow, I seriously can’t believe that worked, too bad you’re still going to get killed for nothing. “What are you talking about? Clearly, I’m winning.” It’d sure be nice if my psyche wasn’t a confusing labyrinth right about now. We’re in the middle of fighting! Hey, just be glad you’re not ‘off in la-la’ land like that mare you keep googlin’ over says, we’d be toast if you went and had a flashback. Blah. Blah. Blah. “At least I don’t think in little yellow squares during the narrative,” I reassured myself. Yeah, that’d just be crazy!

By now, the Striders were trying to retreat as my overclocked, drugged up systems rendered me an actual threat; but their blades were trapped deep in my belly and chest. “You thought you were clever, didn’t you?” I rasped, slamming both my gauntlets into either side of two heads before me, smashing them into a third in the middle and grinding them to a pulp against one another. “You think these memories pain me?” I said calmly, grabbing one of the blade sticking into my gut, tearing it free before dipping it back into the wound over and over again, punishing the Strider foolish enough to mount me. “It only makes me pity you cannot be made to suffer as you’ve made them suffer...” I rasped, spitting out a mouthful of black ichor, “I will enjoy this.”

They feel no fear, not like we do, but they have self preservation instincts, enough that the remaining Striders stuck to me severed their own legs to get out of range of my strikes. Their lost limbs and blades were easily replaced from their fallen sisters strewn about. So here I was, torso like a cutlery block, facing a superior number of opponents.

Circling me, ever wary of my current potential, they waited for the drugs and my power to run out. My flesh sizzled over my bones as the fluid pulsing in my flesh began to hiss out as steam from the sutures along my body. I took one of the Strider blades out and shook the blood off the blade, bringing my blood covered digits to either cheek and leaving a line on each before sucking my digits clean. Necessity was the mother of cruelty, and I was to be the father of unnecessarily gratuitous violence.

My body laughed like a mad pony and dashed, trailing one of the severed legs along the remains and into a straggler that hadn’t managed to reattach a new pair of foreblades yet. My parameters were peaking and that was just the beginning! The unbelievable power I felt, able to dance along with them and twist to avoid their stabs, my joints cracking into improbable positions until I dealt a brutal blow that send limb and torso flying! For a moment, I forgot everything, why I was fighting, who I was, who my opponents were. I could read them, not their thoughts, they didn’t have thoughts, but I could understand their etiquette of combat, a one-way street of information easily broadcast from every unit. Telegraphed attacks, foreshadowed maneuvers, even when they cloaked it was easy to tell where they’d go, following the sizzle of their blades along the ground.

Whispers kissed the air, tickling the inners of my ears with secrets, my skin crawled with the tingles of a million fire ants, could they hear me too? Was I broadcasting to them on some secret channel?! String! Why was the word string suddenly so fascinating that I had to say it in my head? String, string, string, string, string! String became stripes, and for some reason, stripes inspired anger unparalleled. I associated my enemies with this anger, projecting my aggression onto my formless opponents.

This was a show, a spectacle, and everyone was too dead to be entertained! Blood, blood, all raining down, everywhere an ocean of endless waves, beaching bodies weaned off the tides. I became a passive observer, watching the pincushion stallion tackling these bladed butterflies down to the ground before splitting them to inoperable bits. Charge, stab, pin, and end. Rearm with another blade from my cutlery block, repeat process, continue until there are no blades remaining! Sounded like a plan, and it went well to a certain point, until that aforementioned fatty joined the fray, striking with a large, segmented tendril. Twist out of the way, just like dancing, but luck be damned. A cheeky freak leapt out to be my partner, reclaiming the last blade jutting out of my chest. “Ah, crap,” I thought, a moment of clarity striking me like a breath of icy air. I was drawn into the segmented limb and entwined with it.

Constricting pressure surrounded me, my joints creaking. Air forced out my useless lungs in a shallow wheeze, silencing me just as I was about to deliver a very witty line or possibly, more sanely, demand help from the civilians I had just granted reprieve. When a gunshot rang out, followed by others, I was relieved, until I noticed that Keena had drawn the ire of a modest pack of the freaks. Zone Control stepped around from behind the counter and made one spin backwards with a well aimed shot to one mid-air, making sure to unload another several rounds into it.

“What are you waiting for? The signal?! Help him!” Zone bellowed in a commanding way only a mother could, and the baser instinct to comply with a stern, demanding female was so hard grained into most that it was complied with in earnest. A shame that most of the help was busy trying not to die to the pack rushing the counter. Their attention was unevenly split between my problems and theirs, so unevenly that I nary got a sliver of concern, maybe a stray bullet or two, attributable more to poor aim.

My brain was broiled with the chems coursing through it, I couldn’t think right, but the edge was off just enough to know something wasn’t right. When your sanity breaks, you scarcely notice it, it’s not all at once--You lose a bit at a time, eroding at your senses until you suddenly believe red tastes like chocolate and every toaster conspires against you. Higher brain functions twiddle their hooves while your primal functions remain intact and fed stimulant gravy. Guess I’ve tripped before, to recognize these signs, to notice the cogs jump teeth. Knowing you’re high as a kite is great, but it’s not going to help you too much.

“Is that-” I grunted, slammed hard into the furthest brick wall, “The best you-” I was then catapulted into the far wall and then quickly scooped back up by the same tendril as I bounced off the floor. With a rough, lashing thrash, I was slammed into the floor hard and the bladed, heavy spade on the end dropped against my chest, crushing the last of the witticisms from my body. “Ghaaaa!” I had intended to say ‘got’ and make a statement, but the only impression I made was the sizeable imprint of my body on the floor.

Yeah, new rule; no more fat mares. Ever. “Forgive me, I didn’t know it was glandular,” I coughed.

I was getting pulverized, withering potential while being bashed around like a toy. This hadn’t been thought out, at all, which was not anything new. If anything, I was still alive, so everything was going according to plan! By the seat of my pants, as usual, and I didn’t wear pants! Pants were a luxury, like medical insurance or toothpaste.

Face down in remains, a weak pang of hunger made itself apparent. Without prompting or an update for my integrity from my iSeeU, I knew I needed to, I had to. I shoveled as much bloody, fresh meat into my snout, chowing down to restore some much needed utility to my battered body. A small icon appeared in my vision, a red pony with horns and a very mischievous grin along with the textual cue; “You’ve lost Karma!” Well, gee, if I was doing this because I enjoyed it, I could understand the loss of points on a sliding scale of morality, but that wasn’t the case! It was a reminder that I needed to find a way to shut off my HUD display and notifications.

I got three shovel sized mouthfuls down my greedy throat before the tentacle of blades tore me up from the ground to continue the abusive ground pounding. Every other slam, I got a mouthful of gore(with a notice that I lost karma each time), which kept my condition more or less stable. Not long before I started associating getting beaten into the floor with eating ponies--Which actually might be a good thing.

Struggling was pointless, even with my body outputting at a dangerous peak, I couldn’t break free. It wouldn’t be long, I felt the high starting to leave me, the drugs burning out. These buffs were useless while I was rooted and unable to make use of them.

Intermittent slams against the ground halted, heralded by a hissing chorus of shrieks. The cobbled together abomination was toppled, then trampled by the oversized Steel Ranger, his voice booming over his speaker, screaming out in anger. The massive stallion reared back and dropped down, crushing the reconstituting mass.

A streak of glowing fire cut the air, trailing a heavy hammer head into the thinning base of the tendril holding me, leading to my reclaimed freedom. Flighty and combative, I was expecting to fight whatever force had severed the tendril from the main mass, I came up swinging blindly. Pained laughter wheezed out of the one-armed minotaur, a reciprocating kick from the hefty beast’s cleft hoof floored me. “Min' yer mukker frae foe, laddy, lest me hammer fin' asylum in yer noggin.” Translation; No clue. In the time it took me to peel myself back off the floor, the one armed brute strode over me and continued wailing on the thrashing, unholy matrimony of flesh and machine. While I wasn’t the smartest pony, especially not while under the influence of illicit, controlled substances, the primitive parts of my mind that still functioned could recognize his pale green dot as friendly. Note; green is good, red is dead. Even you should be able to remember that, stupid.

“Sorry tae lae ye hangin', mmmmishar, ah juss needed a wee kip o’breafth.” Said the one armed minotaur, ragged pants gave me pause for concern, the aroma of cooked flesh drawing quick attention to the stump of his elbow. He’d seared his flesh shut with the back end of his strange, rocket propelled maul, and the sweat soaked, rippling muscled ‘taur didn’t give it a thought. “Thes?” He snorted, noticing my concern, “Narah ah flesh wund. Ah got plentah tussle lef’!”

“Pretty sure you’re missing an entire arm.”

That managed to elicit a chuckle from the brute. “Ah, think ye micht want tae concentrate oan th' barnie, lest we join th' fluir ornaments.” A broad swing over his shoulder delivered a crippling blow to the tentacle that had reformed into what appeared to be a bladed worm. Anything else would be dead thrice over after taking blows like that, if it had been a real beast. It was more like a living gelatin than the imitation of ponies each had been individually. It had cores all along its length, each wrapped up in several feet of flesh, acting as natural armor, and the hammer was only tenderizing the meat, pulping it around the hard nodes that were the heart and brain of this monster.

The gestalt corpse-orgy formed a new head where every jagged tooth was the head of a Strider, a set of compound sensory organs made from captured parts of fallen victims formed over the crest of a carapace made of fused bone.

There’s a colorful phrase used in mocking I remember; “Oh, I’m shaking in my boots!” Well, I only had one boot on, but I was shaking in it. A centipede?! Bug, bugs, it had to choose a bug! It had more legs than a scorpion! It had to have at least a hundred crudely shaped limbs, some of them bladed. Does more legs qualify for more terror?

“Whit th' bleedin' buck is 'at?! They waur jist wee bladed buggers a ‘mmmoooo ago!” The crippled bruiser asked, muscles flexed for another mighty swing.

“That’s the stuff of nightmares,” I said to him, backing up until I was far behind him, keeping something big between me and the bug thing seemed like a jolly great idea! “I don’t think I can fight that! It’s too...It’s too horrible!” Yup, more than eight legs was worse, I decided. If it is an invertebrate, has more than four legs, and it’s enlarged to show ugly, then keep it far, far away from me! Aw, come on, we’re sure there are plenty of vertebrae in that thing. All over! For some odd reason that thought only made it more terrifying to me. “This one’s all you! I’m not fighting it!”

“Greem ur fae, it'll die th' sam.” The minotaur chuffed, throwing his weight into his shoulder and kicking at the head of his maul to spin into the air. Momentum fed by an explosive battery of rockets behind the head sent it crashing into the faux millipede beast. Broken at the middle, it curled back and folded inward, like a crumpled can, echoing with the slap of meaty bodies and breaking bone. It went into death throes, lashing out venomously. It now resembled a train, bending and buckling around its meaty passengers.

Everything was just peachy, the gimpy minotaur was besting the terrifying garden hose with legs, allowing me to catch my...Breath? It was tag-team match where one partner, me, was not going to step in for any reason whatsoever! Besides, gimpy was doing great, or he was, until the meat-freak disarmed him. No, he didn’t lose his other arm, thankfully, but it was nearly as bad. My gimped savior of limping bravado had been separated from his maul by the hungry jaws of the villainous meat-o-pede. Maybe you should step in now. My mind was kinda right, there were things I needed to do other than be glued here by paranoid fear. Multiple battles were taking place, each one needing help. The concession stand was being assaulted by a small group of still independently bodied Striders, and the large Steel Ranger with the deep voice was tangling with the large fatty fat-fat thing that birthed this mini-titan.

“Och, ye want tae lock horns, 'en? alrecht, lits wrestle!” Gimpy was totally alright with fighting that thing unarmed, it’d be inhospitable to rob him of this opportunity! Minotaurs lived for this! CRUNCH! One strike from the spaded tail sent the lumbering oaf down, his teeth gritting in agony, spilling his unconscious goat-companion ‘boa’ onto the floor. Triumphant, the abomination reeled back, ready to strike the final blow and feast. A scream echoed in the air, the scream of a little filly.

That scream had come from me, I realized, as I put myself between the meat-freak and the injured moo-man. Standing up on my hind hooves, I’d braced myself and caught the jaws of the monster in my grip. I was staring right down its throat, watching the pulsing stew of its insides. I was touching it! “Ew!” I shrieked, closing my eye and pushing it away with all my might. I drew my Can Cleaver and ignited the blade, batting at the air with less than florid flourishes, crying ‘ew’ over and over again as many times as necessary. Shrieks of pain filled the air to match my cries of disgust, the alien sound devoid of soul fizzled out with the crash of shattering glass.

Upon opening my eye, I found a sculpture of the hideous meat-o-pede, each section shimmering black, covered in hairline fractures. Deep, glowing gashes hissed techni-colored smoke, evidence of where my blade had bitten in. This was an aversion to magical energy weapons, one we shared. It was still alive, trembling, moving at a shuddering, jerking pace, each movement rewarded with a new crack. Gore seeped out from honeycombs of fresh remains just beyond fissures, dripping thickly onto the floor in thick, stringy globs.

“Och, mah heed, 'at hurt.” Oh, he was still alive--Good! I’d hate for all that to have been for nothing. “Did ye hear 'at lil lass scream?” Oh, he could just go die now.

“Don’t worry, she’s fine.” I grit my teeth irritably, my mind hazy with swimming vision. It almost looked like that that meat-o-pede sculpture was filling in the cracks of its body with the seeping gore. I was never taking these combat enhancers ever again--The side effects were too extreme.

“By th' stonefaither, what's it daein' now?” He asked.

“Laying prone, unable to defend itself, like you.” I remarked bitterly. No, it was recovering; those gore filled pockets were restoring the damn thing! This wouldn’t be a problem, I could just hack it apart with--*Fsssht!*-- The warm, humming blade of my magical chainsaw flickered, the warped housing giving a pitiful whine, killing the blade. Shaking the rattling thing inspired only a scant ovation of gleaming particles to rise, accompanied by my worried, colorful nautical curses. “Unreliable, keel-hauled, scurvy dog!” I leapt back when the beast recovered enough facilities to muster a meager, unfinished attack. “Still your turn, big guy!” I reminded the lazy minotaur, really, the nerve!

Good humor was not evident in the ‘taur’s expression as he got up, groaning under the strain of creaking bones. His injuries were far more than just superficial scratches and the loss of an arm, still, he agreed that it still was ‘his turn’. “Och, Ah ainae givin' it a chance tae putty th' cracks!” In two solid motions the one-armed gimp of a ‘taur was beating the crystalline sculpture to bits with its own disembodied tail-spade. Brutal but effective. “That's dain,” he said, picking up his goat companion and discarded maul. “Looks loch 'at big bloke needs a bit ay help, t’oh. ”

‘Big Bloke’ was reference to the two ton Steel Ranger who had gone fistihoofs with the larger part of what me and ‘taur put down. Standtall was overwhelmed, with many tendrils wrapping about his limbs and neck, constricting him into the heart of the mass. He was no longer struggling, his energy spent. The only other Steel Ranger alive was trying to free their commander, shooting tearing out large chunks of the beast with the hot blast of a shotgun. “It's yer turn, by th' way,” the minotaur snorted, giving me a smug, broken grin, revealing a row of gaps where ivory lacked.

We could barely handle fighting a small part of that thing, and now he wanted me to fight the massive fat thing? I’d rather kiss Big Helga! I gave my weapon a few shakes, arousing it to a weak flicker and hum. It only had a few good swings left, it wasn’t up to the task of downsizing that titanic, undulating mass.

"I don't think I can handle dishing out number three right now!" I told the minotaur, causing him to shoot me a befuddled expression. Oh, right, noone else can see my mental list but me. #3 on my list was 'Inflicting harm to raiders and/or abominations. This tied directly into to my #1 on my list, being alive, it involved doing a ton of #3, especially now. Maybe it was time to edit my list, #3 just wasn't as appealing as it used to be...

Another scream alerted my attention to the back of the lobby, in the direction of the small collection of arcade machines. Great wafts of pink cloud had crept up like fog into the area, flushing the ponies there further out into the lobby. They’d taken up a new position at the threshold of the mare’s lavatory next to the set of toppled arcade cabinets they used as paltry cover. Immediate danger closed in on them from all sides; all remaining Striders with independent bodies focusing them.

As if sensing my concerns, flicked his head over his shoulder in the direction of the ponies in peril. “I'll handle th' wee pones, ye help 'at big fellaw.” Bargained the minotaur as he hefted me up in his meaty palm, much like a child would pick up a toy.

“What they hay seeds’re you doing?!” I scrambled at the air helplessly. “Oh no, don’t you daaaaaaaaaaaaaah!” Through the air, I sailed like a flailing, deadly projectile unable to steer. Resounding with a ‘clang’, I bounced off of the side of Standtall’s helm and caught myself on a part of his armor, grasping hold tightly with my unburdened gauntlet. Fumbling with the cleaver, I managed to maintain my grip, casting a stare of daggers at the back of the minotaur who was keeping his word.

Standtall shook his head, taking notice of me, “What are you doing?” He demanded, groaning as the abomination squeezed down on his armor, causing the metal plating to buckle inwards. “Just leave me, both of you! That’s an order!”

“I’m not leaving without you,” Cried the Steel Ranger, her voice identified her as that mare, what’s her name? Silver Tonsils? Yeah, Silver Tonsils, we’ll go with that. Silver Tonsils was perfectly fine with putting her life at risk to save this guy. Me? Not so much, he was a decent chew-toy for the hulking beast, and if it wasn’t for the fact I needed him to destroy the barricade, I might have considered leaving him as a distraction. I didn’t care for him all that much; lets not forget, he tried to kill us! That was then, this was now, and now he was necessary to facilitate my goal of getting out alive with as many survivors as possible.

“Just let me die,” the tin can pony moaned dejectedly.

“Maybe later,” I said to him, cleaving one of the invading tentacles of black flesh away. The shallow cut must have grazed him, because the ranger squirmed and groaned in renewed pain.

“I said let me die, not finish me off!” The soldier barked. He really should just shut up and listen to his doctor. “Sue me later,” I spat, raising the weapon up. This was one buckton case of bonafide malpractice. My imaginary credentials in perforatorial studies would not hold up in a court of law; with my luck, Rad-Lawyers would be everything but proponents of rabid anarchy.

The worst place to be when dealing with an animal is said to be right in front of the head--Well this damn thing didn’t have a head, exactly, but we were centered on it. That was close enough to qualify. Every appendage you could think of, hooves, talons, and heads shot out on ghastly, gnarled stalks to lash out at me. My grip was loose, greased with blood, and these flaily bits whacking at me did not make it easier. Errant, wild shots took some agro off me, much to Silver Ball’s credit. If only she hadn’t clipped me in the shoulder in the process.

Getting nicked while shaving’s one thing, but I was taking more than just flakes of skin off of this big metal tumor of a Ranger--I was shaving off small chunks! There was some protective barrier on the armor, the worn weapon wouldn’t eat through him like a hot knife through butter. Damn thing was breaking apart, I only had a few good swings left in it, and I was wasting them because my aim was hindered!

“Steelgraft, are you too busy? How’s the suicide mission going?” Doctor Headcase, exposition captain of the S.S. Super-busy-go-away-and-bother-me-later! “I imagine it’s going well, so well you haven’t even bothered using that fancy targeting system of yours.” He’d been monitoring me, possibly to deliver an ‘I told you so’--I opened my mouth to say something snarky--Wait, did he say ‘Targeting system’?

“Did you say targeting system?” Right, I should say that aloud, not just think it! He’s not a mind reader. “Well, yes, your S.A.T.S.--I imagine you’ve no clue what that is, so let me explain it to you as simply as po--” I stopped listening at that point, death suddenly sounded better than another lecture about how to properly secure my horn bolt or how to refresh the HUD of my operating system. Oh, and I was getting beaten around by a plethora of meaty things, there was that too. It was like college, lectures and constant meat-beating. Not that I ever went to college.

I opened my mouth to yell at him, but fell short when a pair of jaws clamped around the side of my face. Me and the disembodied head on a stick had a biting contest, one that I won in two bites. Headcase warbled on about what S.A.T.S. really was, Stable Apple T-something something; I’m sure I was wrong.

I spat out the pony ear and succinctly cried out, “Magic words, what are the magic words!” By now, Standtall figured he was being clung to by an insane maniac with a magical chainsaw that just bit the ear off a zombified head and shouted something stupid. The ranger was struggling, if only to shake me off and spare him from more accidental slips with my melee weapon.

“Weren’t you listening?” He asked. I was too wrapped up to really reply at this point, so I humored him a roll of my eye. “Visualize your target. Oh, and to clarify, told you so.” He amended with a disappointed sigh. Called it! He popped in just to mock me, I swear if I ever met him in person I was going to shake him like an 8-ball! Following his instructions did yield a result. A cursor popped up in my vision along with a targeting reticule, as well as a warning error;

--iSeeU is online--
##engage## S.A.T.S.
[[Target Not Specified]]
//--Error--Visual Obstruction--\\

An obstruction? Ponyfeathers, my targeting system was in my cybernetic eye--Defective, unable to stand bright lights. In order to even get the bandages off I’d have to let go of my handhold, unless I...Buck it. Gritting my teeth, I turned the Can Cleaver’s gleaming blade against my brow, severing the bandages and frying them off. Blazing pain filled the flesh of my face, brittle cracks spreading out from the wound. At least it worked.

Time was slowed for me while I selected my targets, as if the whole world was just frozen in time waiting for my permission to tick away the next second. My targets were thought at with deep predjudice, the system interpreted my thoughts and calculated hit chance as small percentage boxes and fed me other combat data. At this range, at my current proficiency, I had a 95% chance to hit each of the fat vines. It’s like I’m thinking things to death in real time.

First swing scored a good hit, digging into the limb and causing it to glass over. Second and third followed suit, but on the third I missed my target completely and cut the large minigun off its mounting. This was enough to free the Ranger, his weight snapping off the last remaining tentacle. Whud! Two steel hooves the size of small ale kegs slammed into the ground at either side of my head, causing a small tremor to shake the walls.

“Come on, sir!” Silver Butt urged him, “We need to get beyond the barricade, our reinforcements might be stuck beyond the North gate!” Reinforcements? That was great news! Or horrible news, threatening to shatter the intricate tapestry of lies Gangrene had forged to convince this group of Steel Rangers we were allies. How much of a fire needed to be lit under this big guy’s ass before he moved?

Rolling up, I parried the counter-attack of the massive beast. Poor thing was pissed I’d taken its favorite chew toy. “Anytime, tinman! Move or we’re all dying!” I spurred him on with a quick strike to the flanks with the Can Cleaver and caught a buck for my efforts, rocketing me into the beast. At least he was moving now, making a beeline for that barricade.

More pressing matters for the living; the Pink cloud had claimed half the lobby, corralling the remaining combatants to the forefront of the lobby. Strange reactions hit the monsters within the pink mist, their bodies mending from exposure. Perfect! It kills everyone else and heals them, just what we need right now!

At least I still had my Can Cleaver, with it, I could keep this fat tumor at bay--SCHLORP! Nevermind. Just...Nevermind. It ate it right out of my hand. Could this get any worse, I dared to think to myself. A cursory bleep of information flashed, the gleaming face on the back of my gauntlets fizzled and flickered, then the staples along my body shot out like shrapnel with a sharp hiss of black steam--I was rapidly overheating, my systems could handle no more.

Fate was laughing and destiny was conspiring to make me the biggest idiot since that pony that invented Sparkle Cola flavored door knobs for earth ponies. Bright ideas on hoof; zero. Well, there was one, but it wasn’t exactly bright. I engaged S.A.T.S. to give me a moment longer to think, its cooldown timer had just pinged, why not use it? I skipped all targets and found I could target weapons, namely the large rotary cannon that had been on Standtall. I was prompted for an action in queue, from my options I selected ‘equip weapon’ and then queued up a target.

It was at the speed of thought, my body acting faster than I could consciously, I did all the motions necessary to scale the beast and reach my objective. Grabbing the gattling gun, I hefted it up and slammed my fist into the control box, a spark of arcane magic granting me control over it.

--iSeeU Update--
{Notice}
*Weapon proficiency not met*
//Ammo: 0| Attack interrupted\\
{Stampede has worn off!}
{Turbo has worn off!}

Useless?! No bullets, no proficiency?! I’m standing on this damn thing with a useless masculinity compensator and I can’t even use it! Well, the barrel spun, at least there was that. Revved up to full power it almost looked like a drill, tearing the tentacles clutching to it to tatters. No, not completely useless, after all! Stuck in place by several limbs winding around me, I couldn’t budge, so I did the only thing I could do; I lanced this behemoth like a ripe boil with the rotating barrels, sinking right in with a sickly spew of curdled remains. I struck gold, or perhaps, better put, I struck Can Cleaver. The high powered arcane engine reached critical mass and erupted deep inside the monster, splintering it to bits and sending me into the ceiling to ricochet into the floor.

My senses were blanked for a while, I don’t know how long. Seconds, minutes, or hours could have passed. Mental cohesion returned with the babbling of the nagging Headcase, getting on my case about blatant recklessness. Pink cloud had spread only a bit further, clueing me in that only a small amount of time had passed, now it surrounded me sparsely. The barricade was being trampled now by the massive Steel Ranger while others were busy picking themselves up from the gore.

When my HUD display flickered back on, there were no hostiles active in range, and I could detect no deadmare units. The magical blast had done a number on them, wiping them out; and I hadn’t escaped unscathed either. All my limbs were crippled, blossoming cracks like it was springtime. It’d be awhile before I was ambulatory again, I didn’t want to linger in the pink I wholly detested.

“We made it, we actually made it.” I chuckled to myself, raising a gauntlet to the ceiling, “We actually won!” There was no cheering from anyone, no celebrating, just awkward silence punctuated by metal hooves smashing into the barricade.

A mass exodus followed the fall of the barricade, a small group just under 30 left; there had been over one-hundred, maybe more crammed in here. Barely able to move, I did my best to follow them, Limping, staggering, and leaving fractured pieces of my body behind.

I considered taking a body part for the road, maybe a leg, in order to regenerate. They’d probably not like that, though, it might be a friend or loved one. Hey, maybe it’d taste better with ketchup or mustard? Maybe a side of colesl--

THOOM! A massive impact slammed into the center of the lobby behind me, tearing through the razor wire netting and widening the hole in the ceiling. Sent to slide across my belly, I tumbled back onto my hooves and faced the concession stand. A large black star-shaped pod, a deadmare pod, had landed right in the middle of the lobby. A mechanical whurr and clank echoed as it spun, opening up small vents on the sides. It drew in the Pink cloud around it, funneling it in until it was gone. Latches blew off five separate compartments on every angled surface, a pole jutting out horizontally, plain looking bodies with obvious cybernetic modifications hung in rows by cables running into key points on their bodies. Twenty red blips appeared on my HUD.

One by one they opened their blue eyes and let out a rasping breath, dropping down once the cables disconnected. They lacked the headgear and bladed limbs the Striders had and shared my facial features, nearly identical to me save their shaved heads.

“Really?” I groaned, stumbling a bit, “This night just keeps getting better! At least you’re not armed...” I could hear Zone Control cry for me to just run, but I waved her off, “I got this!” I said; me and my big mouth. These ones didn’t look nearly as tough, I could only see a few evident implants; a pair of electrodes jutting from the back of the skull, two blue cybernetic eyes, and a twin pair of tubes running from their chest cavity to their spinal column. They looked like stock, what would be used to make something else, an in-between of a full transformation. I was wrong.

The gang of twenty solved their lack of arms, their horns flickering to equip every weapon discarded on the floor; that’s not an exaggeration. The twenty unicorn deadmare levitated an armory’s worth of rusted, half functioning weapons from the floor. A flash of magic and the weapons were repaired, sparkling, and very ready to fire.

They could use magic? That was unfair! Cheater unicorn magic, I had to do everything like an earth pony an--Hey, moron, we’re about to die!--Oh right, I only have enough time to scream in abject terror at this, better not waste it.

Rapid fire mayhem filled the air with the smell of sulphur and burning metal. Repetitious eruptions of gunfire deafened out everything else. When the first volley missed me completely, I was relieved, then filled immediately with dread. They hadn’t been aiming for me.

Over my shoulder, beyond the dust kicked up by bullet saturation was Standtall, the massive Steel Ranger had thrust himself between the wall of lead and everyone else. His battered armor was full of hundreds of little holes, each draining a trickle of red blood. Return fire back at the marksman deadmares was met with an unblinking, unflinching synchronized march forward, the rounds reflecting off a shield barrier thrown up at their front. The weapons were reloaded with smooth automation, and the next volley didn’t start until all weapons were ready to fire. Everyone wisely had fled before the next volley cleared the door.

It was time for me to join them. Turning tail, I ambled along as best I could, the tense seconds melting away until the next volley started. This time, I was also a target, a half dozen small arms rounds sunk straight through the tattered metal plate sewn into the back of my coat and into my brittle skin.

A red blip on my HUD vanished suddenly, the sound of a giant bug zapper firing off temporarily muted the gunfire. A shield flowed out along the ground, shifting in intricate shapes and rotating to deflect shots, when a shield wall encountered one of the monsters, it engulfed them in a cube and sprung upwards. A brief glance up filled my vision with the stunning light of dancing lightning, blinding me and delivering sharp pain lancing straight into my ocular nerve.

Two more blips vanished--A green blip rapidly approached, and when it reached me, a deep blue foreleg streaked with blood crossed into my vision. Zone Control’s lips moved, she was shouting, her words dimmed by punctual gunfire. Her horn sparkled with an emerald glow, her expression strained, sweat poured down her face; or were those tears? She shouldn’t be here, she should be out the doors beyond the courtyard, heading for the Northern Gate!

“Why?” I thought, “Why are you still here?” Hazel eyes, a warm smile, kind-hearted, motherly, stern and strong; she was just like her. “Get out of here!”

A scarlet ribbon burst from the side of her neck, her eyes grew wide open as the color drained from her face. She collapsed into a heap in front of me, gasping for breath through a bullet wound. No, no, no, no! Not for me, she shouldn’t have--Not for me! She was going to be a mother and raise a foal with Frisky, they were going to be happy! They were supposed to have a happy ending; I was supposed to protect them!

Tears rolled down her cheeks, her lips moving weakly, fumbling to make words. I tried to pick her up, but I had no endurance left, my joints whined and buckled. Not for me, I thought, She was not going to die for me!

Her horn flickered, but kept lit, another blip vanished from my mini-map. I was tugged down, her bloody lips right next to my ear, “Keep them safe,” She managed. With a final pulse of her horn she encased me in a cramped cube and hurled me out into the courtyard.

“Where is she? Where’s Zone?” Frisky Fritter was less than understanding when I alone came tumbling out of the cinema’s lobby. The look in his eyes betrayed his questions; he already knew the answer, that she was gone. The unified march of the monsters through the doorway was more than enough driving force to spur the group into motion once more, with me and Frisky taking up the rear of the herd.

“She’ll kitch up wit’ us later, she prolly found another way out,” Frisky said with a voice so hollow you could run a train through it. He was in denial, deep denial about the loss he’d suffered; I wasn’t about to correct him either. I was a killing machine, not a grief counselor.

Deadeyes, that’s what they were called. Headcase was enamored with blabbering on about them. Evidently, they were an elite second-wave unit dispatched sparingly to finish off any remaining resistance should a first wave of Strider units be unable to do the trick. Why did we all look the same? Headcase wouldn’t answer that, so much for transparency. He didn’t seem too saddened by the loss of Zone Control either, saying it was a shame to lose such a lovely mare, but such is life in the wastes. Yeah, I wasn’t going to be on speaking terms with him for awhile; I told him as much and he agreed to leave me alone for the rest of the night.

We made it to the Northern Gate, relieved that Bitch Fit had the emergency codes, only to discover a taunting message painted in yellow frosting just above the broken access terminal mounted into the wall. “Sweet Dreams” A few bodies hung from walls, nailed to the shop walls that flanked us on either side of the exit. None of the shops had anything of use, unless if you wanted pre-owned horseshoes or had a package to send via the Moohave Express.

That was it, we were doomed. We could have went back, but Angus, that was the name the one armed minotaur gave us, had destroyed the welded lamp posts to drop the razor net behind us for the past hundred yards between here and the cinema’s courtyard. For what it was worth, it had bought us some time, it would take the remaining monsters at least an hour to circumvent the obstacle.

Fleeing was the only option left, and we had nowhere to run. There was no going back, not even to get Zone Control, a point that Frisky Fritter kept objecting to. He demanded where she was, constantly, as if my answer would change the next time he asked.

“She’s gone,” was the only reply I could give him. He would counter with something irrational, “She’s not supposed tah use her magicks, it’s bad fer tha baby!” or something equally inapplicable. His wife was gone and no amount of hope was going to bring her back, but he refused to accept this fact. He believed she must have found another way out, and when I told him I hadn’t seen her die, he became even more fervent in his conviction.

Ignoring him, I checked on Gangrene; she was leaning against the broken storefront to the Moohave Express, holding a trio of foals; Rebel Riot, who looked more shaken up than hurt; a shaggy earth pony foal with a hastily wound head dressing soaked with blood; and a young unicorn filly I couldn’t identify under the sanguine coat of blood.

“Hey, Gangrene, how’re you holding up?” I scanned the immediate area but spotted none of the other ankle biters. “Don’t talk to me right now,” was all Gangrene said through strained sobs, rocking slowly back and forth. The taste of death lingering in the air lead my gaze to the aisle between shops near Gangrene. The crate that had been used to ferry the foals quickly lay discarded on the side, riddled with bullet holes...

Keena sat apart from us, facing East for a sunrise that couldn’t come sooner, praying to her medallion for guidance that wouldn’t come. Key and Lock were resting against each other, occasionally comparing wounds and complaining they were unlikely to remain symmetrical now; nobody cared. That old crusty prospector was fuming, staring at me angrily, at least he remained silent. As for the canned ponies, the big one, Standtall, was laying on his side, quite content to just die there--Shame his armor was patching him up. Silver tongue was cursing up a storm, pacing angrily and cursing, “Ratfink crowbaits! Where are our reinforcements? They should be here! I've been trying to hail HQ for ten minutes!” Occasionally, a soft zap of electricity sounded, Glazed Marshmallow was tossing any apple cores she found in the trashcans nearby at the electrified gate.

A handful of other roamed about, trotting about our fenced off enclosure. There weren’t many of us left, out of an entire settlement only a hoof-ful remained.

“See, this is why they should have built maneframe terminals out of clipboards!” Indigo boasted, standing next to the wild eyed pegasus mare that bitterly slapped at the terminal. “Clipboards? I swear you landwalkers are all dead from the neck-up. Should have never went AWOL...” Bitch Fit was far more bitter than everyone else, but she hadn’t given up, she was trying to get the smoking wreck of a control terminal functional.

“If Zone was here, she’d could fix it. She kin fix anythin.” Frisky Fritter said with an air of longing, staring straight up at the razor net overhead. I didn’t want to disagree with him, but I don’t think anyone could have repaired a dozen bullet holes, a broken screen, and a melted keyboard--In fact, why was Bitch Fit even trying?

“Cryin’ shame Zone’s dead then, ain’t it?” Bitch fit scoffed, shaking her hoof into the terminal a couple times; seemed she was about as good with technology as I was. Maybe I was a bit better, only because I could recognize a lost cause.

“She ain’t dead, y’hear? She’s fahne! She’ll catch up!” He shouted--Which lead to more back and forth screaming that I did my best to stay out of. I was mentioned a few times, and I had somehow become the key subject to blame. The wily old prospector grumbled that there hadn’t been an invasion this bad since Tomb Town, and likely that I was the scout. That I had blighted them this night.

It was hard to argue, even from my point of view, Cradle Robber had orchestrated everything so well--Leading me along, showing me how ugly everything could be. I knew now why everypony distrusted and hated me and I couldn’t blame them; a ghoul with metal parts is an omen of death.

Divided, the arguing escalated. The old crusty prospector proposed I be destroyed before I could use them to recover, training his rifle on me. “He’s pretteh busted up, lookit him, he’s glassed over! Brittle as china and nowhere near as fine!” The only thing that kept him from firing was the knowledge that if he did, he’d become a hostile target. I reckoned he wouldn’t commit without having enough firepower behind him to down me instantly and make sure nopony would cap him either.

“My life’d be better if I’d never met him,” Gangrene said ruefully, she was speaking through her pain, but the words still hurt (Or I wished they did, I felt indifferent). “Don’t think he’s a scout, though, he’s not clever.”

“The other monsters seek his end just as they seek ours!” Keena squawked, allowing a break in her praying to speak in my defense. “We must not be divided, we need him!”

“We need him lahke ah need a hole in my head!” The prospector growled gravely.

“That, I can arrange,” Keena said darkly, raising up to train her rifle on the grizzled old pony. “Steelgraft is on our side, he fought those things same as us!”

Crusty took a step back, his beard, mustache, and eyebrows all bristling out like defensive spines. “It’s allah ploy, it is! He infiltrated us, makin’ us think he’s hacked with a cute little inhibitor collar; it’s a trick!” Crusty’s lips were nearly foaming with spit; he was going full tinfoil hat.

“He might be right,” Bitch Fit grimly agreed, “I say we off him just to be sure. I don’t want my ass chewed while I’m trying to work a miracle on the door terminal.”

“Oh, I vote th--” Silver Tongue was more than eager to jump in, I bet she would have loved to just shoot me herself, but her commander interrupted her. “We abstain.” He grunted austerely, “Keep trying to hail HQ.”

So now everyone was tossing out votes on somepony getting shot or what should be done. Frisky Fritter voted to not shoot me; ‘that would make Zone upset’ and he went through ‘Baelfire and Tartarus’ to wake me up in the first place. “Ah mean, what’s it matter that he’s a coward that what ran n’ left mah wife tah fend fer herself back thar? She’ll be right as rain--Or she bettar be or ah might do somethin’ regrettable tah him later!” Frisky Fritter was teetering on the razor’s edge of sanity, wallowing in denial proudly. This rose more questions; I knew that my contacts here had been Frisky and Zone, that they had some of my belongings. What I didn’t know was what they meant by what they went through to wake me up, I was hazarding a guess that Headcase had a bit to do with it, and that I was woke up expected to champion their battles.

This was their fight, not mine, I had nothing to do with it until this collar got slapped on me. Then, there was Cradle Robber, taking business and making it personal. Hades made it personal, punishing me for things I could scarcely recall deserving; I didn’t think anyone deserved what they were getting. That was just how the world was now. No longer did I want answers, dredging up the past only granted me sour memoirs. Escaping my past, putting as much distance between me and it, that’s all I wanted now; forget everything else. Kill the warlord, ditch the collar, and skip town. Maybe I might have cared to help them more if they were the least bit grateful I put myself at odds to save their lives, but no, they were debating shooting me, and in kind, I was debating whether or not this was worth my effort.

Blame shifted in the form of gun barrels, moving from one target to the next. Not everypony participated in the blame game, but there was enough guns in the mix to produce worry. “Did Bitch Fit properly warn everyone?” All guns were on her just then. “It was the Steel Rangers that trapped us with the stupid barricade!” More shifting of blame, trailing gun barrels to a very solemn Standtall Stillshot and an aggressive Silver Clit. “Our fault?” Silver Bodypart spat, “I only followed orders! Most our squad died for your sorry, tribal asses!”

“Th' lot ay ye waur hidin' behin' cowre while most died in th' thick ay it! tempered wi' yella' iron, th' lot ay ye,” the crippled Angus declared, pointing the fat, warped head of his hammer at the old crusty prospector. “Ah cam haur since they said culture an' community waur strang haur. if yer will undain sae easily tae turn hammer oan thumb, 'en ye ainae nae different frae th' corruption 'at takes yer haem!”

“What did he just sah?” The Prospector asked nopony in general, the confusion breaking him from his frothing mad stupor. A collective shrug infected the area, they had no clue what the minotaur was saying. Angus stomped huffily, slamming his hammer into the ground and resting a meaty palm to his hip, fingers knotting his coarse plaid skirt into a loose fist. “Half corned beef an' twice 'at senseless! cannae ye nae hear th' words comin' frae mah gob?” The huffy brute was met with blank stare, then the guns shifted onto him along with undeserved blame; “He’s in league with the scout!” I was really starting to think on how I could kill the prospector without triggering my collar to go off; I’d like to come up with something before he incited a riot.

“Don’t you see it now, Captain?” Whispers rose up from the dark, pushing to the forefront of my mind. “These ponies are going to turn on you. They will never trust or like you. They woke you up just to use you. If they live they’ll just propagate more disaster--They’re the evil ones, not us.” It wasn’t a hallucination, it was a radio broadcast straight into my mind! The voice of Cradle Robber cooed venomously. “They’re a blight on the world. One that will never accept you because of what you are. I can set you free, just say yes--I can deactivate that collar and you can let go of these inhibitions; you can return...To us, Captain. All forgive. Just say...Yes.”

Moving my hand up to grip my collar, I had a new profound hatred for it. It was a shackle that kept me from defending myself until I was attacked. I had to follow orders of ponies that I did not know and act according to their whims. Jump; how high? Beg, roll over, shake, murder a warlord, all tricks their little pet Deadmare would do. No, I’m less than a dog to them, they considered me more an appliance covered in meat, didn’t they? A meat toaster at best.

In the list of things I enjoyed, freedom was quick to take first place, even above living. I’d rather be free and dead than alive and a slave. Say yes, we can be free! Free, do it, do it and kill the prospector! Then anypony else that gets in the way! We won’t have to kill Muffincake if we rejoin---Our. Old. Master.

Conflicted, I wanted my freedom, my thoughts lingered on Gangrene and the foals; what would become of her? “Keep them safe,” Zone Control’s last words whispered in my mind on repeat, layered with goading from a thousand voices all demanding attention. Do it, do it, do it! Say yes! No, say Yeah Yeah Yeah, baby! No, say no! Maybe, ask me later!

My conflicting thoughts bashed against one another, my teeth gnashed, and I gave a restrained answer. “No,” I said, lowering my gauntlet down to the floor, “No.” Men choose, slaves obey. If I said yes I would only be trading one master for another--It wouldn’t get me what I wanted. “No? I won’t give you another chance, this is your only shot Captain. I’m offering your freedom, your life, and everything you could dream for!” Cradle Robber entreated me, condescending in tone and demand. “I’ll make what I want--A world without masters,” I told him defiantly.

So lost in my conversation, I hadn’t realized I had been speaking aloud and everyone could hear my half of the conversation. Guns were trained on me, even by those who previously had defended me. “Perhaps I should have said ‘yes’,” I thought bitterly.

“He was talking to his master, did you hear it? He’s one of them! He’s in cohoots!” That prospector climbed to the top of my ‘must be slapped silly’ list, which hadn’t existed until just now. I think I rather enjoyed lists for some reason.

“Do you really want to fight, old man?” I asked him directly--This question struck fear to him and it showed on his face, the old buck backed up a few paces. “Of course not...” I continued to approach him, making him back up. “You’re a coward,” I snorted, walking him back until the electrified gate was not but a pace behind his old, sagging flanks.

“G-get away from meh! Someponeh, shoot him! He went bonkers!” The prospector begged, swallowing at the lump in his throat.

“Why don’t /you/ shoot me?” I asked. I already knew the answer, and after a brief second’s pause I delivered it as coldly as I could; “Once you try, I can kill you--You know my collar is real. It’s the only reason why I haven’t killed you, because I can’t harm a non-hostile. You’re happy to get these people to turn on each other over your paranoia.”

Trapped like rats, we were all going to die without a means to escape, there was no reason to make our last hours miserable for the sake of one grizzled old buck. “I care more about these people than you do; that’s sad.” I pointed at him accusingly, nearly poking him in the face.

“Getcher weird, creepy metal poker outta my face!” He snorted derisively, “You disgusting monster!”

“Oh, you want to see a real disgusting monster?” I asked, turning my finger inwards, I jammed my index digit two knuckles deep into my flared nostril. Pulling excalibur (my finger) from my nose, I brandished a slick, slimy, blood encrusted bogey and held it out at the prospector. He balked, rearing backwards to avoid me smearing it on his face, taking the final pace into the electrified gate. A choked cry caught in his throat, his body went stiff, and he cooked for a good fifteen seconds before finally dropping to the ground in a steaming heap.

“Well, that saves me a bullet,” Keena was the first to speak, rather amused by my method of indirect murder. The hippogriff prodded the twitching corpse with the tip of her rifle, her headcrest perking, “Yeah, good and dead; he wasn’t a team-player, good riddance. Oxygen thief.” Mares and gentlecolts, the pious and empathic Keena, demonstrating her near limitless capacity to surprise me; I thought she’d object, not condone.

Keena and Gangrene shared similar sentiments on the subject; Crusty had to go, he had been a problem. The others were either indifferent or spurned to shouting again, at me. “You murdered him!” Lock cried. “Suicide, actually, brother. He jumped back into the gate,” Key replied, rolling his eye. Gun barrels found a home with their crosshairs on my noggin, none tried to speak for their owners, they did that themselves. “We have to now! We have to put him down!” Silver Butt declared, ignoring a cease order from Standtall.

“Death by booger, noo that's whit Ah caa damn funay,” Angus said, puffing on a pipe while he leaned his side against the hilt of his hammer. His boa of a companion, the marbled goat draped over his shoulders, bleated softly in agreement.

“Grandpa needed to take a dirt nap,” I said pointedly, “If you want to join him, go ahead, once you go red, I’ll make you dead.” A forced stalemate, fighting me was an unappealing option, it’d end badly for everyone. Wiping the booger off on his pelt, I contemplated eating the old man’s body, but the flies buzzing over him beat me to it; he probably tasted like crap. And a booger.

“Well, that was pointless; good for a laugh though.” Said Bitch Fit, waving a hoof at the rising smoke, coughing. “Yeah, fuck this, terminal’s toast, can’t lift the gate, and we’re trapped here with a clever meat-machine.” Bitch Fit gave up on rebuilding the terminal due to lack of parts and technical knowledge. The gate was too tough to beat down and too dangerous to try circumventing without proper tools. “Our best bet is hoping those tin canned buffoons come to collect their equipment,” Bitch Fit groused while pointing her one remaining wing at the two rangers.

Yeah, there was still hope! Those Steel Rangers could swoop in at any moment like big damn heroes and pull our asses out of the fire!

“They’re not coming.” Standball mumbled deeply. Or not...

“What do you mean, sir? You said a full evac is coming! Maybe they got pinned down a bit or the trolley broke or--” Silver Nuts babbled on for a short stint about where their reinforcements could be held up, and even if that’s what happened, it meant they weren’t here now.

“They cut the emergency lines,” Standtall admitted morosely, “They abandoned us out here.”

“That’s why there’s radio silence?! You lied to me, to the whole squad! I don’t know who to be pissed at more, sir, you or HQ for abandoning us out here!” Silver Nostrils was ticked off. The metal clad mare stomped a hoof hard against the ground several times, yelling at her commander. “--We could have run, forgotten the barricade and just ran to a gate! We didn’t have to fight and die to save no lousy tribals!”

“Lousy tribals?!” Bitch Fit growled, getting her face right into the helm-space of the ranger. “You rangers confiscate our shit and expect us to be grateful, then when it comes time to throw down you balk and you call us lousy? You sick, disgusting piece of shit--Never thought I’d meet ponies worse than the Enclave, but you dirt pounders aren’t much better!”

This was getting tired; acoma never wake up again tired. Nopony else had any ideas about what to do other than wait and die, which was more unappealing than the corpses buzzing flies nearby. I thought about the carnival I had gone to with my family, trying to figure out how to trigger that lucid projected memory to escape the bickering; never thought I’d want to go to la-la land intentionally. Didn’t work.

Then it hit me, a sudden sense of inspiration that perked my ears. The carnival; that was it! “Gangrene,” I blurted, leaping over to her, “I know you said to leave you alone but I need those frag mines if you’ve got them!”

The sallow mare gave a dry cough and fished them out, “Got a plan? Is it better than the last one?” She asked while scooting the unprimed mines to me. More than what I needed them for, but you never know when extra proximity explosives might come in hoof-Hand...Erm whatever appendage applicable with that expression.

“We’ll find out,” I replied as I slipped to the next pony I needed something from. Indigo; his clipboards would save our lives! “Indigo, I need three clipboards,” I told him.

“What for, friend?” He asked, rubbing his pudgy chin with a hoof.

“To save our lives,” I told him, “Clipboards are an integral part of my scheme.”

“Ahee, as they were always meant to be, dah, here you go!” The pudgy indigo earth stallion peeled three of the clipboards from his portly flank. “You need coffee mug too? Never stains, never chips!” He gave me the sales pitch and I refused, waving a flat palm at him. “No, thanks,” I said, using the same hand to add the clipboards to my inventory. Indigo held out his hoof still, expecting payment; I bumped hooves with him and moved on, leaving him dumbfounded.

Next on my busy schedule was Angus; his hammer was the perfect tool for this job. The question was convincing him to let me use it. The bulky beast had chosen that maul over saving his own arm, so he said, so saying he was attached was a vapid understatement. I was pretty sure all those runes spanning the hammer’s thick iron cheek was family lineage--Don’t quote me on that, I was only able to make out the rune ‘Speak, Friend’ on one side. How did I know how to read runic? I don’t know, exactly, but I did remember it was the ancient language of dragons.

“Hey, Angus,” I spoke up to him, raising myself on my hind legs to bring my stature just under his pectorals. How did minotaurs walk like that? I could barely keep my balance for long just standing! “Mind if I borrow your...Hammer thingy?” I asked, placing both my hands on the weapon’s pommel and leaning against it.

Angus flicked his tail twice, drew a long puff from his metal pipe and blew a smoke ring at me, “Mah Booooommmaul? Nae oan yer life.”

Yup, totally wasn’t going to be easy to convince him. “What about on all of our lives?” I replied glibly. His orange orbs briefly locked with me before rolling back up to the bickering pair that were now in a semi-violent shoving match. He hummed softly, scratching his scruffy chin with the stem of his pipe, he briefly conferred with his goat then nodded.

“Anythin' woods be a better shaw than these mmmmoooofs; ye can borraw me an' mah hammer. Whit needs breakin?” Angus said, teeth clamped around his pipe’s stem, his single ham of a hand lifting the maul from the ground effortlessly, leaving an indent.

I hung from the hammer’s haft, wearing a wide grin, “Oh, we’re going to be peeling that massive north gate open.”

The minotaur licked his thick lips and snorted, assessing the gate at a glance. He gruffed out a half laugh, eyeing me with flaged brows, “B’ me oan herns! Break 'at? that's a taa, toogh, tumultuoos order tae fill. Teel me th' plan! Aam in.” I dropped off the hilt and landed, eager to get out of this circus tent of a bugzapper. I explained my plan succinctly and was rewarded with the flickering of the bull’s ears and nodding of his head.

“That's half radge! Ah say we dae it.” Angus said, baffling me with his odd dialect and accent. Of course I didn’t know what ‘radge’ meant, but all I needed to understand was my plan was half that and he thought we should do it, which meant radge was probably good.

Setting up our crazy plan around the bickering ponies was a bit of a chore, but within a few minutes, we had everything set up. In that same time-frame, the fighting had stopped, only because those that were fighting were roared at to ‘Shewt tae Tertahrosh oop’ by a booming Angus.

What happens when an immovable object meets an unstoppable force? I was about to find out! At three points I set a frag mine on the ground, unarmed beneath an indestructible clipboard wedged under the space under the gate; this formed a lever with the mine acting as the fulcrum. Over the three levers we laid a section of lamp post, hoping to get a synchronized explosion when we struck it dead-center with the boom-maul.

“This idea is worse than your ‘wait for a signal’ plan,” Gangrene said gloomily before slipping into the Moohave Express with the kids. “I’m staying way over here for when this goes bad.” Frisky Fritter and Glazed Marshmallow were in tow with her. The grizzled three-legged earth stallion had become incredibly nice to the ‘little runts’--especially the little unicorn filly he now carried dotingly on his back. I was concerned, but took solace in the fact he was redirecting his grief into fondness.

“I said it was ‘a plan’, not that it was a ‘good plan’.” I defended my insane idea, it was afterall the only idea anyone had come up with. I was proud of my FAP. By the north winds, I couldn’t get over how stupid that acronym had been. Filed Action Plan? Really, Headcase?

“You know, it won’t work, that gate’s not gonna budge. The gates are made from an Enclave airship’s hull,” Bitch Fit was sporting a new bloody nose after getting in a scuffled with Silver Butt. The dour pegasus sucked air through a split in her upper lip and spat blood, “I’m willin’ to betcha my ass-rash that this ain’t gonna move worth pucky.”

“Suppose it does work,” Said Key. “How will you keep the gate from coming back down,” Finished Lock. They made catty observations, indirectly giving it their approval.

“Oh, that’s easy, we brace it open with Standtall,” I joked.

The massive Steel Ranger grumbled, getting up and storming off to clear the blasting area, “Like hell you are,” The gravelly voiced juggernaut bayed. Silver Tit was at his heels dutifully.

“If this works,” She said, “I’m buying everypony a drink.” The mare knocked herself into Bitch-Fit roughly as she passed her, “Except you, clipped-wings.” They really didn’t like each other.

“I was joking! I’m jamming the open with this other lamp post!” I told them, pointing to it. Would it hold? Maybe! That maybe was good enough for me, at least right now. We only had one shot at this. “See, Silver Bum?”

“It’s Silver Tongue! TONGUE!” The Ranger roared at me from afar. Ah, Silver Tongue! I knew it was Silver (insert bodypart here)--I’d conveniently forget her name and keep referring to her as different body parts until I felt the joke was sufficiently dead. Like me.

“It should be a good show,” Key purred, idly prodding the prospector’s corpse curiously. “Yes, brother. Lets give the men some space to work.” Lock droned, tugging his brother away from us.

Blast zone clear? I looked around, everyone was hiding behind something with the exception of me, Angus, and the goat he was still wearing. “So, a corpse, minotaur with one arm, and a fashionable goat walk into a bar--” It sounded like the beginning to a horribly racist joke. “The corpse turns to the minotaur and says, ‘all clear’, and to that the minotaur replied--”

“Ah need a pint, where's thes bar yoo're oan abit?” Angus totally ruined my punch-line, failed to play along, and the goat bleated boredly.

“Just hit the damn thing with the hammer,” I sighed, palming my face and rubbing my temples.

“Fire in th' huel!” Angus roared, raising the hammer high and swinging it down, a squeeze ignited the rocket behind the head and brought it straight down into the post stimulating the mines to erupt and force the clipboards twisting up, lip peeling up at the gate. My job was to slam the other light post under the gate and prop it up, and I pushed forward. An arc of electricity shot up the pole, lighting both bulbs and me up. My mind was rattled and my body convulsed until I was propelled away from the gate.

Ow. Or it would be ‘ow’ if I could feel pain and needed the use of my lungs. Reflexively I coughed at the smoke, waving my hand at the air and blinking. “Okay, that was stupid...” I admitted, standing back up shakily.

Stupid and ineffective; the gate had lifted up a few feet before I slammed the light post under it, keeping it ajar. That same light post bowed outward and snapped, the gate devouring it when those metal jaws clenched shut, sealing us in. I knew we should have used something sturdier and expendable, like Standtall!

Solemnly, the others filed up behind us, the last of our hope evaporating; we couldn’t try it again, Angus had thrown his back out with that swing and I only had one mine left. “That’s it, I’m completely out of ideas,” I said, throwing up both hands as I reared up. I stomped back down heavily, causing flecks of my skin to break off.

“It was a good show,” Said Key. “We got further than I expected us to,” Added Lock.

“We could smash out one of the shops and run,” suggested Standtall, “But it won’t make a difference--The Deadeye will find us. Maybe this is where our story is supposed to end.”

“Nae, Ah dornt want it tae end thes way,” Lamented Angus, hunging over on his hammer, panting in pain. “Nae a sool will sin' mah legend in sang if Ah die haur. They willnae know whit happened.”

“Gangrene, I don’t wanna die...” Sobbed the shaken filly, eyes brimming with tears. Frisky gave the small, brittle unicorn a little nuzzle and reassured her he’d let nothing happen to her, his precious little ‘Zone’--He’d gone nuts, I believed that was the correct medical term, completely nucking futs.

The sound of marching, distant but there drifted in on the smoking air, a whisper of ruin. The sound of snapping cable and wire interrupted the marching intermittently. They had almost caught up, the Deadeyes would leave no survivors.

“Such a shame you won’t be making the party afterall,” crackled the public announcement system with the voice of Cradle Robber. “No matter how you insects try, your wriggling and squirming amounts to nothing! You can’t change what you are. You’re pests. You should be thanking us, allowing you to become part of something greater than yourselves! Your lives shall feed a higher purpose. It’s only a shame that the Captain chose to die with you; always the disloyal loser, even in death.” He had to get the last word in, the last laugh of a plan that came full-circle. No matter what happened, he had made sure he’d be victorious one way or another.

And that’s where my story should have ended. I should have died with them in that mall-turned town with loose associates I could barely call friends, but I’d call them friends, because in this world they were the closest things to friends I had--I had nothing else.

When all hope left me that’s when deliverance came through a vehicle most unexpected; the gate began to open, spreading a cold wind, plaguing the uncovered with a case of the shivers. On the other side, framed by the darkness was a spritely ball of pink with an eternal smile, wearing my lost boot upon her head.

“Sorry I’m late,” Said PNK-3, “I was supposed to be here a whole ten minutes ago, right when you’d get here but I ran into some raiders and--Oh, I found your lost boot! I was all ‘Twitcha-twitch!’ and it landed on a raider. Meat Pie, no relation to yours truly! You need to learn to watch your things. You’re always losing something. Oh, are you happy to see me?! Well are yah?! I bet you are!”

She was met with silent, disbelieving stares; her appearance was as unexpected as it was miraculous, her timing couldn’t have been better or worse. “So, Miss Pie,” I thought of the pink pony the bauble reminded me of fondly, “You’re still the life of the party.”

*Ahem* Deus Ex Pinkamina! Yes, I’ve been waiting for 4 chapters to use this joke.
Some will be revealed in the next chapter; Touch of Pink!

Level Up! Level 8 acquired--
New Perk!
Character Progress Review
Quest Completed!

Chapter 12: Touch of Pink

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"Touch of Pink"

Fill my heart up with sunshine, sunshine

“Pinkie Pie is watching you FOREVER!” Why PNK-3 felt it was necessary to loudly read every bit of graffiti as we passed it escaped me. She said it was either her doing that or playing ‘Eye spy’ with me. I just let her scream out crudely spelled curse words, it was somehow more entertaining and did not involve me having to directly interact with her.

That was the second billboard we’d passed while heading North-West towards the Industrial Park. The first had been repainted with a warning mural that boasted; “Kaniballs eechu dis whey.”

The streets were congested with long dead horseless carriages on either side of the four lane, two way street; skeletons rested in the seats of some, forever frozen in their commute. Long shadows stretched out to join the darkness pooling in the deep recesses of the hollow, broken shells of buildings flanking the street. The darkness was punctuated by the glow of blazing barrels in alleyways, offering only scant light to illuminate a path to follow. Crudely drawn pornography covered every visible surface, including the divide I now straddled as I trotted along, thankful that the Baker Barbarians had left an obvious trail for me to follow; North-West down Spoony street, just follow the burning trash bins!

“And that’s a penis. And another penis. Wow, lotsa dongs. Another dong. That there reads ‘fuk knobtits’.” PNK-3 so helpfully read aloud.

I was hardly distracted by anything else, following the bouncing, bodiless bauble that moved as if it was attached to an invisible springboard. PNK-3 was humming a tune between sporadic blurts as I trailed behind her, or was she following me?

This would be so much easier if I had my compass, or so I thought, remembering that I had forgotten to take my saddlebag off of Frisky before I parted ways with the group. It probably would have done little good, the boot I had planned to scry for was now on my leg, courtesy of the idiot ball--She claimed to have found it while traveling to Big Top Blok, so scrying for it in the first place would have been a moot point.

It was just me and the loud floating bowling ball on a quest to tie up the loose ends. Those loose ends included bringing a warlord to justice and putting a permanent end to Cradle Robber’s scheming. The others hadn’t been in the best of condition to keep going, so I decided to finish the job alone. It had turned out that the old prospector had plenty of healing supplies on him he had no intention of sharing, and that’d be more than enough for them to make it back to Greenvale, or at the very least to Highscore Arcade.

“Are you sure it was a good idea not to bring anyone else?” PNK-3 asked, taking a break from loudly declaring not only our position, but also that we were alone, to everything that could be lurking in the shadows.

“In their condition, it’s best they sit this out. Besides, I have you with me.” I didn’t tell her that I was hoping she’d draw fire first, that might be a little too mean.

“Yup, you sure do! I’ve been waiting ages for you to show up, Captain!” She said cheerfully.

I quirked a brow at her, “But you met me in Greenvale Heights, you didn’t recognize me then?”

“Oh, you’re silly! It’s because you were hardly the Captain, that’s why! When I followed my pre-programmed route North then doubled back. I recovered your booty, you had the second booty, meaning the first booty was yours and you’re the Captain I’ve been waiting for! Even if you are kinda...” The bauble rolled from side to side, giving a soft hiss of static.

“Kinda what?” I probed. All this talk of booty, booty everywhere while PNK-3 rocked erratically back and forth went off into a tangent of static and fitful giggling. “What? What’s so funny?” I demanded.

“Oh, it’s just you’re kind of an ass!” The spritebot mocked, holding back snorting laughter. “I mean that in a good way! One of my best friends was an ass! He was crankier than you, too!”

That actually made me genuinely chuckle; I wasn’t expecting a play on words. “Alright, that was a good one.”

PNK-3 stopped in the air and trembled, another pop of static echoed from her speakers before she swiveled in my direction. “Oh,” She said, “There you are! I’ve been looking all over for you! Do you know how hard it is to pre-program a robot with over a thousand variable actions and responses? You’re not easy-wheezy to predicty-wickty either-weither!”

I was conversing with a half broken, confused piece of machinery. What a waste of time--If it hadn’t saved my life I wouldn’t even bother putting up with it. Might as well get this over with. I stopped as well and looked around. EFS, which I found out actually meant ‘Eyes Forward Sparkle’, was clear of any hostiles and my auto map feature was busy drafting a map of the area. I gave a quick referential glance to the guide to my operating system and tabbed it way from view. PNK-3 had proven herself useful by mentioning I should make use of the User’s Manual, which prior to her mentioning it I had no idea it existed. It was a wonder why Head-Case hadn’t mentioned it, then again, why would he mention it and miss out on prime exposition?

“Alright, let’s cut to the quick,” I said, pulling a skeleton out from a carriage seat and plopping down in his place. I crossed my forelegs over between my rear legs and leaned forward, “It’s story time.” So far I’d gathered that she was programmed to recognize me based off an unlikely Cinderella gambit, meaning she knew about the boots, where they’d be, what would happen, and how. Skeptical, I wondered who under the Troposphere would have such insight--I’d willingly believe in the tooth fairy before gypsy tambourines and fortune telling.

“Oh, story time? Okay, uh...I’ll tell you a good one!” She began, tilting back. “Once upon a time there was a pretty, pretty princess...”

Facepalming, I groaned, raising my voice, “I meant your story, how did the Mechanic know to program you to do all this? What do you want with me? Ulterior motive, me, everypony wants a piece!” My curiosity was waning swiftly. I had at least a half hour’s tread before me to get to the Industrial Park, I just wanted to get back to it quickly, not that I was in a hurry to throw myself at the defenses the Baker Barbarians had set up.

“The Mechanic? They didn’t program me.” She stated matter-of-factly. “And I don’t want a piece, I want you in one piece.”

“Then who did?” I ignored the other part of her statement, she wanted me intact? So did I, no need to elaborate on something we both had an interest in. The ‘why’ wasn’t so much important for me really, I was getting really sick of probing into the ‘why’ and finding something I didn’t like. Ignorance=Bliss. Maybe I should add ignorance to the list? Number seven; ignorance!

“You don’t recognize me?” She sounded hurt. “I mean, I sure don’t look the same since my old body got wrecked. I had to transfer myself into this old spritebot--My old body was so much nicer, I remember being able to eat cookies and cake an--”

I fell out of the wagon and landed on the unicorn skeleton I’d tossed out earlier. I decided its name was Flails after the skeleton whacked at me through an unseen force once I landed on it. We tussled briefly before I popped up, with Flails mounted upon me. “Wait, wait, you used to be a pony?”

The bauble let out a snort, “No, silly! I was always a robot! Wow, your face was just so shocked there for a moment! Hehah! No, I am a Ministry of Morale robot programmed to preserve Cherry Pie...” She paused a moment and shook herself, “{Data corrupt}--{Inaccessible Files}!”

“What was that just now?” I cleaned one of my ears with a finger and stared at her quizzically. Flails opened their mouth wide and leaned drunkenly over my shoulder; perhaps equally confounded?

“What was what? I just told you who programmed me and why.”

“No, you just blurted out mumbo-jumbo, beep-boop bullshit about a pie flavor,” I explained. This futile process was exasperating, and PNK-3 was hopelessly clueless.

She gasped loudly and hovered against my face, “You just said a bad woooord!”

Pushing her away I groaned, resuming my trek into the jaws of certain death. Flails clung to me, rattling with every step I took, and no matter how I bucked or shook I couldn’t peel him off. How could a dead pony be so clingy? “Yeah, this is an exercise in futility. You’re busted and not making any sense...”

“Hey, I saved you, didn’t I?” She blurted, hovering off alongside me. “What’s so hard to understand about preserving Cherry Pie? Pinkie Promise is as a Pinkie Promise does.”

“Yeah, and I’m eternally grateful that I got to survive long enough to have this pointless conversation about pie.” I tugged on my inhibitor collar and received a warning beep from the device. Nevermind that she saved all our collective tuckus, I was still caught up in the boom-noose around my neck with the ticking timer. Forget pie and promises, I had bigger things on my plate.

PNK-3 was unbothered by my sarcastic jabs and took what I said literally. “Who’s your friend?” She asked, referring to the stowaway stuck upon my back.

“Flails. I’ll shake it off...” I said softly, giving a half-assed buck that only achieve in getting the skeleton more tangled with my tattered coat. “You mind helping me get this off?” I asked.

“I’m sure you can handle getting off a boner,” PNK-3 chimed with a giggle.

Then there was silence. For all of five seconds.

“That was a joke about a clo--”

“I know what kind of joke that was supposed to be, PNK-3!” I groaned, it was in really bad taste. How unexpected, a robot having lewd wit.

“Wow, what a tough crowd,” She said to herself. “Yeah, tell me about it,” She answered herself, turning as if she was talking to somepony actually there. This elicited a soft groan from me and a roll of my eyes.

“Luna deliver me a Dirge, death be kinder than this company,” I muttered under my breath. There was no way she could get any more annoying, period. I was wrong.

BLEEP! A gasp from PNK-3; “It’s 11 PM! We’re missing the Witching Hour!”

PNK-3 turned on her internal radio, the garbled static hissed as she switched stations. I heard DJ-Pon3 for a moment, giving a goodnight farewell and best wishes for sweet dreams. That made me scoff. Then, I heard a howl come from the radio speakers, threatening to blow them out.

“Awoooooooo--Hello Fishbone County, it’s 11 PM, you know what that means! It’s the Witching Hour, yah got me?” A strong voice forced out with gusto caught my attention, drowning out the subtle beats of old fashioned dubstep in the background. Never thought I’d consider ‘Dubstep’ old fashioned.

“This is your friendly neighborhood DJ Boombark punching the clock, telling you the tocks, and warning you to stay cozy inside. Creeps and freaks wander the streets, I hear them scratchin’ about, even from where I’m at up high. But that’s not the only thing that’s high, dawgs, I got reports of Sky-Flowers, bright and pretty over a settlement in South Quadrant. It might seem pretty, but I advize you to steer clear of that for now--I hear it’s under new management. The corrupted undead toaster management, kids. More news after some mad jams, or jam madly! Same thing!” The radio boomed with that powerful voice, making PNK-3 vibrate before the music started to pick up. It got very loud, very quickly as the beats that was once in the background were now thrust straight into the foreground.

PNK-3 cheered, her voice rattled as she shook and pulsed, she began to head bang, which was just bobbing since all she was was pretty much a floating ball. “This is the best, come on Captain Stitchie, dance with me! What, you got two left thumbs and backwards hooves?” She orbited around my head, spinning as she did. She let out a yelp when I raised my gauntlet in the path of her third pass and caught her firmly.

“Turn that down, Pinkie, you’ll attract business!” I warned, shooting her a menacing glare through the gaps in my digits.

“Oh, sorry! Business is bad, right? It’s not like you run a business, at which point business would be good. In this case you mean bad, since you have nothing to sell and--” She went on loudly for half a minute longer, somehow getting on the topic of ‘pancakes’ somehow from ‘business investment’.

“Just turn the radio down!” I shouted, tossing her away from me and down the street. She bounced once and recovered, whimpering.

“That was super mean,” She whined. The radio clicked off and the bauble somehow looked distressed, her hover was less jubilant and bouncy. “No need to shout, it’s just my favorite radio show,” She told me huffily. “He’s a local late night DJ and he plays great dance music!”

“I don’t care what he plays, I don’t need to be spotted until I can find something to eat--Like those raiders you mentioned taking out.” My system integrity was hovering right around a paltry 20%--That required attention if I was going to throw myself headlong into suicidal situations.

“You mean where I took out the raiders? You’re standing in one now.” She said, floating up to me, a red smeared hand print caked into her face panel.

Funny I hadn’t noticed it before, but I was standing in pony soup! Death no longer lingered in the air, all the dead about were long dead, not as long as the skeletons, but long enough that the giblets no longer steamed. The bodies, or what was left of them, were streaked about in heavy smears, almost as if a giant had thrown them into the surrounding walls and wagons.

“You did this?” I asked, looking around. Half a corpse was dangling from a flickering lamp post for Luna’s sake! By its entrails!

“I think I went a little crazy with the sprinkles,” She admitted.

I did a double take to the left over foodstuff smeared over the pavement and prodded it, then inspected the discarded gear. Useless, all of it, not even the saddlebags were salvageable. “Yeah, maybe less sprinkles next time,” I agreed, purveying the whole scorched area. It looked like a bomb went off; one that exploded twice. Could a bomb explode twice? No, there had to be more than one bomb, the former was a ridiculous thought.

“And less napalm,” She added. “Or hot sauce.”

PNK-3 was now barred from baking at my birthday party, that is, if I could even remember my birthday. “Hey, Pinks, you got some red on your everything.”

“Oh gosh, there’s someone on my face? Ew! Ew!” She began grinding herself against the nearby walls, equally covered in gore, making it all the worse. “Is it off? I can’t see! Oh it’s so gross!”

“Uh, yeah, you got it...” I lied through a snicker, popping a piece of half-cooked raider into my maw. Spicy with a hint of sadness; poetic on the palate. I had problems, I shouldn’t find ponies so tasty. Another message prompt popped up in view, warning me I’d lost more Karma, once again, whatever that was. My integrity improved substantially, at least by 4% from just that. Eating a little more improved my integrity further, but lead to diminishing returns. I couldn’t eat from the same corpse twice, leading me to wander from corpse to corpse like I was at a Las Pegas all-you-can-eat buffet. 65% Integrity on my iSeeU readout, my cosmetic damage still remained, flaps of skin dangling from my carcass. Where was a staple gun when you needed one?

The trail had gone cold now, dead cold. I guessed the raiders had lit the trashcans and dumpsters as they moved along, to light their path. I had followed this path up until I discovered PNK-3’s work. She said she had found ‘one booty’ here. She meant my boot, not raider flank.

“You said my boot landed here?” I mentioned as I approached a small crater where a rather familiar corpse lay in ruin. Slate-grey coat and a messy, blood soaked pink mane that retained a sharp edge despite its unruly state.

“It did,” PNK-3 affirmed. “Caught Meat Pie, no relation, right in the not-so-pearly off-yellows.” She hovered about to my side and nuzzled herself into a dried part of my tattered cloak, brushing herself off. “She was a real baddie, made ponies into cupcakes if you can believe it. Indoctrinated foals using baked bads and trances, though I hear she wasn’t one for evil dances. She cut ponies, not rugs! A very bad party planner too, according to her bounty bulletin!”

How the Buckingham Palace did my boot go from beady-eyed mc-scrawny ass to sailing through the skull of a most hated antagonizer? Maybe it was best to not look a gift horse in the mouth; she was dead, I should be grateful she was dead. It’s not like my boot killed her on its own, though.

Ding! A notification blared next to my ear, startling me into jumping up and falling face first into Meat Pie’s chest cavity. Irritated, I blew a few bubbles in her soup as I looked at the small winged envelope hovering in my vision. It opened automatically, revealing itself to be a copy of Meat Pie’s bounty flier sent to my iSeeU by PNK-3.

Meat Pie
Wanted: Dead
Reward: 1,000 Caps
Wanted for:
Bad Party Planning
Murder
Cannibalism
Foal Napping
Home Wrecking
Indecency

Her portrait was not at all flattering, a mad-eyed mare drawn in a distinct style that spoke volumes about her unstable personality. A warning beneath her portrait declared her a ‘Freaker’, a dangerous and adept Pastry Witch, and apparently she also tipped poorly. “Ah, yes, because giving bad tips AND being a murderous foal napper at the same time is just beyond normal larceny,” I thought with a sigh. Did the committee for bad names in Greenvale Heights also write the Bounty Bulletins? Dismissing the scroll, I collected something of Meat Pie’s as proof of her death; if my boot did her in, technically it was my kill.

The most unique thing on her that wasn’t in ruins was an odd knife that smelled crisp like a fresh rainfall, the blade itself hummed softly. It was burned black and had a warped handle, etched into the blade itself was a name; Alice. Strange name for a strange knife. It might sell decently after I collected the bounty. That and I needed a weapon, I left all my gear with Frisky Fritter.

“How about a little warning next time?” I said, licking the blood off my lips; she was sweet and tangy. I took an inconspicuous bite of her remains and netted new Karma loss and regained some system integrity.

“Oops, sorry! I’ll try to be more courteous. You know, since you’re so jumpy and grumpy. Jrumpy!” I heard a faint squeak before PNK-3 shook the rest of the caked on gore off and hovered a short distance away, to the edge of the light cast off by the nearby burning wreckage. “So, where do we go now?”

“I don’t know,” I shrugged, taking a bite of flesh off of Meat Pie’s foreleg. “I was following you, mostly. The trail’s cold as these corpses. I was hoping Head-Case would have been able to trace my boot, but that didn’t work out so well. I was expecting Cradle Robber to make his location obvious so I could find it.”

In retrospect, maybe if I’d left as Head-Case said, I might be hot on the heels of my quarry and one step closer to personal freedom. Maybe staying behind had been a mistake afterall? She had hazel eyes. No. Regrets. Now. Should have run, now we’ll die for sure! Die die. Die die die, die die! -- “For the love of salt-licks,” I thought dourly, “Shut up, brain!”

Scarlet ribbons danced through the air like constricting serpents, belched up from the smoke of the nearby fire. Sparks of consciousness briefly flickered lazily, “So you’ve made your decision? You’ll betray me for what? For them?!” A gunshot sounded, breaking me out of the fitful trance, the ground slammed under my feet and I toppled over, the skeleton finally released its tangled hold.

“Captain, Captain! You fell over! Are you okay?” PNK-3 filled the static peripherals of my vision, the rest was filled with a blank wall of shifting textures.

Off in the distance, far into the center of the city, cresting over all the ruined rooftops and ascending straight into the sky was a great tower of blazing, brilliant white. A double helix spiraling off into eternity, piercing the cloud layer, and continuing even higher. I pushed PNK-3 aside to get a better view at it.

“What’s gotten into you? Hello? PNK-3 to Captain Steelgraft, come in Captain Steelgraft!”

I grabbed and turned her in the direction of the tower, pointing, “No, look! Look at that!”

“Look at what? The wrecks in the distance? You think that’s where the baddies are hiding?”

“No, the tower! The massive tower rising into the sky!” I was trembling and I didn’t know why.

“There’s nothing there...” She insisted.

“No, there is! I can see it!”

“Wait, I think I do see something,” She whispered. “Nnnnn...Nope, false alarm!”

I shook my head and slapped my left temple multiple times, shaking and distorting my vision. The wandering textures vanished and so did the tower, zipping itself into nothingness in a bundle of curving, broken light. I must be seeing things, chalk it up to a hallucination.

How eerie, it felt like I’d seen it before, somewhere in a nightmare long ago. Shaking these cobwebs free, I took notice of an icon on my EFS, a yellow dot had appeared nearby, just beyond a set of toppled sky wagons over a dilapidated store front.

“Okay, am I hallucinating a yellow dot on my EFS right now?” Better safe than sorry, I couldn’t exactly trust my iSeeU afterall.

“Oh, that? Nah, they’ve been following us all sneaky like since we left Big Top!” PNK-3 stated cheerfully. “You’re not that crazy. Yet.”

“Why didn’t you mention there was somebody following us?” I demanded tersely.

“Was I supposed to?” She asked innocently.

If I facepalmed any harder I’d send my horn out the back of my skull. “It’d be nice if you’d mentioned that instead of reading all the graffiti we keep passing!”

“It’s not such a big deal, Grafty! It’s yellow which is mellow, like a good happy fellow! Maybe we should say ‘hi’?” She offered a not-so-bad-idea. But, I had a better idea--One that I thought would be particularly hilarious.

I grabbed a rock, a generous sized one, palmed it. Perfect for what I was going to do with it! I tossed it hard in the general direction of the icon, out into the darkness and shouted; “Fire in the hole!”

THUNK! SQUAWK! A pair of wings beat the sky. I picked a silhouette out against the cloud cover and shouted, “I see you! Might as well land before I find a bigger rock!”

Keena landed in the clearing heavily, sporting a rather sore looking goose egg just over her left brow, “Did you have to throw a rock at me?” The dour bird-horse screeched. I’d actually nailed her? Wow, that was a lucky throw! Lucky for me that my collar didn’t go off from it. It must only detect intentional acts of unprovoked violence.

“Did you have to follow me?” I countered with a question.

“No, but it’s a lot more fun than going back to--” I cut her off by grabbing her beak and holding it shut.

“There’s your answer; No, but it was fun. Now, I’m going to let go of your lil beak and you’re going to tell me why you’re not making sure the others get to Greenvale in one piece.” I was only a little livid, really. It’s not like I hadn’t done anything stupid before.

“Hi, I’m PNK-3! What’s your n--”

“Can it, bowling ball. It’s Keena’s turn to yaplap.” I snapped my fingers and then made a show of impatiently waiting.

Keena rubbed her forehead, looking at everything but me; the walls, the bodies, the ruined gear, PNK-3, the burning barrels. “Did you do all this?” She asked.

“You know I didn’t, you’ve been tailing me since Big Top, now answer my question before I go Celestial on your assbraid.” My grim expression was set in stone, I wanted to hear her explanation now. Immediately.

“I can’t just let you go off alone! You’re hurt and I need to get those kids back; it’s my fault they got taken. Gangrene was right about me, I’m irresponsible.” She explained quickly, keeping eye contact with me. “And I really want to kill that witch.”

‘Hurt’ was a hollow statement. I couldn’t feel a lick but I could see some of my split seams and hanging skin. The flesh of one of my forelegs was inverted inside out, revealing a mechanical interior of blackened metal. Idly, I wondered just how much of me was left equine.

“You’re standing in her,” I pointed out, ever so mirthful to see her expression drop like an airship without a balloon. Keena let out a distraught caw and flapped her wings, turning about to get her rear hooves out of the pony stew.

“She’s dead? That was mine! My kill! Miss Pink stole my kill?” Fire burned in those amber eyes like I’d never seen before, her crest flipping forward as she shot the poor bauble a leer that could melt steel.

“I did that,” I admitted shamelessly, examining my fingertips in the poor light. “She was so easy that my boot did her in without me having to do a thing.”

Now she was caught between two extremes, being angry and trying not to be rude to me. Her flustered state left her unable to form a complete sentence, only inane chirps and half caws in my direction. In lieu of sentences she directed her rifle at me, steam shooting from her nostrils. “You...Y-y...” She chirped again and shook her head, “You kill stealing bastard!”

“Hey, don’t point that at the Captain, he didn’t mean it!” PNK-3 said, getting in Keena’s face. The hippogriff simply batted the ball away with the butt of her rifle and resumed her tantrum.

“She was mine! My nemesis! How am I supposed to beat her now? My honor is tarnished and now I can’t get it back!” Her priorities were all wrong; Keena never ceased to amaze me, but this time it wasn’t a good kind of amazement.

With a roll of my eyes I walked around her and started down the road, “Come on PNK-3, we have ground to cover. Get up.”

Pinks rose up from a small pile of rubble, wobbling woozily, and followed with an “Okie Dokie Lokie!” She also blew a raspberry at Keena, either that or it was just a blur of harsh static shot in the hippogriff’s general direction.

Keena reluctantly slung her weapon and made to follow me, at which point I stopped in my tracks.

“You think you’re coming with me?” I asked a loaded question, sighing at this irritation. “Go back and rejoin the others, Keena.”

“I’m coming with you, no matter what you say, Steelgraft.” She told me stubbornly.

“And that’s why you can’t come,” I shot over my shoulder. “I don’t have time for fledgling whelps.”

I could almost hear the sound of her feathers ruffling, and I definitely heard her beak click in agitation. “Who are you to call me a child?”

“I might not know much, but I know a child when I see one, Keena. If you want to come along so badly, you need to listen to me.” I was cold with my tone, wearing my authority on my cuff. It was my way or no way at all; no compromises. That said, I continued on into the darkness.

“Wait!” Keena sputtered, “I...I apologize. I defer to your guidance!”

Ding! Right answer! Now to put that to the test. Over my flanks I could see her in a bow, head down, russet feathers flattened. Now how to test her? I recalled the skeleton I’d had a tussle with earlier, that bleached white tag along was going to be the perfect test to see how far she’d go to listen.

“You see that unicorn skeleton sprawled against the road divide?” I asked.

Keena gave it a glance, cocking her head, “Yes, what about it?”

“Pick it up and follow me,” I told her boldly.

“Why?” She asked, beak scrunched in disgust.

“Oh, well, guess I’ll be seeing you at Greenvale...” I sing-songed as I stepped into a mocking, jubilant trot.

“Hold on, hold on!” Keena squawked, tossing the skeleton over her back loathsomely. She was soon behind me, eyes stuck to the ground. “Happy now?”

“Now call it a pretty girl and give it a kiss,” I deadpanned. Keena’s sharp gaze tried to bore a hole through my face, a corner of her beak twitched.

“What?” She clicked.

“Uh, CSG, that might be a teensy bit much, I mean, what if it had been a boy? That’d be rude!” PNK-3 tried to make me see reason with laughable logic.

“Yeah, you’re right. Carrying it is good enough,” I relented, slipping off into the darkness ahead, company in tow. Acting as I did, it was still nice to have an extra gun on talon.

Five minutes later Keena and PNK-3 were properly introduced and exchanging brief, if somewhat out-of-place pleasantries. Their positive banter was easy enough to ignore over the trigger tone of me trying to trigger my SATS with every step further into the inky blackness. My iSeeU had a low-light filter setting, which allowed me to see at least thirty paces ahead in the darkness, but I wasn’t taking any chances.

Blip! Blip! Blip! I wasn’t picking up any hostiles yet, otherwise the spell would have fully triggered. My own senses were useless, especially here, I had to be crafty.

“Is there any reason why you’ve tried to trigger your SATS spell 313 times in the span of five minutes?” Head-Case spoke as his holo screen suddenly popped open. The illustrious head in the egg-shaped jar, an egghead if you will, spared not a moment to continue speaking. He must love the sound of his own voice.

“Now,” he continued, “I know I said I’d leave you alone for an unspecified amount of time. I feel that that time has passed.” He gave a circular gesture with his pincer claw and gave a thoughtful nod. “It’s nice to see you finally back on track, but I have a bit of bad news.”

“You couldn’t get the dinner reservations?” I joked humorously. Keena and PNK-3 were deeply engrossed in their own conversation, so I worried very little of them overhearing me talking to myself. Blip! Blip! Blippityblibliblee! Maybe if I triggered SATS fast enough it might drown out this entire conversation, sadly, it didn’t, and I only succeeded in giving myself a headache.

“I must lament my inability to suborn you to reason,” Head-Case droned. “If you had left at an earlier convenience I could have used you as a reference point to track the artifact to its prior location--My sensors are picking up that the mentioned article in on your person.”

“Yeah, PNK-3 found it. It never made it back to their base. I suppose it was taken as a trophy when they thought I died, but they’re all dead. The trail’s cold. You’re not telling me anything I don’t already know.” I told him, really, I expected Head-Case to be more on it than that.

“PNK-3? You mean that insufferable, glitchy junkball? I thought it would have been destroyed by now.” He stated bemusedly, adjusting his glasses with a flicker of his horn’s magic.

“You’re familiar?” I dared to ask.

“Acquainted, unfortunately. It has proven unwittingly helpful in the past; irritation notwithstanding.” He informed me. I could always rely on his love of talking. That told me he was not the one to program PNK-3. Mechanic hadn’t programmed her either, confirming my suspicions of another player I had yet to meet.

“So, is that all you wanted to tell me?” I asked, hoping that was the extent of the ‘bad news’. Never thought I’d be nostalgic for the day when the most exciting news around Canterlot was about water skiing budgies or seals in top hats at the zoo. Rowdy had pestered me for weeks to take him to see the dapper clapper seals in show...

“Oh, no, actually, there’s more. I just thought it imperative to remind you you’ll have to locate the base on your own.” Yep, there was always more, wasn’t there? Annoyed as I was, I tried to find good humor in turning my head to the side to overlap the screen against a graffiti covered wall, imagining that his bowl was filled with crudely drawn caricatures.

“Don’t worry, I’ll find it. I’m counting on Cradle Robber wanting me to find him.”

Giving a groan, Head-Case shook his head disingenuously. “It’s not like that made monster is going to roll out the red carpet and send you a personal invitation,” Head-Case chided before clearing his throat. “As for the bad news? I picked up some chatter. There’s a Roamer somewhere near your location, possibly looking for you. I suggest you hide if you hear it coming.”

“Roamer?” I raised a brow incredulously.

“You remember what tanks are, don’t you Steelgraft?” Head-Case questioned. In true egghead fashion he didn’t wait for me to answer, “If you don’t, you’ll remember soon enough.” The screen closed once he’d finished, clearing my vision.

My perspective on the world shifted, not because of the information rendered by Head-Case but because the ground dropped out from under me. I landed face first in a shallow puddle at the bottom of a large pothole. Note to self; Do not trot and handle a vid-call at the same time.

“Wee!” Thwak! PNK-3 bumped into me after dropping down the hole, splashing mud everywhere. Oh please be mud. She played the sound of a bowling ball striking bowling pins and cheered, “Strike!” With a jubilant giggle. “That was fun!”

“Steelgraft, are you alright?” Keena asked, hovering over the shallow grave with a grim yet worried expression.

With the blankest expression I could muster I looked up to the hippogriff. “Yeah, perfectly fine,” I stated plainly as I scaled the side of the hole. I took the offered talon to pull myself up the edge.

“Thanks for the talon up,” I muttered, staring down at the pavement. To be honest, I was a little embarrassed. My eyes caught a small pebble bouncing on the pavement; the shaking and rattling got more noticeable from there. Keena perked up and tackled me right back into the pothole, crushing a grunt out of my chest.

I tried to protest through the talon clasped hard over my lips and Keena held up her other to shush. Her stained gold and white vestments were further soiled so that not even a shred of white bled through. Oh please be mud; I imagined she was thinking that about now.

The ground rumbled, metal rattled, and rocks danced across the pavement. The air filled with the sound of an engine’s roar. The biggest blip on my EFS’ minimap I had ever seen appeared, it overtook the intersection just ahead and swerved a hard left towards our location.

She had heard it long before I had even picked it up on my EFS. She was the canary in the proverbial mine shaft.

Ripples spread in the pooling mud, rocks slid down the steep banking of the hole, and the sounds got louder. The air filled with a stench of rotting carcasses and unwashed pony, making Keena gag. Shame that griffins didn’t have the ability to vomit or belch the same way as full blooded mammals, which is what Keena looked like she desperately wanted to do. Which would have landed on me. Thank sweet Celestia that birds couldn’t upchuck.

The tumultuous rabble of throttle petered off into the rumbling of an idle engine, mechanical sounds of twisting servos and pistons blanketed the air. PNK-3 was still noisily rolling around in the mud like a happy pig. I buried her speaker first into the muck to silence her.

“Be quiet,” I whispered seriously, to which the only response was fitful burbling. There was silence for a short while, fitful, nerve wracking silence. Then a flurry a hooves, fitful whimpers, and the familiar sound of blades burning at asphalt.

A piercing scream made me jolt up, and I scrambled up the steep slope to peer up at what was going on. I could hardly make out anything other than shapes. One of those shapes was fairly large, and barrel chested. The hard-edged silhouette stood out on stilted legs, several glowing points on the large construct’s body illuminated more of its design. No, that was a different creature, there were two. One of them was a Strider, the other was a larger, heavier construct on wheeled legs driven by a loud combustion engine. Between them was the source of the noise, I could scarcely make it out, even when I was squinting at it. With only the soft telltale glow of their cybernetics I couldn’t make out much detail, even with a low-light filter. They were more than 30 feet out, exceeding my low-light vision range.

“That’s a little filly,” Keena whispered urgently. She dropped the skeleton off her back carefully and unslung her rifle, ready to take aim. I grabbed the barrel and pushed it down, much to her chagrin.

“Too risky,” I breathed out softly.

“We cannot let them harm her,” Keena hissed.

“We’re not going to,” I stated numbly while watching the deadmare units interact. I was picking up fragments of their transmitted data in their rapid conversation. The large one was on a seek and destroy mission, target unspecified, while the Strider was on an escort mission.

One issue; their directives conflicted. Without a specified target the tank-like Roamer had intentions to eradicate any non-ally on its pre-determined route. The Strider sent a warning in return that it could not stray from its mission, standing over the lumped shape of its charge protectively. When the peer-to-peer connection was terminated, the Roamer let loose on the Strider’s skull with a well placed blast of bright magical energy from a heavy gun mounted to its undercarriage. No contest; The Strider went reeling with a shrill hiss into a derelict foodcart.

Split second thinking was necessary; I needed a distraction that wasn’t us that would be more appealing to it than a weaker little filly! Think like them; think! Before Keena does something impulsively stupid, that was MY job.

Keena raised her rifle and fired a shot, glancing off the side of the beast near-harmlessly. The Roamer turned its upper body in a swift jerk, the wheels soon followed, propelling it towards us. It let loose several shots, one hit Keena in the shoulder. She let loose a squawk of pain and pitched herself forward, aligning another shot that pinged off harmlessly.

Now I could properly see its face head-on and it was UGLY in all capital letters. A jawless head was mounted to swing-arm, complete with dangling tongue. He looked familiar, and so did that bullet wound in his forehead; it was Curbstomp!

It was a bit of a weird coincidence that his body vanished in the hospital, wasn’t it? One of the voices in my head chimed in observantly. I bet he just wants to give you a big, warm hug!

As Keena was lining up the next shot I grabbed her by the tail and tugged her into the pothole, making her bullet sail wide and miss. “Hey!” She grunted, “You made me miss!” Not like she would have done much if she hit the bastard anyway!

Fuck dialog, problem solving now; we couldn’t fight that thing and it’d murder us if we got out of the hole. Chase, it needed something to chase! I shot a glance to PNK-3 but quickly dismissed that notion; Keena would never forgive me and neither would Mechanic. That left only one option.

Flails the skeleton had to take one for the team.

I hefted the slack jawed skeletal ungulate as hard as I could into the open back up the road from where we came. The Roamer formerly known as Curbstomp opened fire on the first sign of movement and went right over us, chasing the skeleton that would prove to be very bad at the game tag.

“Move!” I ordered, clambering out of the hole.

Keena took to the air and swooped for the filly, scooping her up. PNK-3 made a bee-line down the road swiftly. As for me? I got blindsided by the somehow still-functioning Strider.

Why would it be attacking me? I was protecting its charge from the Roamer! Then again it was a mindless, evil monster, a deadmare, what did it know or care to know? It would have been so easy to just rip it apart like I’d done so many before it, and I was about to do so remorselessly until it attempted a peer-to-peer connection with me.

Being the moron that I was, I unwittingly accepted the connection. In less than a split second we shared a wealth of information. It, or she, since all Striders were female, was EB-259, a third generation Strider unit nearing the end of its functional life cycle. She had been tasked with motivating the filly to run back to Big Top for an unspecified reason, it made sure no harm came to its charge en-route.

I had no idea how to share information and I really didn’t want to, but it was automatically done without prompt. I was recognized as PP-013, 1st generation Sweeper model with a long expired commander tag.

“Retired Unit Penance--Delay action. Return charge or face termination.” EB-259 messaged.

“I’m saving the girl,” I replied mentally.

“...Understood. This unit is unfit to complete its mission. It shall cover your escape.” EB-259 stated before sending me auditory data from when its mission was assigned. The peer-to-peer connection severed and the Strider pulled away.

Time returned to its normal speed and I galloped after my companions, confused about what had just happened. Behind me the deadmare I just had a one-second conversation with charged the Roamer. I didn’t bother looking back, but the sound of magical energy blazing overhead and the squealing of that Strider left nothing to the imagination.

Like a snowball in a blast furnace, the sickle beast had barely been a blip on the Roamer’s radar. A casual extermination in route to more targets, namely us. With roughly a ten second head-start, the advantage still went to the wheeled behemoth. Fat, treaded wheels ate up distance faster than he probably ate food in life. Sky chariots and carriages launched into the air and crashed through buildings flanking the street while rapid blasts of magical energy heated the air around me. I juked and weaved, keeping a hair’s width ahead of the titan’s ire.

Thunderous explosions belched small mushroom clouds from the wreckage of dilapidated wrecks that caught crossfire. A soft “Tic-tic-tic-tic!” played in my ear and grew louder, birthing a new addition to my HUD’s already cluttered display; a magical radiation detector. Keena weaved in the air and dived to avoid an upward draft of noxious fumes and climbed steeply to avoid bouncing carriage viscera, her rear hooves just skimming asphalt. It was foolish to admire her skill in the middle of a life or death situation, but the way the smoke edged off her wingtips was poetry in motion. The explosions going on everywhere else? That was a perpetual train wreck.

“Run, Captain, run! Like the rat you are!” Cradle Robber’s voice cooed through the static filling my mind. “I will reach you wherever you are, wherever you hide!” He must have been someone I beat with a puppy in a past life to warrant such zealous, rabid commitment. Not that I cared about whatever flimsy excuse the psychopath used to justify his frothing lunacy.

“Eeeee, it’s almost like a parade,” PNK-3 shrieked gleefully, ducking and bobbing around the falling carriages with unbelievable ease. A sky wagon landed right in the middle of the divide and she drifted through the broken windows sideways!

I couldn’t circumvent the obstacle as easily, diving through the window on one side and breaking the door open on the other, barely a few paces ahead of certain doom. “I miss when the only thing fast about this guy was his smell,” I yelped out, catching a magical bolt in the flank. “We can’t outrun this!”

“We don’t have to outrun it, just the slowest in our group!” PNK-3 giggled while zipping around backwards effortlessly.

“I’m the slowest in our group!” I fretted. I let out a scream of terror that cut short as something plumbed the depths of my throat. My muscles seized reflexively and I bit down, a tremble running down my horn as I recalled the last time something tasteless had graced my lips. Instead of Key, this time it was the meat of an overripe banana.

“Eat this banana, there’s no time to explain!” PNK-3 ordered. The origins of the curved yellow fruit were forgotten in the panic and the globe of giddiness pulled the empty peel from my face and dropped it in the path of the Roamer’s left wheel.

A piercing screech overtook the sounds of the roaring engine and the Roamer spun out of control. The raised, several ton, armored meat-vehicle caught it’s wheel in a pothole and flipped into a carriage garage with a decidedly rustic Appaloosa motif; ‘Yippee! Lube: Horse drawn horse drawn carriages with every axle change!’

Skidding to a stop, I took a generous few seconds to appreciate such irony. Then, I gloated; “They’ll be changing your tires in Tartarus, you hunk of junk!” Reflectively, I added, “I can’t believe that worked...”

“What,” PNK-3 giggled, “It works in the cartoons! Now come on, before stinky gets free! I know a great hiding place!” I could forgive her the forced banana felatio if only because she saved my ass(what was left of it) for the second time tonight.

PNK-3 lead us away, abandoning the Roamer to spin its wheels and thrash about. A minute would be a generous estimate of our head-start on the behemoth. Once we were off of Spoony Street, heading east, we came upon a monolithic brewery. Large weather worn silos stood out amongst a snaking family of tubes that sheathed into the back lot of the squat building. The perimeter fence around the complex leaned listlessly inward, and we passed many vehicles, including a modest tour bus filled with grinning skeletons and bullet holes. There was a monorail station nearby, the ruined track ended at a massive chasm Westward.

The question of whether or not we’d lay low here for awhile, at least until Curbstomp passed by went unasked as soon as the exhausted Keena touched down hard. She stumbled and nearly dropped her living cargo. There was no other choice but to take sanctuary.

“Daft Draft, the working stallion’s preferred ale” boasted the company’s mascot, a transparent draft stallion made of glass and filled with foaming beer. The caricature smiled proudly from the wall behind the lobby’s desk. Seems like the brewery was a popular tourist trap, enough so that there was a quaint little gift shop just to the left of the main entrance where you could buy little beer keychains and replicas of the mascot, Stern Stein. He looked so much more cheerful in the notary, the figurines were a bit creepy. The advertisements were equally unnerving, one depicted a group of mares licking condensation off of Stern’s body, the ad screamed sex appeal and a forfeit of all inhibitions. “A real stallion’s stallion.”

Deep breaths, at least for the living, and PNK-3 for whatever reason, was hyperventilating. ‘Hee-hoo-hee-hoo’! Where did she get that paper bag? No, more importantly, how in the four winds was she inflating and deflating it?!

Seizing one of the couches along the wall, I barricaded the door. Keena gave me a befuddled look, setting the filly down.

“If that thing follows us that won’t stop it!” She squawked.

“I know, that’s why it’s our escape vehicle,” I joked. Gangrene might have laughed at that, but that’s because she had been there when I flew the couch--Keena adopted an expression of passive confusion.

“Don’t worry, that Roamer will never look for us here; he knows not to drink and drive!” PNK-3 squeaked, popping the paper bag to produce a shower of confetti.

“...Could you be stupid somewhere else?” I asked bitterly.

“Not until Noon tomorrow,” The infuriating ball chimed. Wasn’t that the deadline for my three-day holiday?

The ball of trembling lavender furred filly breathed fast little thank-yous to Keena, her body quivering like jelly. Her pelt was mottled with blood and grime, the only part of her remotely clean was the streaks below her eyes. Darting up along her side and over one of her flanks was a deep, painful cut packed with dirt, horribly inflamed. Her frantic little pants turned to inward gulps of panic as she laid eyes on me, a renewed river of tears springing from her emerald orbs.

“Monster! Monster!” The wide eyed filly squealed, seizing a rock and bouncing it off my forehead with a hollow ‘wunk’. The runty brat scampered into the nearby souvenir store where she armed herself with tacky miniatures, keychains, and shot glasses to continue her assault. An icon on my EFS turned blood red, her hostility genuine, born of fear. Technically, the moment she attacked, the little mare unwittingly became a valid target; had I been absolutely morally bankrupt, I’d consider giving her a spanking.

“Uh, yeah,” I was beyond being bothered at this point. I picked up the envelope the filly had discarded. “Hey, you little brat, you dropped this!” Her response was to start throwing bigger things, which was cute, the heavier beer steins and candle-holders didn’t even make it halfway to me given her half-pint size and sickly condition.

“Hey, stop this nonsense, he’s no monster!” Keena barked loudly. Then she winced, holding her side. A faint trail of steam was still rising from her shoulder; she couldn’t put any weight on her talon with that injury.

“Please tell me you have some healing supplies,” I deadpanned. A plushed beer cask squeaked off the side of my head. PNK-3 began to play with it, tossing it back to the filly. A rapid game of catch was played, giving me pause to watch solely because I wondered how PNK-3 picked up the moth-eaten stuffy without limbs or a mouth. Another unsolvable mystery.

“I left those with the group, they needed it more,” Keena admitted sheepishly. “I usually don’t get hit--I feel like a filthy casual.”

Handing off the envelope to Keena, I snorted, “You’ll be a filthy casualty if we don’t find something to fix that. Just go search the store for supplies. I’ll check the front desk.” More things shattered on the floor behind me as I trotted away, it might take a few minutes for the girl to get all that out of her system and I wasn’t patient enough to deal with that right now.

The hippogriff took the envelope from me and entered the store, doing her best to calm the frightened filly. She returned the envelope to her while PNK-3 began to scan the aisles for anything useful. Everything would be okay, all we had to do was lay low until Keena could fly again.

I was planning on using her to scout for Muffin Cake’s base, save some time. Valuable time, considering I still had to kill Muffin Cake and then make the return journey before noon tomorrow or boom. My expiration date was in twelve hours. What was I, milk?

How homey, the lobby was inviting, or it would be if it wasn’t for the unlived look or the hundred year layer of dust covering everything. Large, crooked frames held faded once-colourful paintings up against the faded but still warm sunset yellow walls. There was only one dead body in the entire lobby if you didn’t count the withered potted plants. A lone skeleton sat on the moth eaten couch I set against the double doors, snout still buried in the magazine it held. Meeting Ponies? I took it, since it must have been a good read.

Most of the lobby was dim and dark, a majority of the light was coming from two plain black sconces behind the desk. The large, oppressive black steel desk loomed over the room like a waiting monster, a number ticker over the broken clock eternally read ‘Serving Party C-23’. They had been busy enough to have waiting times. A sign near the desk warned that parties on tour must always remain with their group. Another sign said; “In case of rogue robots, know your paradoxes!” It even listed a few; This Statement is False; New Mission: Refuse this mission; and Does a set of all sets also contain itself?

I was curious how effective that would be against a rogue robot, you’d likely be too ventilated with bullets to finish that phrase if the robot had SATS.

Over the desk was a terminal and what appeared to be the body of the secretary. She looked a bit fresh, if a bit charred and rubbery. Beyond her body was what I was interested in, a metal box mounted in the wall with a familiar three butterfly motif. I remember seeing that in the hospital, every medical box there had the Ministry of Peace’s logo--Looks like the same was true everywhere else.

“Bingo,” I murmured as I made for the medical box. Some things didn’t have to be so hard after all! My eyes traveled from the wall to a mounting in the floor my gauntlet pinged against, the mounting fed a pole into the upper torso of the secretary’s body, and it turns out she didn’t have a lower body to speak of.

“Please stay behind the yellow line,” a cheerful, feminine voice ordered.

Stunned, I did just as I was bade, moving behind the yellow caution line in front of the desk. What I assumed to be a corpse sat upright and arranged her desk. The gaunt, twisted mare was a machine! It may have once looked like a youthful mare with full cheeks, a rosy complexion, and a styled wig to match, but none of those things remained. Its rubber face sagged on its skull, the remains of a golden brown wig sat melted to her dome like crystallized sugar, and there was a massive black handled knife sticking out from one of its eye sockets. Was that a brain under glass in her skull? Yes, yes it was--It had a brain suspended in green gel, similar in appearance to the same gel in Head-Case’s egg-jar.

“What the bilgewater...” I started, jaw agape. “What are you?”

Once the desk’s quills and notary were arranged to its liking, the cyborg rested its cracked forehooves against the terminal keyboard, and smiled with pearly white teeth, “Welcome to the Daft Draft Headquarters, home of the finest brew born from Germaneigh. My name is PAM, Personal Assistant Mechanoid by Solaris Inc. I’m afraid it’s after tour hours and the brewery is closed. You’re currently trespassing. Please show identification or vacate the premises.”

“Identification? Look, I just need that medical box behind you,” I snapped, pointing it out to her. The machine didn’t budge, her melted saccharine expression on me.

“I’m sorry, but the medical box is for emergencies only,” She said cheerfully, not seeming the least bit sorry. “Please show identification.”

What about my situation didn’t qualify as an emergency? Gnashing my teeth, I decided to ignore the irritating machine; no wonder somepony had stabbed the damn thing in the face! I crossed the yellow caution-line and scaled onto the desk, it wasn’t like the piece of junk could stop me from taking what I wanted.

“Stay behind the yellow line,” PAM said with a tone of cheerfulness. “This is your final warning.”

Irritated, I leaned down and bunted noses with the ugly wax museum reject. “Oh, my final warning? Before what?” I mocked. Two panels on the wall behind the desk slid down and two massive auto-turrets filled the hollow, extending their barrels to take aim. Before that, obviously.

“Please move back behind the yellow line and produce identification, you have ten seconds to comply.” PAM was smiling, even as she counted down verbally from ten. Two big ‘buck-off’ turrets were more than enough to get me to back off with my tail tucked.

Identification, did I have any identification? Of course, the ID from the hospital, that might work! I snapped the lanyard off my neck and practically hurled it at the secretary. Picking it up in a levitation field it compared me to the photo ID.

“This isn’t you,” PAM stated dryly. “You have six seconds to vacate the premises.”

Applesauce! I backed up, calling out as I did, “Keena, we need to leave, now!” I about faced right into PNK-3.

“Don’t worry, I got this!” the spritebot said as she went up to the murderous brainbot. A brief blurt of static and an arc of electricity tethered PAM’s head to PNK-3 and the bot began chiming out numbers between PAM’s; “Seven, eighteen, thirty-four, seven-hundred and eighty one!” PNK-3 managed to confuse the machine.

“Seven-hundred eighty...Seven-hundred seventy-nine...” PAM continued from the place that PNK-3 had left her at.

“That was impressive!” I admitted with a nervous laugh. Anything that saved me from bullet ventilation was a good thing in my book. While PAM was caught counting down those numbers, I hopped the counter and proceeded to loot the medical box.

“Is everything alright over there,” Keena called from the souvenir shop. The hippogriff leaned out through the doorway, peering over to the desk with her rifle drawn. “Do we still need to leave?”

“PNK-3 handled it,” I shouted back. “I found some supplies. You find anything?”

“There’s nothing but beer and cheap junk. I’ll keep searching a while longer.” Keena chirped, disappearing back into the store.

“Oh this is nothing, watch this!” PNK-3 annouced and turned to PAM once again. “How could you not recognize me?” The bauble demanded, “Don’t you know who I am?”

PAM stopped her count-down and adopted a curious tilt to her head, her remaining ear folding back. She was likely very expressive when she was in her prime. “--{Voice Recognized}--Oh, Miss Pinkamina, I am so sorry I failed to recognize you!” PAM said with feigned apologetic tones, bowing her head. The turrets retreated back into the wall and the panels hid them from sight.

“Oh, that’s okay! I’m just here visiting with some friends. I know it’s after hours and all but these things happen,” PNK-3 said with a giggle.

“That’s fine, Miss Pinkamina, you’re always welcome at Daft Draft. Is there anything we can do to help you today?” PAM asked the spritebot sweetly. She was so focused on PNK-3 that she didn’t care to notice me, or simply the normal rules didn’t apply to ‘Miss Pinkamina’ and her friends.

PNK-3 hmmed softly, “Steelgraft, you need anything?”

“Yeah,” I grunted, tugging at the medical box, “Could you get her to unlock this?” Sure, I could tear it open but that might damage the contents I needed.

“Oh, PAM, could you open up the medical box for me?” PNK-3 asked her in my stead.

The secretary perked up and swiveled about to face the medical box, ignoring me completely, “Of course I could--But first,” PAM swiveled back, “I need to verify your identity with a retinal scan. Forgive me, but it’s just a minor precaution to log the release of medical supply.”

If I had blood that ran, it would be running cold right now. PNK-3 didn’t get a chance to work in a single word before PAM ran a scan that came up negative; Spritebots didn’t have eyes.

The sconces behind the desk flashed red to the sound of a warning siren, and the turrets emerged from hiding. PAM gave a guttural growl. “Imposter! Striped scum, prepare to be wiped!” She sounded suddenly masculine and very alpha, a veritable hardened trench-fighter. Congratulations PNK-3, you just went from annoying, skipped troublesome, and landed right on detrimental.

Turrets tend to lock onto the nearest threat, priority targeting, and I was the closest target. Turret fire peppered me as I jumped away, avoiding only a few shots of the auto-fire as I scrambled back over the desk. PAM took a swing at me and fired a beam of magical energy from her eye, staring a hole into my cheek; burning pain catered to my nerves, courtesy of Daft Draft!

“Sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry!” PNK-3 wailed, her voice lost in the sound of gunfire. ‘Sorry’ wasn’t going to give me back the 15% integrity and half a pretty face!

Quickly, the paradoxes! “This statement is false!” I babbled. The turrets stopped firing, and briefly, PAM looked almost thoughtful, a serene tilt to her head. That lasted all of two seconds before the turrets and PAM unanimously decided to release more vitriol. The. Poster. LIES!

Snatching PAM over the desk, I hoisted the bot up to soak bullets. Sparks and oil geysered out of the faux-pony as she took on a form more reminiscent of swiss cheese, ‘her’ now masculine voice never missed a beat as it continued to spout anti-zebra slurs and threats. “What’s Black, white, and Dead all over? Any filthy Zebra that crosses my path!”--Oh, that was a classic!

Fearing a parting shot from that eye laser, I tore the blade from PAM’s empty socket and installed it into the adjacent port and twisted. The machine seized up and groaned unintelligibly. Freed from its mounting with a ruthless tug, the twitching, bullet soaked body became a projectile that wrecked one of the turrets. I tumbled backwards off the desk as the remaining turret returned fire. If I’d been a normal pony, without a doubt, I’d be dead four times over by now; Rebel Riot had been right, my superpower is getting my ass kicked. Stylishly.

“For your safety, we advise you stay behind the yellow line,” PAM cooed pleasantly.

A sick thought crossed my mind; the reason why you were supposed to stay behind the yellow caution line. The turret couldn’t strike targets too close to the desk. Instead of installing more turrets, the cheap route had been to keep everyone in range of the turret with a stupid yellow caution line. For your safety my flank!

Armed with only two weapons, a knife named Alice or a frag mine I borrowed from Gangrene, I wondered how I could disrupt the turret. The frag mine was out of question, it might not go off or do enough damage. Utilizing SATS to throw the knife wouldn’t work either, my eye was impaired by flashing lights. Quite the quandary! I thought for a while, huddled next to PNK-3 who was still spouting out apologies.

“I’ll make you a big cake, a REALLY big cake for you just please don’t be mad, I really didn’t-mean-to-get-your-face-blown-half-off.-Now-you’ll-hate-me-forever-and-wont-wanna-be-my-friend.-You’ll-leave-me-behind-and-tell-everypony-you-meet-that-I’m-awful--” She paused to take a breath, her words tapering off incomprehensibly.

Just throw PNK-3, my brain so helpfully suggested. I would have done it too, if it wasn’t for that meddling Keena coming to the rescue!

The church-mouse leaned out from the souvenir shop and let loose with her rifle in quick three-round bursts. The turret switched targets to her but didn’t last long enough to let more than two bullets fly. Luckily for her, both shots sailed wide, sinking into the doorframe behind her.

Keena trudged up to me on her rear hooves, she soon dropped down to one talon and slung her rifle, limping the rest of the way. “Wow, you almost look as bad as that old secretary robot,” she chirped observantly.

“Gee, don’t I feel pretty,” I huffed irritably, ignoring PNK-3’s apology to leap back over the desk. The turrets were wrecked and PAM’s brain case had cracked, oozing her sole organ onto the floor. It was organic, technically. I dipped my finger into the jellied think-meat and took a taste (for science) and balked. Regeneration was negligible and it tasted awful! I also did not lose any Karma for eating a roborg’s brain. Roborg was a good term for what PAM had been, a living brain in a robot body. Whoever came up with such an idea was completely insane. I checked her for a key and found it on a lanyard about her neck, thus allowing me to unlock the medical box.

“Finally, medical supplies!” I cheered. Keena would be fit to fly in no time! My smile faded soon once I saw my face in the reflective metal of the lid’s interior. Most of my left cheek was gone, leaving only a single strip of my jowls near the corner of my lips. No way was I ever going to be moviestar material now.

“At least you still have your wonderful, forgiving personality,” PNK-3 noted. She was lucky to be out of range of my grasping hand. My glare alone forced her to retreat behind Keena.

“It’s not so bad,” Keena agreed, if only to dampen my burning anger. “Maybe a doctor could patch you up in Greenvale?”

That actually did make me feel a little better, there was Undertaker, the ghoul doctor who might help me. If push came to shove, there was always Head-Case who seemed to know an unhealthy amount about cyberghouls.

“You’re right,” I admitted, taking a healing potion from the medical cabinet to give to the injured hippogriff. “Here, there’s another one for the filly,” I went back for the other one, my spirits lifted. At least one thing had gone right.

While handing over the second health potion the security door to the left of the front desk burst open. THOOM! Fire consumed the desk and metal chunks went flying, the potion I had been holding shattered and my mood with it. Another rocket struck the desk, delivered by a robotic sentry. Slammed against the wall, disorienting light flickered over my vision.

“Terribly sorry,” It said. “I hope we can still be friends after this.”

Friends?! Why would a robot be programmed to say that? Catty piece of scrap! Where was Keena? PNK-3? I triggered SATS, causing a blur of static to overtake my senses along with pulsing, crippling pain to jab into the back of my socket. Too. Damn. Bright. How about next time you just drive a hot nail into your retina? It’d hurt less.

Blam! Blam! Blam! Pew! Pew! KABOOM!

My vision cleared after a few seconds curled in the fetal position, clutching my face. Smoking wreckage sat in disjointed piles, parts from the desk, its terminal, and the sentry respectively. Soft yellow no more, the wall behind the desk was ruined, except for one part where my outline preserved some paint.

“You know what? Now I am not okay,” I confessed, rubbing my exposed cybernetic eye. I gave the sentry bot a few kicks, sneering. “Nice job, Keena,” I congratulated her, once all my aggression was drained.

The church-bird seemed a bit flustered, her feathers ruffled up as she gave her perked wings a casual preening. “It was a small task for a cleric of my skill,” She bubbled before resting a talon on her kill in big-game-hunter fashion.

“Don’t get cocky, kid,” I told her sternly. Her head-crest fell back and she rolled her eyes.

“I helped,” PNK-3 piped.

“Yes, I saw you shoot it. Not bad for a scrub,” Keena said, patting PNK-3 like one would do a pet dog or a small child that just drew a pretty picture. With a disgusted roll of my eyes I got down to the nitty gritty of our situation.

Injuries other than my own were minor, a few singed feathers on Keena, PNK-3 simply shook the soot off, and the brat had no new injuries to speak of. We had another problem, there was only one healing potion.

Numb. That’s how I felt at the moment; completely numb. Usually it was only physical, but this time it was mental as well. More things on my plate, a dense four-course meal of spoiled reality. I didn’t want to stomach it, I knew it’d just weigh my sanity down into the depths of my bowels. Shame I couldn’t just abdicate these thoughts. 14% integrity, missing part of my face, and suffering from a massive headache. Yet it could be worse--Much worse, so let’s not go flipping out on our friends, Steelgraft, deep breaths, even though you don’t breathe, deep breaths!

Recap De-la Horrriblah;
1.) Curbstomp reanimated as Roamer
2.) Gangrene losing her gang and family
3.) Frisky losing his senses and burrowing into denial
4.) The above happened because Zone Control died saving my sorry ass
5.) The entire settlement of Big Top Blok being reduced to an unlivable corpse forest
6.) Half my face was missing and I’m related to the freaks that did the last five things
7.) Deadmare were loyal to their mission, not to each other--Worrying when applied to me
8.) Standtall thinks I’m from Fillydelphia--Thankyou Gangrene!
9.) Explosive collar that keeps me from slapping the stupid out of people
10.) People back in Greenvale were dying without supplies--Marble and Rugrat were in jail
11.) I still can’t remember Silver Nard’s name properly--Not a big deal

And somehow, somehow it could be worse. It could always be worse, and it was likely going to get worse. Eat it, Steelgraft, come to terms with it. Don’t like it? Then do something. You’ve awoken, take back control--Change the flow. What could one stallion do? Nothing, especially with enough stallions thinking that same exact thing.

“One potion, huh?” I muttered sourly, looking up in the direction of the souvenir shop. The filly in there hadn't come out, likely terrified of the gunfire and me. “How bad is she?”

“Worse than I am,” Keena said softly. “I’ve seen infections like she has before. She needs a doctor.” She offered me the envelope the filly had been carrying, “She told me this was addressed to The Captain, you might want to read it.” It appeared Keena had taken it upon herself to already open it. Bitch.

Inside the envelope was a party invitation written in red ink;
Captain, I hope this finds you well. If you’ve survived this long, then you’ve earned an audience with yours truly. Come to the Robronco Reprocessing Center at 221-Baker Street in the Industrial Park at Midnight. I expect you to be fashionably late.

Yours Truly,
XI
XII

“Use the potion and fly her out of here,” I decided. It was time to part ways for now. I had the address to find my target, but I assumed it would be yet another trap. I had enough problems with PNK-3 following me about, I didn’t need to babysit two kids on top of that; even if one of those kids was decent around a firearm.

“You said I’d get to come with you, I’ve done what you have asked!” Keena argued. She pointed at the robot and the turrets. “You would have died if not for me. You’re a trouble magnet, Steelgraft!”

“You need to keep doing what I say; take care of that filly, Keena.” I wasn’t going to budge on this. “Try to make it back before the party is over. I could use your help for that.”

The hippogriff looked unhappy but agreed, quaffing the potion and leaving to collect the filly. Once I moved the couch out from the doorway, we were ready to part ways. I pushed PNK-3 through the door first to get a good look if the coast was clear; we didn’t need to step out of the building only to get blasted by some wheeled clunker.

“Why do I have to do it?” PNK-3 whimpered.

“Because I’m mad at you,” I replied honestly. Not even I was cruel enough to tell her how expendable I considered her at this point, if the Roamer blasted her to bits? Well, that’d be a few seconds head-start for us to get away. You really don’t think that, my mind chuckled, we both know who the expendable one really is, don’t we? Just shut the hell up! It was Zone~

“Hey, Keena, did you get the kid’s name?” I asked curiously, not that I cared. Actually, a part of me did, maybe? I just wanted to fill the silence with small-talk, the voices were easier to ignore when I was talking to someone else.

“Yes, her name’s Delightful Dirge,” Keena replied. The kid’s ass-marking matched her name; a musical note on a tombstone, how morbid.

“There’s hardly anything delightful about the runt,” I groused moodily. The filly looked at me, trepidation in her eyes. “Quit looking at me like that, I’m not going to eat you.”

“Don’t worry,” PNK-3 whispered to Dirge. “He prefers bananas.”

“Shouldn’t you be outside checking for ass-stench?” I asked, tapping an impatient digit into the tile floor.

Keena stared daggers at me and curled her beak into a deep, solid frown, covering the filly’s ears with a talon. “Language,” She scolded. Oh, silly me, no cursing around Keena, I forgot about that. A simple ‘sorry’ was enough to satisfy her.

“The coast is clear~” the pink globe sing-songed before zooming off to flank-all for what I cared. Keena ignored our exchange, but Dirge found a weak, weary smile somewhere in the robot’s antics.

“I’ll be back as fast as I can, perish the thought you die, Steelgraft.” Keena said, taking flight once she clear the front door. She circled twice and went low over the rooftops, vanishing from sight. Now it was just me and PNK-3. Where was that little ball of aggravation, anyway?

“Captain, in here!” the robot called for me from inside.

Following her voice and leaving my patience behind, I grit my teeth. “This had better be good,” I growled. Down the hall passed the security door the sentry bot had used was PNK-3, bouncing excitedly in place.

“Hall of Fame,” bold letters painted intricately on the hallway’s threshold. Along both sides of the hall there were massive portraits of solo and group photos, all of them famous ponies. There was one of Pinkie Pie, leader of the Ministry of Morale throwing a huge party and drinking Daft Draft; another of the Soarin of the Wonderbolts savoring a Daft Draft with a slice of apple pie; and most notably, where PNK-3 was bouncing up and down was a portrait of an aerial combat squad on the deck of an airship. Below the portrait it read; “Delta 401st Drink Daft Draft.”

Flickerjack, immortalized in a photo with her crew. A buff pegasus with the tiny wings held his mouth in a loud scream in the background, startling a younger pegasus between a huge minotaur with a wrench and an odd zebra into dropping his beer.

I picked out each of my crew and memories came back sporadically in electric jolts. Lightning Dust, the over ambitious leader of the crew’s flight squad had stated she could be Captain and drunkenly demanded to fly the ship, she crashed it into the docks! I could make out her sandy mane over the helm of the ship with her drunkenly clinging to it, trying to look inconspicuous.

This photo had been taken after that, part of the sky dock was laying across the deck and several of the ship’s crew were laughing, pointing at it. A rose colored mare with a wooden prosthetic leg was busily sweeping up trash, looking very annoyed, staring daggers in the general direction of the Captain, a stern white unicorn with an unkempt red mane and red jacket. He did not participate in any drinking, instead nursing a bottle to a red pegasus stallion that did not like the taste of beer.

My jubilant study came to a halt when my eyes crossed over a dour, black pegasus mare I recognized instantly. She was the one that woke me up from my dream in Necro-net. Someone had stuck a knife into the portrait just under her, pinning a piece of paper in place. A small knife with a black handle, identical to the one in PAM’s face.

“I can’t believe it,” I gasped, snatching the paper.

“Oh don’t worry, there are worse things to be than a sell-out!” PNK-3 giggled. “You could be a deadm--Wait, no, nevermind...” She paused a moment. “You have a great personality?”

“Yeah, yeah, sure, whatever, forgiveness. Not mad.” I muttered while reading the flier. It was an advertisement for the Shadowbolt’s Memorial Museum in Northside, Detrot.

Fight with Honor!

Fly with Dignity!

Kill with Vengeance!

The tenants of the Shadowbolts were there, and I remembered them. It was like connecting the dots; happy memories flooded my mind of my comrades. Reading further , the flier advertised guided tours with state of the art holograms, and a real refurbished airship; the legendary old ship, Flickerjack! “The crew of this fearsome airship gave their livelihoods defending Equestria, now it has been refurbished so that you too may honor the fallen.” -- Immortalized; “The names of every pony to die during the war thusfar has been added to the walls of this great monument, may we never need more room to add more.”

I turned the brochure over, expecting more, wanting more, NEEDING more. The back was weathered and mostly blank, bearing only a cryptic letter written in black ink; “N” N as in Nevermore? If I had my saddlebag I could compare the writings to the journal pages, damnit! I checked the ‘Notary’ tab in my HUD display and cursed under my breath--I had no digital copies of the journal pages, but I did have a digital copy of the museum flier and the party invitation. My cybernetic eye had taken scans. Note to self; Uncover left eye when reading documents. Read in low light locations.

Tonight could not end fast enough--Cradle Robber had become little more than an obstacle to something I wanted. Hurt my friends and dare to stand between me and the chance to see this museum, dare he?! Double-dead-doofus wouldn’t know what hit him! My old airship would be the perfect ticket out of this hell-hole if it was still there.

I smiled as best I could with half a face, laughing contently. Finally, good news!

“Steelgraft, are you feeling okay?” PNK-3 asked, hovering over my shoulder. “You’re uhm, you look kinda mad. Or constipated. Hard to tell with your face being all--”

“I’m smiling, you idiot!” I roared at her, making her roll backwards in the air a few paces. “I’m happy, can’t you tell?” Genuine silence persisted while PNK-3 and I exchanged blank stares.

“No, I can’t tell.” PNK-3 squeaked, “You’re so hard to read! But if that’s a smile then I could get used to it!”

Wordlessly, I walked back down the hall, then I turned around and came back, taking the unwieldy portrait off the wall. “Yeah, I’m taking this,” I said to myself aloud. Who was going to stop me, security?

“Want me to carry that?” PNK-3 offered.

“Uh, yeah, that’d be--” The portrait vanished into thin air with a spark of magical energy. PNK-3 gave a soft, mechanical belch. “Great,” I finished.

“It’s only six pounds, I could carry dozens of those!” She then demonstrated this by imbibing the portrait of Pinkie Pie, Ministry Mare.

“You just vaporized the only picture of my crew!” I cried.

“Don’t be silly, I de-digistructed them! They’re being stored digitally. They’re safe!” She reassured me. “I could give you a demonstration if you’d like.”

“No, that’s f---” BZAP! The portrait of Pinkie Pie appeared above my head and dropped, my head popping through the worn canvas. “--ine.”

“Woops, uh, good thing that wasn’t your portrait, right?” She gave a nervous chuckle, backing away out of reach of my hooves.

“If it had been, I don’t know what I would have done to you.” I told her honestly, popping out of the picture and trotting down the hallway. I was going to get out of this place before another distraction blew a chunk out of me. PNK-3 followed me out the front door, back into the embrace of the wastes. “What time is it?” We didn’t want to be too late for the ass-kicking party--I owed Cradle Robber a lot of heartache; whatever I’d done to him in life would be nothing compared to what I planned to do to him now.

“11:45 PM,” PNK-3 helpfully chimed.

“How far is 221-Baker Street from here?”

“Five miles and a hop!” PNK-3 not-so-conveniently chimed.

“We’re not going to be able to make that on time!” I cursed inwardly for wasting time.

“I wouldn’t be too worried, I’ve got a solution!” The pink ball of random boomed triumphantly.

“What’s your solution?” I dared to ask. It was probably going to be something stupid.

“Yakety Sax,” PNK-3 boomed excitedly, she began to play the mentioned tune. It was wholly irritating. I was about to tell her to shut off that racket but a heated blast of magic sailed by, clearing my vocabulary of meaningful words and replacing them with expletives. Curbstomp had been attracted by the music and found us. We fled from the death-rainbow firing doom-tank to the antics of whimsical song, deep into the veil of night and beyond. Celestia. Damnit. PNK-3.

Level UP!
Character Progress Review

The carrot on the string, one way to motivate a character. After beating one’s players upside the head repeatedly it behooves a GM to give them something to long and hope for, to make them peek from the jaded, armored veil(then punish them for dreaming). As for PNK-3? Oddly convenient how she chose that specific brewery to hide out in...

Chapter 13: Rehearsal

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"Rehearsal"

Places everyone; we only have one shot at this!

O’ Captain! My Captain! Our fearful trip is done,
The ship has weather’d every rack, the prize we sought is won,
The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting,
While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring;

But O’ heart! heart! heart!

O’ the bleeding drops of red,

Where on the deck my Captain lies,

Fallen cold and dead.

Time, it passes so slowly for those waiting impatiently. Filling one’s time with something to do gave the illusion of time flowing faster, preoccupying parts of the brain that would otherwise be sitting in a rut using their functions to tap fingers on the table. I was not eager to solicit misfortune, but with bated breath, needless and long, did I drag from the billows of my chest. Time, like water, had flowed down to a trickle, sprawled out and dried across the plutonian shore; heeding the past, I collected my strife and honed the edge of my inequity. Revenge best served icy, like death, minty and cool. Darkness to ice, goodfellows in arms, like time and water. Feckless, needless, pointless expression. Wasted on the living.

It’d be nice if I could fall into the rut of believing such conventions, but so disillusioned am I that there is no belief to spare for flippant designs of feeble minds. For the hundredth time I was shouting at the quivering, fearful lumps of flesh; their coordination lacking, making the grains of sand seize up in a sieve to lengthen an hour’s time to insurmountable irritation. This hourglass would never empty, would it? We deadmare had limitless lives, endlessly long, patience was a virtue we had honed to an edge--Vengeance delivered ice cold and strikes made when metal was hot, timing was everything...Yet for once, time was not in abundance, at most I had an hour to finish preparations.

“No, no, no!” I roared, slamming the meaty hands of Tauros’s form into the edge of the stage, forcing the whole building to creak and shudder. Nearly a hundred years had taken its toll on metal and wood, as did time take its toll on my sanity and inhibitions. What was an hour more to wait? Filling that hour with begrudged, beguiling kindness wasted on expendable ponies doured my mood further. “You’re not even playing it right, try again, from the TOP!” I bellowed, flinging flecks of black spit over them. No hesitation in them, they rushed to fill my order lest they join the flutist I had tossed into the furnace alive to motivate them. Oh, her squeals had been a delight; I prefered the death rattles and cries of fools to the sound of music. What can I say, it was therapeutic, like squashing an insignificant insect.

Silence, save for music, that’s all I desired, yet my desire was fulfilled by the ponies dangling in cages over the boiling vats. Never did they cease in their begging, distracting my musicians from learning the funeral tune I longed to play for my very important guest. “It’s too noisy in here,” I decided, tapping on the crest of Tauros’s head. “Lug Nut, darling.” I cooed, forever hating to use his new name; his old name had been so cute, afterall. “Catwalks, please.”

Grunting, my darling symbiote slammed both fists into the ground and extended his pistons, vaulting himself up onto the catwalks following the trajectory I’d set up in SATS. We landed heavily to the protests of the catwalks and thundered down the row of cages. I counted aloud to myself, watching the cages silence themselves as I passed. I loved that feeling of importance, like an executioner strolling along the cells on death row. “Oh, now you’re quiet?” I said, a touch of disappointment rising in my tone. I cast a stern, glowing glare at the battered, beaten creatures packed into the cages and smiled. “You all worry too much,” I consoled them. “As I promised, none of you shall be harmed.” Some ponies released the breath they’d been holding, perhaps relieved in the false belief they’d survive this night. “Speak or cry without permission and I’ll drop you into the quagmire of oil you find yourself oh-so precariously dangling over!” Tauros shook one of the cages for good measure, eliciting a peal of whimpers.

“Please, just let us go home,” a squawking came from a cage further down. Oh, this had to be addressed; after all, they had said ‘please’. If one thing, I was not impolite. Stalking over the the final cage in a row, I met the gaze of the one bold enough to speak out of turn. A small fledgling griffon hardly out of his down, a bit fluffy too; Red-hawk and lion? My, a classic breed! About him were young ponies, lambs, and a single little llama; all wearing the iconic vestments of the Church of Eternia, a simple poncho of white and gleaming gold marked with the crests of the gods they worshiped.

“Oh my, oh my, look at all of you, cute little ones...” I purred, leaning over my compatriot’s head and cupping my chin with a hoof. “So, care to tell me why exactly I’d let you go?” I’d already decided their fate, but humoring the young was something of a hobby to me.

Searching for words, the young griffon stumbled over syllables with his lips, petering off into mewling chirps under my gaze. Unsurprising that he could not find a reason; there was none to be had, no good reason to spare them incarceration. I was not a charitable zebra, and sparing them from being cooked alive and eaten by Muffincake had been the extent of my good will. Passively, I glossed over the old warlord dangling over the table in place of the chandelier, poor sod had passed off the mortal coil some time ago, perishing in agony. Good as a pawn, grotesque for decor, he’d found his calling and was no more.

“When Keena finds out where we are, you’ll be sorry!” Roared the soft voice of the llama. So cute, the young ones always had such brainless courage! He attracted my attention and my ire, coaxing me to lean closer to the cage.

“Child, never am I sorry...” I grumbled with contempt, tapping the bar with a hoof. Never once did I feel remorse for crushing the life from a creature; would they besorrow treading upon an insect? Nay, one should not neigh-say an act of stamping out a lesser creature, even if the creature squeals its pleas and beggars life. I told them as much, saying, “Your needs and desires are as important to me as the needs of an insect are to you.” I licked my lips, watching the courage drain from my prey, I could almost smell their fear. What did they have to fear in death, didn’t Eternites believe in the afterlife?

“Keena will come...She has to...And she’ll save us...” Still, they insisted on this racket. And crying, oh did they insist on crying. They were doing the opposite of what I wanted, which was to be quiet. One would think an Eternite would be eager to die, seeing as they believed in being one with the Eternal Herd and joining the Gods in the afterlife in harmony. Complete hogwash, if they believed that then they’d do the wastes a favor and off themselves. No, those blasted Eternites insisted on spreading peace and faith. Though, it was to note they did have a flair for violence now and then, as they did hold their own in the West against both the Whirlybirds and raiders. Most respected the Eternite Orders and their battle clerics for their mercy and kindness, willing to spare raiders and care for wounded on both sides of any conflict. They made it a point to never turn anyone away, not even ghouls--Especially not ghouls. Between that church and those damned Viper Bandits, there was just a shred of hope left for equinity.

I would crush that hope, starting with the children. These children, specifically. With a calm smile and a beguiling sweet tone I spoke, “Oh, perhaps you’re right! She’ll swoop in and come to rescue the church’s choir!” I leaned back, bracing one of my covered hooves to my ceramic skull mask dramatically. “Perhaps she shall slay me, purge the blights of my soul and salt the earth upon where I die; but do you know what she’ll find, even if she does manage to kill me?”

My answer was to drop their cage into the vat below, their screams hushed over the bubbles of the oil stealing their future. I drew a sharp, needless breath into my lungs and laughed, “She will find that I’ve already won.” I cooed, watching the oil spill over the sides of the massive steel smelting pot. “Does anyone else have anything clever to say?” I was met only by the stifled gasps and whimpers of the remaining captives, much to my displeasure. I’d wanted to drop another cage...Oh, who was going to stop me? I dropped another cage for good measure, snapping the chain with ease; boil, boil, dead!

Tauros gave a muffled whine, gazing with mournful sorrow at the chain held in his massive hand. “Oh, don’t be sad, Lug Nut, darling, I already told you; none are allowed to live.” The minotaur was such a softy, being an undead weapon had not changed that, which had become such a problem that he had allowed me to become critically damaged in deployment many years ago. Tomb Town, what a mess that had been! Bitterly, I recall having to be grafted to Tauros in order to override his innate gentle nature, better than the alternative, my darling Lug Nut losing his free-will while I was to be recycled.

Lug Nut gave a shake of his head and snorted, flicking his tail as he leapt down from the catwalk, ignoring me. The big brute was always like this, unwilling to do what was necessary; did he not know that I did this for love? If he did not kill he was worthless to the system!

“Don’t you dare be this way, stop ignoring me this instant!” I demanded, wrapping my legs around his thick neck and nuzzling his thick mane. “Come on, darling, I let that little violinist go! You know I never let children go; it’s so bad to let the insects breed! I didn’t even smash her violin! Honey bull...”

His attention was so far removed from me that no amount of nuzzling would rouse him to my charm. It was a shame that we had no ability to feel sensations, save for one location where our matrixes were located. I knew the location of his, the left horn; I peppered it with kisses and the minotaur reacted in kind, thumping his large hoof. The music took a turn to wax romantic and it gave me pause to glance up, astonishing me with an unwelcome discovery.

“Oh, how cute; romance, even among the Gravelords...” Spoke a stern, musical voice belonging to an unexpected guest that made room for himself upon the stage. Another of the enforcers and an ex-member of the Krew just as Lug-Nut and I. He was a small, unassuming grey unicorn, rather gaunt, with a jumble of stove pipes coming from the sides of his chest and torso.

As far as aesthetics went, we Deadmare were decidedly utilitarian, function over form, where our forms were grotesque, exaggerated dimensions that enhanced our particular specialty in life. Little Equinity remains in our kind, but beyond that we still retain a semblance of vanity, most of our kind wear a Deathmask to conceal our faces; with the notable exceptions, such as Lug Nut whom kept getting startled every time he saw a reflection of himself wearing his. He now no longer wears his mask, much to my delight. Of course, Lug Nut still wears the noose by which he had been hung with after our speedy, unfair trial. I recall they’d used the same rope for the both of us; he had been so heavy the drop had torn his head clean off. He had been executed first...These memories plague me, but no longer. Not after tonight. Tonight will be the day I leave my death behind me and bury its cause.

Tangents aside, as far as Number Ten’s Deathmask was concerned, it was an object of mockery which felt the sting of a thousand cackles on my behalf. I considered it gawdy, like sunglasses indoors. At night. A bit and harness kept his lin lips peeled back in a permanent undecided sneer as if he’d smelled something foul, and the blinders attached to the ceramic mask ensured he’d only be able to see directly forward. That was if he could see through the etched steel plate slanting across the bridge of his muzzle between the blinders to cover his eyes, only the faintest of red glow curled around the edges. The metal plate was where his number, PP-010, was etched along with his Roaman Numeral, the X. Why he chose such an ornate mask was a subject of ridicule among the other numbers, and if it ever bothered him, Ten never let it show.

This particular number was a walking music machine, which explained the massive improvement. Ten’s ability to lead and control the weak willed through his melodies made him an envy among the numbers. Even I envied the ability to force small settlements into killing each other and themselves. He did it without ever lifting a hoof.

“What are you doing here, Organ Grinder?” I growled, ignoring his previous comment. “I can finish the mission and return Thirteen without you; this is my mission!”

“Well,” Organ Grinder began, his voice sounding musical. “I’m here for my own reasons. I worry this is too personal for you; number Thirteen is to remain intact.” Music continued to play over the pipes jutting from him and a small swing arm extended to insert a vinyl record into the slot in his spine, making a soft melody play over the speaker under his mask. He was teaching them a song, and mechanically, against their will, the captive musicians were learning it, playing musical instruments Organ Grinder had summoned with his magic.

“I am making him suffer; showing him just how pointless resisting us is!” I growled, this interference was most unappreciated. I’d served Hades since activation, extending his will from the very center of Detrot. Still, he preferred that...Traitor, number Thirteen, over us. “I do not know the point in keeping that unit intact; was Tomb Town not enough? Penance turned on us!” Oh, that day was on my mind, every day for fifty years. Captain turned against us; why? None of us knew except Hades--And he’d never tell. “I want him to suffer for what he did to me then and in my past!”

“That’s why I worry,” Organ Grinder sing-songed, slicking back his sparse, ratty blonde mane. “You never let go of your former life. You still blamed him, even when he was one of us. It is unhealthy to hold onto our former connections, we cannot serve Necro-Net as we were before. Let it go.” A moment’s pause was given, and then he commented on my choice of music that I’d play, “And the song you chose? Atrocious. Let me handle the musicians, you want Penance’s welcome back party to be...Perfect, don’t you?”

Begrudgingly, I snorted, nearly quaking with anger. “Give me your word you won’t interfere! And keep those ponies quiet; I only want to hear music!” My plans should not be altered, it all had to be exact! No interference, no exceptions!

“You have my word,” Spoke a chorus of hypnotized ponies, all of them under Organ Grinder’s spell of song. Oh, this was going to be perfect, Penance would suffer much more before the night was over--I trust that he wouldn’t die before making it here. He was plenty resourceful to survive most anything I could throw at him. With the music handled, I resumed my seat at the head of the table, left to twiddle Lug Nut’s thumbs. Come, oh Captain, my Captain, to your fate of ice and fire, for your suffering is my carnal desire. Writhe and squirm, struggle and fight; My dark zebra heart will not sojourn your plight.

It was hard not to think about, to not question the gods and their infinite knowledge. I knew that it was wrong to do so, that it was sacrilege to challenge the tenets of our ways--But I found myself asking why the gods would send us a champion in the image of our greatest enemy. It was beyond understanding, like playing a platformer with a light-gun controller, but the gods were the gods, and their champions were their champions.

It had to be a champion of Discord, only he would be so twisted to give us a hero that was so unexpected, but that did not explain how he was shrouded in glorious light and wielding a golden beam of light in the bakery; perhaps it was just my imagination? Still, watching him feast on the remains of fallen raiders and regenerate had me question his divinity. Maybe he was to be redeemed by his actions? Was I to preach to him about the church and pray he listened and stopped his vile ways? That would be like teaching a griffin to be vegetarian, even I ate meat, but I never ate ponies.

The frigid air sank hard under my wings, stealing a few feet of my altitude. It was such a freezing cold night, my talons began to feel numb and my breath dusted the air as fog. The poor filly I carried shivered, quivering as her hooves held firm around my neck, snout buried into the scruff of my plumage to keep warm. Her hot breath was against my neck, not at all unpleasant. Every flap of my wings brought me closer to my goal at the cost of my stamina. I’d have to make this trip twice, and in normal circumstances, I’d pace myself. This wasn’t normal circumstances.

I’d never flown so fast before, the city below was just a streak of brown and black, and this high up, my sharp eyes could pick out the faint burst of light from sporadic, distant gunfire. It was everywhere, miles into the distance the city stretched, so far that I could not fathom it ever ended.

Above me, the dense cloud looked ready to drop its bounty, and with the near freezing temperatures of fall, it might become winter’s first snow. The first blizzard of the season was never mild, it was cold and unforgiving. Thoughts of ponies frozen in hovels danced through my mind. More than likely the priestess, in her wisdom, would send the flyers such as me out to gather and deliver care parcels to the unfortunate. Our church would be packed with bodies, pews layered in shivering, sleeping bodies covered in blankets. If we had enough blankets.

I did not look forward to the first freeze, but second to that was Winter Wrap-Up...Oh, what a harsh, difficult task was that. With so few unicorns with proper magical attunements we could only affect a limited area around the church, most of the cleanup was done manually, and if it was done too early, nature would simply replace the snow with another blizzard...Manual labor cost resources and...Well, last time we tried to cleanup early, over twenty people died of starvation and weakness from the first attempt and subsequent refreeze...So, it was best to endure and let nature run its course and clean up whatever remained. I loved the stories of old, some ghouls told us that ponies used to love winter, that it was about renewal, rest, and holidays. Now it was about a couple feet of stubborn, hard snow that rivaled the deadliest of hazards in lives claimed.

Softly coughing, Dirge whimpered about how cold she felt. “Could we fly a little lower?” She asked, her voice nearly lost on the wind, “It’s s-so freezing...I feel...I don’t feel so good.” If she got any greener, she’d be in the likeness of a plant from the church garden!

Perhaps she’d appreciate a bit more fresh air? And a distraction, yes, it has been long since I dared venture over the clouds to see the moon. It was risky, due to those that resided above the clouds. Enclave, they were called. A slow, gentle climb to the cloud layer to unzip a hole in the clouds to dive into the blanket of night provided ample distraction to the filly, who for a moment, seemed to forget her motion sickness and cold to take in a breath as she saw the sky for what I believed was the first time.

“Ah, the sky, you broke it! You broke the sky!” She marveled, eyes wide with ignorant fear. I’ve dealt with this more than once before, as I’ve ferried several younglings before her to the precipice of night over the veil of cloud. Some marveled, others screamed, and some were too stunned. I was grateful she was not a screamer, for among the twinkle of beautiful stars that pushed through the haze of pollution that covered the city like an aura was the black obelisk of a massive Enclave airship. Keenly, I picked out several other shapes in silhouette, air balloons with targets dangling. They were preparing for target practice. Again. Those on the ground had much to fear, for it was not uncommon for Enclave to miss and those shells they fired would descend through the clouds, triggering a storm before laying waste to buildings below. It was easy for locals to attribute cruelty to what was done in incompetence, many believed the Enclave were evil. I knew better, though, for in my short travels I met a mare that spoke of her people’s ignorance of anyone living below the clouds that were not wicked in the world’s ways.

Star Racer; never had I ever met a stronger, more dependable mare than she. It was my dream to become more like her and less like...Well, I’ve been known to get distracted, going off into my own little world thinking about things or entertaining myself. “My head in the clouds,” the priestess always says.

“The sky is not broken,” I told her, “We are above the clouds. That is the moon cast against the blanket of Luna’s magnificent night.” I waved a talon at the sky, pointing out the crescent moon. I did not know if it was waxing or waning, for I was not a battle cleric of Luna and did not study the moon nor star, but I could still appreciate the splendor without knowledge. “That is the moon, the one you’ve heard so many stories about, I’m sure. And those little twinkling lights are the stars.”

The little filly nestled in more firmly, still shivering, the dampness from the clouds adding to the sharp wind chill. “And what are those shadows? The ones that look like tombstones?” I looked around the sky, not knowing what she was referring to.

“You mean that big blocky thing? That’s an airship and the smaller ones are targets,” I explained, giving a mighty flap to tread just barely over the clouds. We had to remain undetected, lest I be forced to explain to the territorial pegasi why I was here. Usually they spoke with force, with beams of light arcing through the air to repel invaders like, well, me. I always did love a challenge, but with a filly? Yeah, let’s avoid that entirely.

That’s not what she meant though, she did not have to speak a word for me to notice; I caught a glimpse of shadows over the clouds to my left and I jerked hard into an Aileron roll into a hard bank turn. By a narrow margin, the hot jolts of magical energy sailed by, too close for comfort. Smoldering heat and smoke curtailed off my vestments, bearing scorched holes. Dirge screamed, her color fighting to return pale while the jerking motion spotted her face with green.

Five dark, winged shadows formed out in the darkness, approaching high, gleaming red dots of their visors casting off pinpricks of light. Like living shadows they came at us, hurling shooting stars of brilliant light with great accuracy. SATS, I hated fighting opponents with SATS, it was an aim assist, cheating, as far as I was concerned. Of course, one could not cry foul of their abuse of SATS if one was reduced to ash, so I begrudged them their distance and tried to keep a margin of error to buffer my evasive maneuvers.

“W-why did you have to fly higher?! Those monsters are gonna git us!” Dirge cried out, clutching about my neck with such force that I could feel my pulse in my inner ear.

“Just hold on, we’re going to make our descent now!” I gave her split-second’s warning before I folded my my wings and pitched forward, opening them again the arc into a full stop while pointing down; a hammer turn into a full drop. Like a Bolter’s rivet through power armor, we tore through the cloud layer, soon followed by the five Enclave still in formation. Stars of light whizzed by and their threats and screams were lost on the wind; they’d never followed me below the cloud layer this far before! If I couldn’t shake them before I had to pull up, I’d be in trouble--They were much faster than me, aided by their armor and not weighed down by a filly.

Opening a single wing, I spun in the air to face my foes, falling back first towards the ground below. Shouldering my rifle, I took shaky aim, unable to get a perfect bead on the lead flyer, I let loose with a few semi-auto bursts. Sparks flashed off the armor with little effect, without armor piercing rounds, may as well be shooting spit-wads!

Dirge could not withhold her screams which turned to sickly vomit, spewing up over my shoulder and stinging at my talons like hard rain. The misted puke struck the lead pegasus and they broke off their pursuit. I could hear the disgusted groan of that pegasus on the chilled winds, and I took a small modicum of pleasure in that Discordian delivery. Praise Discord that was weird and wholly unexpected, and never would I gamble good fortune of the gods, I wisely made use of the time granted to pull up. It was in the nick of time I did so, as I was forced to tuck my legs up tight or risk tearing them off on the roof’s protrusions. My cleric’s garb snagged on the edge of the roof and momentum swung us into a downward spiral down an alleyway between two ruined buildings.Wind left my lungs in a shallow, pained squawk as I bounced off the ruined fire escape and into an open dumpster.

Any landing you could walk away from was a good one, as far as I was concerned. What would you consider a landing that left one limping? A decent 7/10 landing, I think, leaving me mildly sore. Dirge’s head spun and her eyes struggled to focus, she deposited another gut full of bile onto the floor.

“I never wanna fly again,” Dirge groaned, eyes rolling in her head. I’d carelessly dropped her in our crash, fortunately she’d landed in a trashbin, wearing a wig of refuse. Withholding a soft snicker, I plucked her from the bin and set her down, picking a rotten apple core from her gnarled mane. She’d look lovely with a braid...

“Hasten your breath, we may need to take flight soon...” I felt for my ensemble, making sure all items were in order. Rifle, ammo clips, belt, medallion, no vestments though. My barding had torn loose on the roof above. “If they followed us this far down, they will not stop until we are undone. They have ways to track us and--” I froze as metal hooves struck roof several stories above.

“Hey, here’s that Whirlybird’s barding,” Muttered a tinny voice, modulated by his helmet.

“I dunno,” coughed another that joined the first, “It looks a bit ornate for a Whirlybird. Maybe they were just some curious earth born griff?”

“Hooves, dunce,” Spoke another. Soon, all five were up there, two of them were circling the area just above the alleyway. Vultures, the lot of them.

“Griffins don’t have hooves...” Grumbled another Enclave combatant, a low growl in her voice and patterned puke on her once-pristine armor marked her as the flight leader. “I see a few combatant markers in the alleyway on my EFS. I’m going to check it out.”

Multiple icons? We weren’t alone in this alleyway! The rustling in the trashbins was my first clue, and the unusually large, bloodthirsty rodents were my second clue. Obviously, there was a minor infestation of mutated, disease ridden worm-tails. Dirge found a home behind me and I backed up against the furthest wall, drawing my rifle and switching it to full-auto. Slowly, the rodents approached, seven boxing us in, whiskers twitching curiously, beady eyes staring holes into our soft bodies. I urged Dirge to stay completely silent, the filly covered her muzzle with both hooves, the barest squeaks of a whimper easing through the quaking seal. If those Enclave gits caught wind of us there would be more to worry about than some mangy worm-tails.

“No, we aren’t, ma’am!” Chirped one of the officers, weighed down with more cannon than the rest. “We’re not even supposed to go below the cloud layer, it’s court-martial if we don't get top-side.”

“I’m the leader of this little operation, dunce. I say jump, you ask how high. I say fly into the dirt? Well, you better dig deep!” That bossy leader of theirs was getting fresh with her troops, I imagine their morale was horrid under such an ornery leader. Her troops were less than subservient and urged her to go top-side of the cloud layer and fill a report. “No, we’re not leaving! I want this Whirlybird, they don’t own our skies, they shouldn’t even be allowed to jump!”

“Look, ma’am, we know what the Whirlybirds did to your brother, but--” The officer began, trying to console his captain. His kind hoof was batted away.

“Yeah, they strung him up with a wagon wheel outside the city! They used him for target practice! I want this one to hurt, bad!” She was practically screaming, her voice echoing. If she was not trying to murder me, she’d garner some sympathy. Personally, I had a deeper reason to dislike the Whirlybirds, they believed in pure-blood pride and hated pegasi. Terror-Terrace had a strict half-and-half rule; meaning all half breeds were executed in the worst of ways or made to toil and serve the Don. Anyone in a mixed race relationship? Also executed. Bound to a wagon wheel and hung from the sky scrapers or given Jump-Duty. When it came to them, all the love and tolerance instilled in me by the clergy that raised me vanished into a burning rage of righteous anger...So yes, I did relate. I wanted to console her, to hug her, to be friends. Maybe on a better day I could do so...

Those rats were looking a bit famished, drooling as they licked their infected, bloody lips...Baring teeth and chuffing, the largest rat, easily half my size, was gauging how easy a meal I’d be. My talon eased over to the trigger and I prepared to lay waste and take my chances in fleeing through the city. MY chances were better in tighter spaces at out-maneuvering the Enclave than in open air, may as well take my chances.

Schlink! The lead-rat’s mouth gaped open, preparing to let loose a screech, but only blood gurgled freely, the head dropping from a cauterized stump. Staying my trigger, I watched as several other rats were slain by an invisible opponent, a faint clicking of blades sizzling over the floor. Cowardly, the rest attempted to flee, only to meet a grisly end. My blood ran cold, there was only one thing that could move and fight in such a manner, and I could see the light bend about its form. Not but an hour ago I’d been fighting them by the numbers, and the horror stories involving no survivors.

“By Soarin’s Pie, what the buck’s going on down there?!” cried an Enclave officer. “Shit, those lights are vanishing fast!” Yes, they were, and I feared we’d be joining them. “Ma’am, contact, we got contact; that’s a DM. Repeat, DM in the alleyway!”

“Damnit! Fucking prick must have nailed our bird! Pull-out, ascend! Now, now, now, you maggots!” They arrived the way they came, flying straight up and far, far away. Would getting vaporized by magic hurt less than getting torn limb from limb by a deadmare? Nah, I could beat this thing, Steelgraft made it look easy, so how hard could it be?

The Deadmare decloaked in the center of the alleyway amid the bodies. Sparks danced from gaping wounds, flesh cracked and smoldering from previous battles. Three legs, no blade tail, and missing its mask and horn-blade? The crippled piece of junk wouldn’t last through two clips! It seemed more interested in feasting on the rat carcasses to regenerate. Not giving it that chance, even if it was a tad unsporting.

“Wait!” Dirge burst out, stepping around me.

“Wait for what? For it to finish eating?” I pressed down on the trigger, my shots going erratically upward as the filly slammed a hoof into my talon.

“No,” She shrieked!

One second later and the beast had pirouetted about on its single foreleg and charged us. My life flashed before my eyes, the church, the children, and the pastor. I was going to miss them terribly. What a horrible way to die, and for what? Because I was too stupid to stay below the clouds in the first place...

“Stop!” Dirge declared with authority. It complied with her, blade frozen in mid-stab, aimed straight for me, Dirge standing as an obstacle. Did it just obey an order form a child?

Beak agape, I stared, unable to process this. “Did it....Why did it listen to you?”

“It’s the same one the scary bull-monster ordered to follow me,” the filly explained softly, reaching up a hoof to press it to the nose of the fearsome killing machine. The Deadmare remained unmoved by this provocative ‘boop’. “It protected me...” She then frowned and tilted her head, “She’s hurt.”

“Yes, hurt.” I muttered, silently wishing more injury upon this beast. “She’s not going to carve us up?” I asked, unwilling to lower my gun otherwise.

“She wants to protect me,” The filly said, “You do too. So that means you’re friends.” What a naive girl, it was cute, in a way. Friends with...That thing. Love and Tolerance only stretched so far...

To me, the monster seemed a bit different from the others. Without a mask I could see a face, a feminine version of Steelgraft’s own likeness. Her eyes were a bit glazed over, but both were intently focused on the child. Slinging my gun over my shoulder, I coughed into a talon, “You have our thanks for your assistance. The filly is safe; your job is done. You can leave now...” Oh sweet, merciful Celestia, let us just be rid of the thing!

Dirge went into a brief coughing fit as she attempted to tell the wayward soul that one should say ‘you are welcome’ when they are thanked. Good manners, that child. Though worrying that she now was stricken with fever, much to my error.

The beast looked nearly panicked, bereft in a sense as it danced in place. It seemed concerned for the filly, at least as concerned as one in the condition of being a Deadmare can appear. It glanced up to me and opened its jaws wide, stuttering in broken, weak sounds. “Yeeeeh-Yua- aaaah- -Weeeh ...
K-Ken.” Likely, the creature had never uttered a word naturally before, and it only did this in hopes it would improve the state of its charge. A few inspective sniffs to the sickly filly followed, once again leaving me rather...Lost on what to think.

Another one like Steelgraft? Not hacked but naturally...Defective. One with heart or the makings of one. There was somepony in there, a soul deep inside. “Listen, she needs a doctor, there is one at the Highscore Arcade.” Gangrene was close enough to being a doctor, far as I was concerned. “I’m taking her there. It’s not safe for you to c---” I stopped talking, for no sooner had I told the damned thing where the doctor was, the beast snatched the filly up by the scruff and scrambled away in the direction of the arcade. Oh come on, I did not have the time for this, not in the least!

Bitterly, I stayed my talon from trigger, for there was no evil in this monster’s heart, and followed after, begging it to see folly in its ploy to assist. For one, I was a much faster method of travel...

~~~

“Let me see that damn bag!” I demanded, snatching the brown, crumpled thing from PNK-3. I inhaled and exhaled into the bag several times, pointless as it was. We’d been running for miles, barely keeping ahead of the unlikely offspring of a manure factory and monster-wagon. I didn’t realize how much stupid crap I was starting to remember; nothing important, just mundane. In Baltimare they held rallies where they’d put massive wheels on horseless carriages and would crush stuff with them. Mindless entertainment, good for the masses. Curbstomp 2.0 reminded me of one of those things, aesthetics abandoned for torque and terror. Good thing that wrecking machine abandoned pursuit once we made it to Nommage Valley; damned thing couldn’t follow us through all the wreckage piled up at the slope of the main industrial complexes.

Yeah, turns out the reason they called it Nommage Valley was because the sewer and maintenance tunnels collapsed beneath the foundations of the massive factories, dropping them a good fifteen feet down below the surrounding city. Twisted, gnarled girders and ruined husks of buildings formed a line of palisades facing the outside, the only way in was dropping down the road, and it was a tight squeeze. Too tight for a Roamer. That’s why the artificial valley remained contested and under control of the Baker Barbarian Clans for so long, it was, well, a stinking cesspool of foul, horrible danger. If I hadn’t been dead already, I’d worry about tetanus and other horrible diseases.

“Hey, Captain Steelgraft, you do know you don’t need to breath, right?” PNK-3 mentioned matter-of-factly while hovering just before my face. Everytime the bag inflated, she’d be pushed back, but she’d ease back into my personal space once I deflated the bag.

“You don’t breath either,” I pointed out, holding the inflated bag aloft in the same hand I pointed with. I took a few more pointless huffs, inhaling and exhaling rapidly. “So pot, meet kettle.”

“My name in PNK-3.” She squeaked, “But it’s nice to meet you, Mr. Kettle.”

Last nerve struck, patience withered like an old mare’s libido, unable to resist...Must--Just get it over with, give her a good whack! “You’re really not helping right now, voice in my head!” I thought bitterly. Oh, since when do I ever help you? I’m in this for me, myself, and I. I want to survive but I’m stuck inside YOUR skull, so that means you have to survive. Fuck me, right. You. Need. Therapy. Great, great, just what I need, more comments from the peanut gallery. One of my eyebrows twitched in purified, enriched anger and annoyance.

“Could you just go back to reading graffiti or something?” I asked, glancing about for anything to distract her. No, there were no dongs, dicks, or dumbass doodles around, surprisingly, just a large volume of rotting husks flayed and bolted up on girders and walls. Several bodies, rather fresh, swung by nooses in the cold breeze, tied off to a sunken billboard. Smile, it isn’t so bad! Exclaimed Pinkie Pie, Ministry Mare of Morale, her face was barred with a tired grin, as if she even knew it wasn’t true but was much too invested in believing in a silver lining that wasn’t there.

“Smile, it isn’t so bad.” PNK-3 read aloud, then she spent a split second looking around for more things to read. “No nothing else. Don’t worry though, I’m totally right; it isn’t so bad!” The sound of my sanity snapping was that of dry twigs, long hollow of life and cast off from a rotten tree barren of leaves. Expressed in an unnecessarily poetic analogy!

“Hey, Captain Kettle, you okay? Your face(What’s left of it) is awfully red and...You may have sprung a widdle tid-bit of a leak! Is it normal for steam to shoot out of your ears--That’s pretty neat!”

I swung the inflated paper bag, caught the irritating bauble and burst the bag. Confetti every-flipping where. How that much fit into the bag was beyond me. I exhaled harshly out my nose and glitter came out. I’d been huffing party favors!

“And there’s the confetti!” She danced about in the falling sparkles and laughed. “We made it, congratulations!” Thunderous drums played as she flitted about my head and she sang.

“Oh we haven’t died this day!
Hooray!
Still we play this dangerous game!
Woohoo!
If we’re careful it’d end just the same!
Boohoo!
But not today, so yay!”

She had a song for EVERY occasion. Heck, she had a song while we were running! How she managed to fit lyrics to Yakety Sax was beyond me. Never again would I feel safe listening to that whimsically braindead song.

“You really think surviving by the skin of my teeth is something worth celebrating?” I asked dourly, my single eyebrow twitching over a mad eye. “It’s not! It’s not worth a silly song, it’s not worth a yippee kay-yay, it is not worth smiling over!” Against my harsh yells, the spritebot shrunk away and hovered around a toppled rubbish bin, hiding from view. For the next few moments I took my aggressions out on my surroundings, hurling lawn chairs, cinder blocks, errant coffee mugs, and lunch pails around. Had I not been so angry, I would have noticed it sooner, but this location was an outpost, likely the chairs and junk around the small firepit were so the raiders could watch their victims suffer. That thought alone was a cold splash of water on my face, extinguishing my rage and blowing a chill straight into my core. This is what Greenvale Heights would look like if Muffincake and his band of fat, unmerry murderers marched past the weakened defenses. I let the small handfuls of rubbish fall to the ground before trotting off further into the cesspool of a valley, doing my best to move around the sewage filled potholes. On several signs and display boards dotting the area, a mantra had been painted in red on white; “Deh Weaks Behcum Deh Eats.”--Likely it was their motto; Only the strong survive. The world wasn’t always like this, it didn’t have to be. There was a fine line between survival and indulgence, ones these raiders crossed.

“You done yet?” PNK-3 asked from her obvious hiding place. “And for the record, you hardly have any skin left on your teeth.”

“Yeah, you can come out.” Said I, the tantrum having run its course to a pointless conclusion. “Just stop being so damn cheerful. There’s nothing to be cheerful about.”

“But of course there is,” She sing-songed, joining alongside me. Even though she hovered, the spritebot saw fit to weave around the potholes filled with sewage. “We’ve made it this far! Nopony from the town council thought you’d make it this far. I’ve always believed in you, but I can understand why they’d feel you weren’t up to the task. You’re just not--” She stopped speaking. Normally I’d be happy, but in this circumstance I knew she had wanted to say more but chose not to; that irritated me more, it made me feel like she was intentionally hiding something.

“Pleasant, smart, nice? There are plenty of things I’m not, so spit it out,” I said somberly. I kept my eyes off any distractions. I wasn’t looking at the corpses nailed up or swaying in the breeze or the broken facilities or ruins. I wasn’t triggering my SATS every step. I was looking straight ahead, watching a shaft of smoke rising over the lot in the distance. The only factory with any light on in the night, the only place with fires burning in chimney stacks.

“You’re not much the same,” PNK-3 finally admitted. “You lost your muchness, Captain. You used to be so much more.” She seemed to struggle with examples, but she was right. All it took was one look down at myself to see all that remained of who I was.

When my journey began I woke up in a pristine white room, a little den of lies that asked me my name. I was a newborn carrying the sins of a previous life, one I could scarcely remember. I was expected to lift the mantle of their Captain and carry on--For them. For people I barely knew or remembered. “Who I used to be and who I am now are apples to oranges. I know just enough of who I was to grieve. I know more than enough to hate what I am. Stop talking like you know me.”

“But Captain Kettle,” She huffed, “We’re friends!”

“No.” I decided. “We aren’t friends. The closest thing I had to a friend wishes she’d never met me!” Gangrene, maybe she’d said that in anger and pain, but it struck me after the numbness wore off. “I have no friends. I’m just a tool. A hammer. I see a lot of nails and plenty of people getting screwed.”

“I’m sorry, Cap--I mean Steelgraft. Do you need a hug?” As sincere as she sounded I knew she was just about as real as I was. Her equinity wasn’t even skin-deep. She had no skin. Or arms. Or even a soul. Why did I even bother talking to her like an equal? She was just a hunk of junk, an irritating hunk of junk that’d nearly gotten me killed more times than my own stupid ideas. “You sound like you really need a friend, Steelgraft.” She added.

“What I need is for you to make yourself scarce. Capiche?” I wanted to be alone, I didn’t need her tagging along to slow me down or announce my position.

“We’re not at our destination yet! Is this because I keep calling out direc--PROCEED ONE-HUNDRED METERS AND TAKE A LEFT AT BAKER’S STREET; PROCEED FIFTY METERS TO ARRIVE AT WAREHOUSE 221B!” She broke off into declaring more step-by-step directions to where we needed to go. She’d done this our entire trip, interrupting the travel music and announcing to the Roamer chasing us our intended turns. I’d even tried to shake it off our trail by going the wrong way only to have PNK-3 loudly shout ‘Recalculating’ and shout new instructions to get back on track to our destination, entirely defeating the purpose of trying to shake it off in the first place.

“Yeah, that’s part of it,” I deadpanned. “But really, that’s more of a feature compared to--”

“Is it because I think aloud sometimes? I’m sorry! I was honestly wondering what it’d be like to have a bellybutton!”

“Yeah, it’s also that but mostly it’s--” I tried to keep calm, but everytime I tried to get a word in edge wise she’d go on and interrupt me.

“Is it the singing? I can stop singing, promise!”

“Well, if you stop the singing ma--” I sighed.

“Is it because of the Roamer? I only had one banana! If only I had a banjo!” The spritebot slammed into my side, grinding into me, shedding simulated sobs. “Please tell me why you want to leave me behind! What’s the real reason!” It was pretty much all of those reasons together.

Stopping in my tracks I rolled my eyes, “It’s because I don’t like you.” I deadpanned again.

PNK-3 froze mid-hover, pulling away from me. “You don’t like me? Like, at all?” She asked, her voice quivering.

“Not a single bit, no.” I admitted. I spared her a sympathetic glance and blew a piece of my tattered mane out of my eyes. “I need to finish this--Alone.”

Like a deflated balloon, the jovial air left the machine, it hung in the air like a heavy, gloomy cloud. “Alright, I understand.” She said gloomily. “I’ll wait here in case your friends come by...”

“Yeah, prepare to wait a while for that,” I scoffed, trotting away from the pink irritation. I stole a glance over my shoulder to make sure she wasn’t following me. She was still there, floating over a puddle of sewage, completely silent. Good! I didn’t need her mucking this up for me.

It was finally time to put an end to this chapter of my unlife, once and for all. Alone. Without backup. Did I mention completely and utterly alone? “Leaving PNK-3 behind? That was a good call, she has a history of giving away positions.” Well, okay, not completely alone, with the constant badgering of Headcase, I was never truly alone. Unfortunately.

“Yes, Headcase, I left her behind. She’s annoying and I don’t trust her.” I informed him dryly, my interest in talking to him was at such a low, it may as well be subterranean.

“That spritebot’s existence does beg many questions, many I fear may never be answered...” He didn’t exactly sound like that bothered him too much. “If anything, she is merely a curiosity, much like you, but unlike her, you still have a valid use and purpose.”

“Yeah, got it, doc. Say, you don’t think you’d mind shutting up?” I didn’t care about being spoken of like that, but at least he had the cajones to speak like that to my face. Then it hit me, since he was a head in a jar, he was technically a gelding. I snorted back laughter at that, much to Headcase’s annoyance.

“I was actually going to ask you how you’re planning on approaching the Robronco Smelting Facility.” Headcase seemed genuinely curious. “I’d offer you advice on how you should approach, but you always do the opposite of what I say anyway.”

“See! You can learn,” I mocked. “I got an invitation; shouldn’t be too hard. They probably have a red carpet rolled out for me and everything.” I rolled a gauntlet at the air, popping the metal joints. The sickening mess clinging to my fingers was definitely not mud. Flanked on all sides by dilapidated, derelict industrial buildings and massive storage containers, I was surprised I hadn’t found a single soul, living, dead, or otherwise. My eyes darted around in the darkness, spying the torch barrels set up, still burning about the area. I took a left turn at an overturned cargo trawler and stopped just outside the gate posted as 221B, an old crooked sign was marked up with the motto of the Baker Barbarian Clans, obscuring the sign’s old words in smeared blood.

“Red carpet? Really, is that your plan? A frontal assault in your condition isn’t sound in the slightest! Combat at all in your condition isn’t sound in the slightest!” Yup, here it was, another lecture about my poor ‘Field Action Plans’ or as he was now calling them, Suicide Gambits. I found it important to correct him when he was wrong; clearly they were Suicide WANKS. You know, easy as a wank in the park? That’s how I remember the saying at least...

“The saying is ‘Easy as a walk in the park,’ “ Headcase unwisely corrected me. “And what you’re doing isn’t easy, you’re walking right into a trap. Again.” He looked weary on the video feed screen, his baggy eyes visibly sagging and puffy. Maybe he was just absorbing the fluid in his tank like some kinda sponge? “Look, perhaps you’re right this time, like you were with the invitation...But what if you’re not?”

“If I’m right about this, it brings us to; Steelgraft: 2 Headcase: 5. And since the points don’t matter, go buck apples!” Click! The sound of me hanging up on him was the most beautiful sound I’d ever heard. Then, it was my favorite sound ever to follow; absolute silence filled with an absence of Headcase’s voice. “Let me work, is that so damn hard?” I said to noone in particular. “Yeah, you really need to stop talking to yourself, Steelgraft. Then again, what if he’s right?” I didn’t want to know.

Steeling myself, I found myself at the threshold of the final step; the junk lot just before the big bad’s fortress of fattitude. The gnarled, unlatched gate was decorated as I’d come to expect of the Baker Barbarians, reinforced by bodies liberally bolted and tied down with razor wire. Even the robots did not rest unmolested, with bodies bolted to metal husks and machines swinging around on cable wire dangling from the large crane sitting off to the side of the lot, slapped there like an afterthought. A nearby sign reminded workers to wear hardhats and to lift with their knees; a bleached skull with a hardhat sat on a pike atop the sign. Ironic or sarcastic? Nah, that’d be giving them too much credit.

Piles of abandoned robots, a proverbial electronics graveyard engulfed me with pungent aromas. The dangling machines were likely used for target practice, given the bullet holes. Most curious, though, was the pile of bodies sitting right in the middle surrounded by thin layer of sparkling dust. Bodies weren’t an uncommon sight, but these bodies were Baker Barbarians, judging by their flimsy armor and unwashed, sugary stench. The intact bodies were scathed with deep burns that still lightly smoked. They were somewhat fresh kills, death clung to the air just barely, like the few final drops of flat Sparkle Cola in a warm bottle. A rattling breathing caught my attention, my EFS pinged its recent discovery; a small raider huddled under a pair of larger bodies. The green, beady eyed stallion looked awful, his body trembling.

“Shitfuck...S-sh...Shitfuck,” He muttered. As I approached he tensed, clenching his teeth as he looked up to me. “Ah, fuck, i-it’s you!” He gasped.

“Yeah, how’s the nose, buddy?” I asked sarcastically.

“B-bigger things tah worry bouts, yo!” He replied quietly. “Don’t make no sudden moves...”

I looked around, raising what remained of my eyebrow. There was no movement, EFS wasn’t picking up anything either. I tried to trigger SATS, but I only got the stallion before me. A cold wind briefly tore through the lot and scattered the dust, forcing the buck to shield his eyes. “No sudden moves? Or what, you’ll get dandruff on me?” I snorted.

“N-no man! You’ll wake the bots up!” He hissed nervously. “I don’t wanna get toasted!”

“Yeah, those robots are pretty...Dead.” I stated, taking a mental count of the corpses. There were at least twenty bodies and at least ten ponies worth of dust scattered about. But if those robots were inactive, then what killed all these raiders? Maybe Scruffy Mcdandruff here wasn’t pulling my tail.

“The robots, man! They came tah life n’ gunned us as we tried ah run!” He muttered, teeth clattering. He scratched one of his forelegs, losing a clump of hair. Mange, he had mange and probably fleas too, dirty bastard.

I took another cursory glance at the robots that lay about in cluttered heaps. No movement other than the rust buckets moaning as the soft wind funneled through hollows and gaps in their plating. “Okay,” I breathed out softly. “What were you running from?”

“You kiddin? How you don’t know?” He bit his lower lip hard, beady eyes darting around. Releasing a ragged, misty breath, he lowered his voice to a whisper. “That fukkin’ prick, Muffincake had me odaed tah be exahmacuted...” Oh, how tragic! Muffincake killing his own; perhaps I’d play a song on the world’s smallest violin? I just so happened to carry one around. “Well, ah uh, slipped ‘way while deh dealt with ah double cross. T’at enforcer o’ the Death King went n’ attacked. Kill’t errabody. Got out her, yah know? Thought we’s safe. Then...Dhey woke ups n’ blat blat!”

“Why am I not surprised?” That was a figurative question, but the scruffy stallion answered me anyway.

“I unno. Reallah shooda ah see-seen dis ah-comin’. Least ah made it outta that cray-cray. Stuck here now, sucks!” He looked to me, eyes misting with tears. I looked away and trotted over to one of the fresher bodies. The stallion watched as I took a few generous bites out of his former comrades. He didn’t raise no fuss, must be that motto of theirs. Weak to meat.

“Yeah, sounds like you’ve got a real problem on your hooves. Best of luck to you.” I said through a mouthful of pony meat. I gorged myself until I had an adequate increase to my integrity; pieces of my flesh began seating themselves against the bed of my bone and metal, it’d be easier to pin it down with a staple-gun.

“W-waits, yous gonna leave meh here?” Asked the stallion I was totally going to leave behind. “You cunt do daht!”

“It’s easy; watch!” I more than cheerfully said while taking a gentle trot away. He was a raider, and obviously, the robots were tuned to them as hostiles while I was on the guest list, or so I gathered. Helping him might make me a target and burn up precious time of which was waning few. As the distance between me and the sallow, mourning buck grew, I found each step to be burdened, like I was strolling in molasses. His sobs, faint on the wind, haunted me. Conflicted, I froze in my tracks just feet from the massive sliding door to the complex. “What’s the matter, Captain?” One of the many voices I argued with whispered. “What ails you? Cold hooves or is it that bleeding heart?” It was mocking me, which was a new notch in the sliding decay of my sanity. The raider took my pause as a sign I’d begun to reconsider my stance and began to beg in earnest.

“Please, ah dun wanna die like dis!” Bawled the raider. His cries made me ball up fistfuls of gravel, setting my teeth to grind. “Ahm beggin’ yah! Ah’d do anythin’! Anythin’ yah’d ask!”

“He’s lying! Lying! He’s a Baker Barbarian! You can’t trust him!” Chimed that little voice, full of malice and frothing anger. “Let him suffer! Mercy is for the weak.” Well, that was one-third of the peanut gallery, what did the other voices think? Help. Him. Please. No voice spoke to break the tie, leaving me to make the final decision. If I saved him and he lived on to harm others, it’d be no good. It was a roll of the dice, if he said he’d do anything, maybe he’d bargain his life for a promise to quit being a raider, to turn his life around? “Oh with bated breath do I wait for such a thing to happen. What do you think this is, some kind of fantasy world?” You. Never. Know.

“Puhleaze! Ah...Ah’ll give up Scorpio! Ah’ll give up mah speshul brown-eyes! Ah’ll...” The raider gagged, “Ah’ll go Vegan! Ah swears oan mah dreads, mahn!” He’d go vegan? That was a thought; ponies were typically vegetarian back in the day, my day, before all these whippersnappers came around with their cannibalism, bad hygiene, and sociopathy.

Well, if he promised, that was a start. I didn’t want his pleading cries haunting me, knowing I could have done something and just left him. About facing, I made my way back to him and grabbed a heavy, rusted boltgun off one of the fallen raiders, dusting it off and checking its clip. It was in shoddy shape, but there was no doubt it could prove useful. Beady eyes welled with tears watched me, his choked, held back cries muffled by his own hooves.

“Here,” I muttered, scooting the weapon within hooves’ reach. It must suck being an earth pony, and I could relate, not having use of my horn. “This should come in handy.”

The buck looked to the weapon and then up to me, wiping his snot-encrusted nose on his mangy foreleg. “Yah serius? Ah’d get ripped tah shreds if ah tried tah book it. That tang ain’t doin’ me any good!” So, beggars could be choosers. I rolled my eyes and snatched up the weapon, cocking its slide.

“Then come with me if you want to live,” I said, offering him my hand. He stared at it and then trailed his eyes up to my face, gulping down a mouth full of saliva. The moment his hoof entered mine, I tore him up from his hiding place and tossed him ahead of me. “Move!”

He wasn’t ready nor expecting that, his panicked nature leaving him to stand like a deer in a spotlight, trembling numbly with a thousand yard stare. To his credit, he hadn’t lied, the moment he was out in the open and detectable, the Robronco brand robots came to life, spitting sparks and cheerful tunes.

“Wub ah zubub daloo wub-wub--That was a lil number by Neon called Battery Acid Necrosis. It is now 12:30, folks. Afraid the Witchin’ hour’s commin’ to ah late close! Fear not, music plays around twenty-four tocks and ah’ll be here at 6 ‘o'clock tah get your day started right sunnysahde ups with a helping of mad bass and crass laughs. This has been DJ BOOOOMBAAAAHRK with dah Witchin’ hour, ahn remember, kiddiez, Nightmare Night’s just ‘round dah bend. Better have your Bucksnacks, sacks, and costumes ready, pones!” Boombark’s radio station must have some good range for it to get picked up with all this metal interference. He concluded that the Witching Hour was over, but from where I stood, it had just begun. The dead machines came to life, like the dead crawling up from shallow graves, moaning out static, broken cries and stuttering in sparks. Oh, and of course the techno music...

“I hope we can be friends,” Spoke a legless metal pony with a glass faceplate dangling from the crane’s magnetic plate. It fired a sizzling bolt of magical energy at the buck in front of me. I pushed myself over the numb and dumb raider and powered up SATS, targeting the robot with the boltgun twice. My body acted swiftly, acting on impulse to follow my SATS commands faster than I could think.

Sh-Tunk! One bolt sailed wide and the other struck the dead center, shorting out the robot and melting its internal components. The barrel of the boltgun glowed like a torch, sizzling with great heat. A wound on my side, fresh and blistering, crystallized as flesh peeled off in glassy chunks. One down and...I checked my EFS--The robot graveyard was a bloody smear of red dots!

“Fresh coffee, miss?” Groaned an orb shaped contraption with many limbs. At one point it must have been able to fly, but it was getting around just fine on its remaining arms, each ending in a deadly weapon like a buzz saw, flame thrower, or squeezer claw. Only fresh thing about this grabby freak was how intimate its buzzsaw was trying to get with my undercarriage.

I triggered SATS again and placed a bolt in it, causing it to hiss loudly, the wound spewing fuel that ignited into a jet of flames. The robot was propelled sideways into another machine and exploded, scattering shrapnel. Take that, jeeves! I take my robots like I take my coffee, molten and charred black!

“Move, damnit, move!” I commanded, pushing the buck ahead while I used myself as a shield. My coat was soon ablaze and the smell of burning canvas filled my nostrils. The air was filled with smoke and laser lights, which would make a killer show if the lights were deadly lasers trying to kill the dumb buck, compounded by the fact that I was the only thing between him and becoming a pile of incandescent dust.

The raider squealed and jumped when I pushed the boltgun’s burning barrel under his greasy braided tail and love-tapped him on his ovoid colt makers, making him take off faster, leaving a trail of dust clouds. Returning fire, I kept pace, prioritizing my targets, the ones launching a majority of the lasers. Most of the robots were nonambulatory, meaning very few were able to follow us far. Just had to avoid the crossfire--Which was easier said than done, not that I could speak through my rabid curses as I was struck a good half dozen times. Pain, pain, like stings from dreaded spider-bee. Shudder!

“Need we remind--Bzrt!--I swear! Use coasters or I’ll strangle you!” Wow, that one would certainly lighten up a stuffy Canterlot party! Maybe if I corralled them together I could populate a log flume ride with them? I’d call it “The Aristocrats”.

Habit caught me offguard when I felt required to shut the gate after leaving the lot. One would be wise to keep running in such a situation, gates be damned, but I was a stallion of short-sighted tradition. “Always close the gate!” A gravelly voice sounded when I thought such thing aloud, as if the thought was not my own or perhaps a memory. The gate slammed shut with a rusty dry-heave of squealing metal, the busted latch rattling off the equally ruined catch--I expected more shots to come between the gaps in the chainlink fence, for the machines to force me back to join the greasy buck I’d just saved behind the overturned trawler. As usual, what I expected was not what I got, everything went still as soon as the gate was closed. Every robot powered down, dangling where they were bound or collapsing into heaps, like toys cast about by a rough toddler.

A picture of serenity, rusted monuments of technology hiding an egregious surprise. They’d spring like a trap on any unsuspecting prey, burning them to ash in a fierce crossfire. Now I wondered, just what would make them react. A few stones tossed into the lot or at them produced nothing, it was only when I opened the gate and stepped hoof within the lot did they react again, powering up and raising from slumber. Then out, power off. Like a switch; In, out; on, off. I did it several times before I slammed the gate shut again. Nothing is ever easy. I’d need another way around now, the buck I’d saved would have to prove useful. Where was he now? Great, now I had to track him down and question him!

“AHHHH! Anotter un!” I heard the stallion scream. Figures of course he’d die anti-climactically only after I’d suffered to save him. My EFS was picking up no hostile targets and two green indicators behind the wrecked cargo carriage. Wait, two, as in more than one? At least they were both green. To me. There was no assurance the green dots would be affable to each other.

I’d give myself one guess as to the identity of the second dot. If you guessed ‘Aggravating Pink Spritebot’ feel free to pat yourself on the back, Steelgraft, because you were correct. “You’re so damn patronizing,” muttered that little voice in my head. The buck was being held at blaster-point by PNK-3, leaning towards less than affable diplomacy.

“You can’t pull the wool over my eyes, I don’t have any!” PNK-3 shrieked angrily.

“No, I ain’t lyin’, I ain’t wit dem Bakers n-e-more!” The mangy buck was holding an old crate lid over his head as a shield. Smoke rose up from his greasy tail and he was half hunched, sucking in air from his teeth as he crossed his rear legs in painful writhing. “Hey, you! Git dis crazy robot!”

Oh, if I didn’t need him right now, I might be tempted to just let PNK-3 turn him into confetti. Bossing me around? How ungrateful! Using my last nerve, I forced a strained half-faced smile to diffuse the situation. “He’s harmless.” I said, adding a grind of my teeth. “Didn’t I tell you to stay put?”

“Well, yeah, but since when did I ever say I had to LISTEN to you? We’re not friends.” The bauble retorted indignantly. I knew mares were mouthy, simulated mares were no exception. “I heard trouble, I’m supposed to keep you in one piece.”

“Fine job you’re doing,” I muttered, stuck in a perpetual rolling of my eyes. Undertaker would likely diagnose me with a severe case of vertigo next time I saw him.

“You don’t make it easy.” She stated flatly, her voice lacking any jubilant flair I had come to know. It was dull, flat, and the tinny twang to it became unignorable. The spritebot hovered silently and directly up to me, not dancing around or bobbing; just pure efficient movement. It was creepy on her. I took one step back to get some space, opening my mouth to say something unkind--I didn’t get that chance.

Every single time, every single day, in some conceivable way. It always happens, I get coated in something gross, without fail. There was no denying that it wasn’t mud and my mouth had been open. The magical radiation detector on my iSeeU ticked up from a low, slow click to a steady tock like a metronome while steam sizzled up from my now browned cloak. A pot hole. A big, stinking, foul fistula between the roadway and the sewage lines filled with--Shudder--excrement.

“What the buck, Pinkie?!” I shouted at her. I came out of the muck and shook out, scattering the mess everywhere--leaving PNK-3 mysteriously unscathed. Shit just didn’t stick to her. “What was that for?!” That greasy buck was laughing until he got splattered, then it was no longer funny to him.

“Your coat was on fire,” She said dourly. “Oh, and I don’t like you. Not even a little bit.”

I deserved that. Not gonna lie. Totally deserved that. Had I been too hard on her? Maybe! Maybe I had. Did it matter? No, not really. Was I going to apologize even if I didn’t believe it was necessary? “Okay, I get it. I’m sorry for being a jerk.” Yes, I was. “Now if you excuse me, I need to question stinky here.”

“Well, you did say sorry...” PNK-3 hummed to itself before making a snap verdict. “Alright, I’ll let you off with a warning.” She hovered away only to appear on my alternate side. “This time!” She clarified, grinding her metal husk against the bare bones of my exposed face. Ever hear bones grind against metal? Not exactly pleasant, and even if I could not feel it, the crunching made me convulse.

She gave me some room to interrogate the greasy pap smear of a buck, distance could be increased by another fifty meters and I would probably still hear her humming some irritating tune.

“Sorry about her,” I said to the trembling buck. He was still nursing his sore marbles.

“Whah ah care ‘bout tin-can? Yah burned mah bullocks, yah rotty geezer!” Oh, wasn’t this adorable? We’re having informative dialog. Idly, I wondered if he’d be as snippy if I was wearing his teeth on my knuckles...

“It’s not like you’d get a chance to use them; gelding. Now, I saved your mangy ass...” I leaned in to him, quickly regretting such a decision. He smelled worse than the quagmires of mushy stool bubbling around, pumping methane into the air. It had seeped into his fur, deeply seeded, so much so that he was a concentrated avatar of filth, mange, and ticks...No, those were just giant fleas. Rad fleas? Sweet Celestia’s hot backwinds, why did I dare get this close? Hiding my disgust, I imagined he was growing a tulip out of his mange-filled dreads. “I need to get inside. Because of you I can’t. Alternate routes. Now.”

When a skull-faced undead cyborg is in your personal zone, demanding something, you typically say yes while liberally pissing yourself. This buck was thankfully only complying with the former. “Ah, dere’s oneh one wai in, tuh way out!” He babbled, closing his eyes.

“Only one way? But you said two ways out.” I grabbed him by the chin and forced him to look at me, “Why are there two ways out? Where is the second entrance?”

“T-the shittah!” The buck sobbed, “Anyone kin get in, but most leave as shit, man!” He began to scratch himself, making flakes of fur and flesh peel off. “Mahn, them eats. Meat mules, mahn. Weak tah meat, tis the way of the...The...” He gulped hard as I stared right through him. I didn’t like what I was hearing, and the grinding of my jaw told him so.

“So that lot’s the only way in?” Buck a duck and wish me luck, I was screwed there. “There’s no other entrance? Be straight with me or I’ll toss you back into that lot and use you as a decoy!”

“A decoy? Oh, so brutal, Captain. Just like you too!” Cooed a voice in the back of my mind. It sounded a bit like Cradle Robber, but I knew I turned off my radio and wasn’t accepting incoming transmissions. Slowly, I speculated, I was eroding my sanity. Now the toasters were after me.

“The other uns’re blocked off’n thah crib’s crawlin’ with beeper-booms.” He tried to push away from me, but he wasn’t nearly strong enough. His sinewy, weak muscles clung to his emaciated frame. Why would a Baker Barbarian be so...Flimsy and thin? He might be one of those weaklings the larger members forced into the front lines, I recall a barbarian referring to them as ‘The Leftovers’.

One last question. “Your prisoners, are they alright?” I asked. I wouldn’t fault them if they weren’t alright, Deadmare were brutal. I was more worried if they were fine, then they could be used against me or something equally w--”Why are you thinking like that?!” I thought. “They’d better be alright.”

It took him a moment to understand that question, his face the picture of dumb insecurity. “Prisoners?” He asked aloud. “Yah means dah meat mules?” He scoffed. “Why yah’d care bout them meat mules?”

He felt cold metal wrap around his throat and the trawler’s undercarriage against his back. “I’ll decide what I care about, meatbag!” I squeezed lightly, a disgusted snarl leaving my jaws. “Now are they alright or do I need to throw you back in the lion’s den?”

“Dey fine! Dey fine!” He wheezed, pounding at my gauntlet with struggling gasps. He fell back down into a heap, panting and rubbing his sore neck. “Yah crazeh...Cray-cray! So, yah gonna go save em? Ain’t no sense. Nopony dat ain’t Baker ever leave dat place ‘cept through a shittah!”

I left him to his own devices, tossing him the boltgun. He was going to need it to get out of here alive. “Word of advice, ditch the muffin boxes. Take a bath.”

“Don’t turn your back on him, he’ll shoot you!” A voice rasped in my mind. “Kill him now, he’s a liar! LIAR!” I tensed, an icon on my EFS went from green to red. The buck was fumbling with the boltgun, aiming at my flanks. “The weak become meat! Eat, eat him! He’s red, he’s deaaaad!”

In my current condition, I could take a few more bolts before I was dropped, and if I killed him then I could recover enough integrity to last a little while longer. Long enough to see Gangrene again, to protect what was mine. “Why’d you do that? He was harmless!” I recalled that time, the ambush at the toolshop. Gangrene had killed an injured buck to protect herself and her family. “Don’t make me do this...” I spoke, my voice heavy with contempt.

Thud. The weapon hit the floor and the intimidated buck fled. It happened so differently in my mind, though, I imagined killing him and stripping his throat out with my teeth. I would have, too, had he fired. One lucky shot and I would have died--This collar around my neck was a burden, if I couldn’t proactively defend myself, then I was double-dead walking.

Considering my options, I weighed them. I could take my chances, enter the lot and hope to make it to the other side. Maybe I could fasten a shield out of cargo box lids and make a daring dash across the realm of the mechanical unmaintained. Or, I could swallow my pride and ask PNK-3 for help. Robronco robots were something she knew a bit about, I gathered, since she was one. She could hack the machines or something-something science! Yeah, science, not my strongpoint. On a scale from 1 to 100, I’d say my science knowledge was around a paltry 20. During a scientific debate, likely I could claim to know some of the words the lab-coated ponies were using.

My approach was tactful as could be, coming up behind the spritebot and giving a nervous cough, “PNK-3, I could use some he--”

“Okie Dokie Loki!” She chimed, not even letting me finish. “I’ll gladly help you out!”

That was remarkably easy. Dumbstruck, I stared at her as if she’d sprouted a horn and wings. “That easy? Really? After I was sai--”

“That you were sorry? Yup! Easy as that! So, tell Pinkie what you need and lets make this baddie eat his just deserts! I baked him a pie...”

~~~

This city, a den of foul darkness, a vicious fucking pit of scoundrels, heathens, and wannabe villains, tied together by a dangerous lord of darkness. He knew me to be a threat, so he struck my powers from me with noxious pink and left me for dead. He took my gang, my friends, there ain’t nothin’ mo’ tragic than a bloody crate full o’ holes and dead foals. Gulag, fat porker, always teased him about his weight. He ate enough for all ah us combined; well, he took enough bullets to die for at least four. That’s why we few survived.

It’s just me, Rebel Riot, toughest little Viper of the notorious do-gooder bandits; Shag-Rag, the charming, a tough dust mop that knew how to take a few licks and give em too; Taffy the blaze, cute but not innocent, she had an unnatural love for fire; and of course, our fearless leader and my mentor, Gangrene the Mender. Don’t let that title granted her fool you, she’ll break your heart, your wallet, and leave you some advice to mend your soiled pride. Of all the Vipers, it is just us now.

I’d like to say that I’m not afraid, that I can tough through this. That the tears in my eyes were from black ash on harsh, cold winds. Not the case, I’m terrified. I’m guilty. Blood of my friends covers me, inside and out. My home is gone, burned to the ground, and now we walk a lonely road to salvation. A dark path to the messiah of forlorn boredom. The arcade.

Not all can make the journey, and not all can stand the pressure. Tempers boiled like a sealed pot, spraying ambivalent aggressions. One of the tin heads, the smaller one called Silver Tongue, she was a weak link about to snap. Her movements were terse and responses just as rushed, tripping out insults and barking like a feral, starving dog. She blamed her commander, the large tank on legs, Standtall, that they lost their gang for foolish reasons. That we tribals weren’t worth the sacrifice of twisted cans.

Gangrene was short and quick, snapping at her, even with a soft voice of a whisper, her gaze split steel and silenced the booming voice of the Crusader. “Died for no reason?” She spat, “How dare you! Those Rangers died honorably for us, all of us!”

Surprise, a feeling I expected to instill dread, but this time, it was just confusion. I’d never heard Gangrene refer to tin cans as Rangers. She hated them, even more than I did, and that was saying something. They took away my father and left me to fend for myself; they’d done the same to Gangrene, so she said. I never pried, she respected my privacy to never ask about my shitty parents...Well, my mother at least. Stupid bitch tried to sell me for drugs once. Dad ran off with me to keep me safe, train me up to be a trader. Tin cans shot him over a busted radio they wanted to confiscate. A radio! A fucking useless, broken radio!

I fixed that radio, I still have it too, in my saddle bag. Sure, it’s heavy, hard memories are heavy, and that’s pain I never want to forget. Baggage, it’s all just baggage. I wondered what baggage Gangrene must be carrying, what her story was. Her words were windows into her personal life before, carrying weight.

“I don’t know how a Crusader with common sense got the position, but he’s a good stallion. He stayed. He fought. I bet he feels terrible. So shut you’re fuckin’ trap, keep walking, or do me a huge favor and get lost.” Gangrene said without pause, no hesitation, like she was using her tongue to squeeze a trigger and eliminate a threat. Bang.

Click; a loaded gun, a shotgun, a promise of words to bullets from the rim of a barrel. We all stopped, watching the stare down between the steel wrapped shit-talker and the fearless Viper leader. Even while unarmed, Gangrene had a fearsome presence, one that spoke a warning louder than any gun I’d heard fired. Her horn flickered, wrenching a twisted piece of rebar from a nearby pile of rubble off the side of the road.

“Shut up! I know your game, harlot! Do you think your lil sob story about the Star Paladin was all that convincing? That was you; you got my friends killed!” Silver Tongue was teetering on the teething edge of a sharpened blade, driving a wedge between common sense and reason. We were exposed, out in the cold, covered in cold blood. She was insulated in armor, so I supposed she didn’t notice nor care.

The tank on legs dropped a heavy hoof, “We need to move!” He bellowed loudly, his modulated voice adding authority that wasn’t truly there. It made me wanna spray paint him solid pink and stick butterfly-fru-fru magnets to his ass. I promised myself I’d do so later while he slept.

“We will, back to the base after I take out this tribal bitch!” Silver Tongue raved, oblivious to the impending carnage that Gangrene would deliver. The yellow, pierced Viper was already pondering ways to pop open that can and deliver her venom. Standtall didn’t want to go off alone, big things were just bigger meals, canned. Common sense, so rare to the Steel Rangers it might as well be a mutation or superpower. What kinda super power was common sense anyway? Lame.

“Hey, hey, hey!” Bitch-Fit, now lame and crippled with only a single wing, stepped into the center of the stare-down. “We ain’t got time for your periods, what are you, fucking synchronised?” As she spoke reason to them, my eyes wandered her flanks, tongue pensively in cheek. I liked mares, I was at that age, but what I always stared at on her was the scar of a cloud and lightning bolt where her cutie marks once were. I’d always wanted to ask her about them. She’d caught me staring once...I shuddered, remembering the taste of her hooves; get caught staring and she’d step on your face. Likely, if she had to, she’d walk all over Silver Tongue like a floor mat.

Another voice joined the fray with smoking nostrils over a pierced ring. “Whit ur we daein', standin' loch a cabre oan th' plains? Mmmmmake nae folly, quick ur nane at aw!” The large minotaur clad in a skirt was the picture of absurdity. What would possess a large, heroic figure to crossdress? The spotted goat was over his broad shoulders, one eye closing before the other. Gangrene always said it isn’t nice to taunt the mentally handicapped, but I couldn’t stifle a sick little snicker. “Somethin' funay, boyo?” He spoke to me darkly, leering down with fiery eyes.

“Ah, n-no,” I spoke firmly, unshaken by his gruff voice. I mimicked him, sounding just as gruff. My voice cracked like thunder! “I just can’t understand a flippin’ word comin’ out of you! Weren’t you speakin’ normal-talk earlier?”

“Weel me speech therapist took a blaw tae th' heed, gezz a break! Wee runt...” The minotaur, Angus was his name, gestured to the dumb-looking splotched goat. That minotaur had made foul by speaking to me in that manner. I’d let him off with a warning glare, but next time, he’d feel the full brunt of Rebel Riot’s power! You know, after my legs stopped quaking, it was cold! The barrel-chested crossdresser leaned over the hilt of his huge hammer, the head easily twice my size, and snorted at Silver Tongue. “Best beh goiun er best tah be dyin’, misseh.” Now that I could understand, and by the looks of everypony else, they got it too.

Ousted with an assured promise of rebuke, Silver Tongue snarled, “Fine, I’m heading back to base, without you!” She shot her commander with a tail-flick of disgust and plodded down an alleyway. “I’ll tell em’ you died. You’d like that, right? Consider this a favor.” And like that, the weak link left us, which should have made us stronger, but instead, only reduced the number of things standing between us and the darkness by one.

Everyone gathered themselves up after that short episode, a brief break in walking had done some good, a forced march would leave a trail of tears. One that could be followed back to heart-break. We left a puddle, perhaps a lake. Maybe it was a river. If I made a dam, could I keep the pain away? Forget this night? I looked down at myself in a reflective pool, salt touching my lips, stinging my face with cold.

“Thank you, Gangrene...” spoke the large steel titan of a stallion, his head bowed in reverence to the Viper Queen. Even he recognized her greatness as we lil’ bandits. It was easy to see, plain as day.

“Don’t mention it,” Gangrene spoke coldly, taking a half trot before pausing. “Ever.” She added, tongue clicking against the roof of her mouth like the pop of gunfire. She approached me and Shag-Rag, giving a dour glance to the three-legged stallion that was dolefully attending to Taffy’s well-being. Creepy blighter, that guy, but any adult that’d care for a child in tears like Taffy earned points with me. Gangrene saw no issue with Fritter taking care of Taff, so I had no spit in the eye ‘bout it none neither. “You okay, squirt?” She asked me, her stern expression was a stone wall, one that made my nausea turn to butterflies.

“It’s Rebel Riot!” I spoke firmly, as maturely as I could. My voice cracked like lightning. Gangrene quirked a brow.

“Well, you made it to puberty, cracker-jack.” She teased, pressing her nose to my cheek, then to Shag-Rag in kind. “Do you need me to carry you?”

“No!” I barked. I was short on breath, tired, weakened by that noxious pink Hades himself sent to wound me, but I was not without my pride! No, I had to be strong, for Gangrene, for everyone. I had to be the hero now, with everyone else gone. I had to carry my own weight now. I had to make room for the hurt, just like Gangrene had taught me, and carry on for everypony else.

Strangers to family; Fritter, Glazed, Indigo, Key & Lock, Angus, that goat, and everyone else. We all were relying on each other to last the night. I would carry my weight and my baggage, like everypony else, Mare-Do-Well would never let herself be carried! Then again, Mare-Do-Well didn’t have a mentor like Gangrene.

Powerless against her cheap unicorn magic, Gangrene plucked me up and saddled me over her back. She tensed briefly, gritting her teeth. The bandages around her leg were soiled with blood, even now the bleeding hadn’t stopped. I felt sick, a weight of lead, slowing her down. I was so tired, my hooves were bleeding, and I shivered in the cold.

“It’s okay,” Gangrene said, unaware of my guilt. She would hate me if she knew. I was guilty; I’d killed Bruise with my own two hooves! I survived when the others didn’t, and now I was just slowing her down. It wasn’t okay!

No amount of pleading or begging could convince her to let me down. If I couldn’t jump off myself, I had no business trottin’ as she said. Walking numbly, feeling that exhaustion and pain drained every bit of my concentration, it made me not think about it, about my guilt or the friends we’d lost. Our home, my work table, even that old crazy tin foil wearing alpaca! All gone, all lost. All I did was run away, it was all I could do, think about it now. Who had I been kidding? I wept in the bitter cold. I begged to be left behind. I wanted to just stop thinking...I just...I...

“Hush now, quiet now, it’s time to lay your sleepy head--” Gangrene started to sing that damn song. That damned lullaby. My one true weakness besides bullets and boredom. Eyes heavy as lead curtains, the fell over my stage and pushed the spotlights away. In my dreams, whatever grieved me could not follow. They were there, my friends, and everyone was still alive. And then a river swept them all away...

A short while later...

“--Damnit, I don’t have time to deal with another injured pony, we need to go back. Now.” Sleep was losing its hold on me, the voices of Gangrene piercing into my dreams along with the sounds of music and the beeping of machines. Groaning, I turned over from my side, trying to wipe the sleep from my eyes.

“Now look at what you did, you woke Rebel,” Keena clicked hushedly.

“No, you did, by making me raise my voice! That kid’s going to have to wait until we get back. I’ve got to get my idiot back!” Gangrene replied.

Sands of sleep left the corners of my eyes against the back of my hooves and I sat up from under the blanket draped over me. Shag-Rag and Taffy laid sprawled next to me on the padded bench. We were in a safe, holy place; Highscore Arcade. It was after-hours, so many of the machines were off, but it seemed like Record Wrecker flipped on some of the machines for light. All the ones with the best music, Mortal Wombat, Galaga, and Zebra Safari 3: Wiped or Striped. Cap wasters, gory, explosive, glorious cap-wasters. Sound faded in and out, my tired mind blended the beeping and words together. The world spun and I shook my head hard.

“You’re lucky I even allowed that Steel Ranger in here, but how you ever convinced me to let that in here is beyond me...” Record Wrecker kept an eye on an empty corner of the arcade, forcing me to squint my eyes and stare hard. Whatever she was talking about was lost on my unfocused eyes.

“It’s on our side, don’t worry.” Keena chirped. “You let Steelgraft in here, remember?”

“Everyone else wants to kill it, Keena. You should take it outside...” Record Wrecker warned. “As for Steelgraft, he’s different. He’s impolite company, but he’s company...That thing’s not.”

“Oh, we’ll take it outside when we leave. I could use a practice target for this bad bitch...” Gangrene sounded vicious and pleased. Another slap to my snout pushed the drowsiness away enough to see why. It was a top-rack prize, worth a million tickets. I’d always had my eye on it, everypony did. It was ‘The Compensator’ Anti-Material Rifle, designed specifically to take out armored vehicles. It was said the last time it was fired it took out two of the Remnant Army’s hovertanks. In one shot. They said that Cerberus, guardian of Tartarus breathed the fire that was used to hammer the steel of the barrel; all those legends, they were true as far as I knew. They had to oil it with the blood of raiders so it never forgot the thrill of the kill. Gulag had told me all this, so it’s truth had no ring to it. Poor Gulag though...I sorta missed that fat jerk, even if he always ate my Bucksnacks and lied about it.

“Yooo'd waste sic' a big bullit oan sic' a wee fash yerse?”

Vision swimming, mind reeling; never felt so sick before. It was hard to focus, my eyes were lead curtains on my show. I faded in and out at least twice, catching small bits of conversation as the survivors moved around the arcade. Broad and hard to miss, the minotaur dwarfed the arcade cabinets nearby, easily twice as wide. He brushed off his hammer, offering a ‘radge’ solution to the invisible party in the corner. Nightmares trotted gayly through my mind, imagining it to be the worst of threats possible. Everyone was so calm. Clanking of parts and the rawr of a diesel engine; it invaded my dreams and spooked me to full wakefulness.

“No!” I cried out, bolting upright and tangling myself in the blanket. I pulled Shag-Rag down with me, Taff was snatched up by Frisky. I gave a dull groan, pulse pounding in my temples. Gangrene dropped her cannon and rushed to me, pulling me free of the blankets. “Gangrene! They’re everywhere! Everywhere!” Couldn’t they hear that engine? The hissing? The roar?

“Buck-it-all, do I gotta do every-dang thing? I might as well shove the barrel up your collective asses and use you as silencers for as useful you’re being!” Gangrene was short, uncharacteristically short. Shorter than usual, that is. “Put them to bed, Frisky, now! I’d use a sleep spell but my noggin’s knackered!” The three legged stallion wasn’t much a team player, as foul tempered as he was ugly, but he cared enough for Taff, his mad ramblings under whisper to her as he begrudgingly went about arranging the blankets in his teeth.

“ ‘M-fine...” I mumbled, rubbing more sleep sand from my weary eyes. I made a show of slicking up my dual-tone mohawk as Gangrene always did and tried to walk it off to succeed only in meeting my old foe, the carpet. “If you’re goin’ out, you need back...Up.” I stated, honestly, going without her sidekick when she promised? She promised! If she left alone she might not come back!

“You can’t even get up, let alone back-up, squirt...” She groaned with a shake of her head, sweat mane plastered to her face. She was breaking her promise, leaving me behind again, and she knew it. I grumbled dourly and folded my forelegs under myself and looked away, ignoring everything she said after. The lump in my throat kept on growing, I knew what was coming. She was going to go off and I’d have to sit and make a brave face and keep everypony else in high spirits...Except there was hardly anypony else left anymore!

“--Can’t believe we left my cousin behind...” Glazed spoke from a bench across from us. Other survivors milled about nearby, maintaining their gear and treating their wounds. Fritter scoffed humorlessly and reloaded his saddle-mounted submachine guns.

“All yah left wuz a corpse; least yah gots tah say yer peace. Ah ain’t even know if Zone’s there er not...” Fritter cast his words as carelessly as one would play a bad hand of caravan with low stakes. The stallion hobbled over to our bench and checked on Taffy dutifully.

“If that little filly dies, it will be blood upon your hooves; what if she does not last for when you return? What if we do not return?” Keena puffed out her feathers, beak clicking in agitation. Clack, clack, clack; amber eyes narrowed at Gangrene, intense as a laser.

“Kinda busy here!” Gangrene shouted. She snatched my chin with a hoof and tilted my head up. “You look at me! Pay attention, right now!” She ordered. I clenched my eyes and tried to pull away, tasting something sour in my mouth. “Please...” She pleaded. Her voice it was soft, motherly, like when I got sick or when she welcomed me home or...When she hugged me. Our eyes met and no longer was she the fearless leader of the Vipers, she was my mom. Our mom.

“Ache! Giv’m ah mmmmmo!” Angus chuffed, ushering the stranglers away to different aisles. Frisky moved Shag-Rag and Taffy, Glazed helped, and everyone picked up their things to grant Gangrene and I a bit of privacy. Only Keena stayed, holding with her a wounded filly, a really pretty one with a lavender pelt and gnarled black mane.

Gangrene took a moment to compose herself and glanced over to Keena and then back to me. “Sweetie, I know how much you want to help me, I know...But this isn’t an adventure. This time I might not come back. I really mean it.” She knew me well, her hoof was already upon my lips, stilling my words. “I don’t want to leave you. I want to watch you grow up; I wanted to watch you all grow up. Big, strong, and better. I wanted you to beat this city. All of us. That ain’t how it played; I almost didn’t make it to save you. He brought me to you. I can’t...” She swallowed hard at the steel tacks in her throat, warm tears spilling down her grease smeared cheeks. “None of us woulda made it if it wasn’t for him. Now he’s out there, alone, finishing it. I can’t let him die...Not like that. So that’s why I’m leaving, sweetie. Because sometimes you have to make tough decisions, ones you don’t want to make, but it’s the right thing to do.”

This was real, it was happening. This night, the whole thing wasn’t some comic book story or some plot point in something greater. It was no nightmare, it was what it was. And she was leaving too. “No, please don’t go! Someone else could go! You don’t have to!” I clutched to her, willing to say anything to make her stay, I promised to do all the chores and do as I was told. I’d never argue with her ever again as long as she wouldn’t go.

“Hey, hey...Keena’s got a one passenger limit. This rut stick I’m packin’s pushing it.” She waggled the massive sniper gun in the air, giving a waggle of her eyebrows. It failed to make me laugh, she always did suck at jokes that were actually jokes. She blew a snort at her mane and shook her head, “Critics, allah yah...Listen, you, Shag, Taffy...You’re gonna to be fine. Greenvale owes us, they’ll do right. If not, Keena will take ya in if she makes it and I don’t...” Her honeyed words were so sour to me, sour and salty. My face was soaked in tears but I felt too tired to bawl even though I deeply wanted to. Into her shoulder I pressed, hugging her with all the strength that remained in me. “There is one thing you need to do for me’ one thing I can’t trust to anypone else, got it? Could yah do that for me?”

It wouldn’t make her stay, but she was asking...For once she was asking. It sounded important. Numbly, I wiped my snout and nodded.

“This filly Keena brought, she’s in bad shape. I ain’t got the time to make her comfy. Could yah stay awake a lil while longer and tend her?” Gangrene cast a glance in the direction of the others. “I know what I taught cha but I ain’t trustin’ what these foo’ think they know.”

I got a good gander at my future patient, she was ‘bouts my age with a cutie mark of a tombstone and music note. Judging by her symptoms I cracked a guess at hypothermia and a severe wound infection. One was easy, I’d rubbed down Curbstomp’s stanky ass more than once before after he freezed himself dumber in the big freeze last year. Infections? We didn’t have any pills. “I...I’ll do what I can.” I spoke, never before had I been so uncertain. Tall order for such a small stallion.

“And one more thing, tell Shag-Rag and Taffy I love em’ once they come to. Love yah too, by the by...” She said, pressing a kiss to my brow. “And remember, if yah can’t say sometin’ nice-”

“Say something clever and devastating.” I finished, smiling weakly. It must still be freezing, I couldn’t stop my legs from quaking and the dirt made my eyes sore to tears. Yeah, it was just something in my eye, I ain’t no cry geldy!

“That’s my boy.” She gave me a solid, deep noogie, which I hated, but this could be my last one, so I tolerated it.

Keena and Gangrene got ready to leave, everyone else found a comfortable spot to rest, and I went about caring for the filly with what supplies I could scrounge up from around the arcade. I’d always been good at scavenging, so coming up with supplies wasn’t too hard. The arcade was well-lived and trade came through frequently. In my mind, I played it out; Steelgraft about to be defeated by overwhelming odds and Gangrene saving him and vanquishing the foes. She would return home and we’d pick up the pieces and find a new home. That’s what I hoped for, that’s what I dreamed of. Is it still called a daydream when it happens at night? The rumbling engine from my nightmare came back louder. Maybe I shouldn’t be day-dreaming...

“Something is coming,” that tank of a pony murmured through his helmet. His legs creaked as he stood up. “EFS reads hostile. Big...”

“Don’t worry,” Record Wrecker replied to the aging canned Crusader as she handed me some gauze from the reward case behind the counter. “The turrets will deal with it. Keena! Gangrene! Wait before you go out! Big Helga might be hunting. Let the turrets chase her off before you go.”

“We ain’t got time for this shit!” Gangrene growled, staring through the glass on the doors into the darkness. “That ain’t look like Helga!” The Viper Queen pivoted and jumped away from the doors, screaming out fast naughty words. The doorway exploded, the turrets had no time to return fire. I wanted to rush to Gangrene’s side but she yelled for everyone to stay away. She raised The Compensator and loaded a shell, aiming it for the doorway. We were ready to face this, whatever it was. Personally, I was really hoping the turrets had just malfunctioned and exploded.

Clank. Clank. Clank. The metal sound was softened by the sound of flesh, but nothing could soften the sound of the massive diesel engine. An awful smell snaked into the arcade, like a hundred rotting corpses stuffed with soiled baby diapers. From the darkness and smoke came a rumbling beast on stilted, wheeled legs, a flesh covered chassis and a gatling laser mounted to its undercarriage. It didn’t matter how ugly it looked, Gangrene was ready to drop it with one shot from her rut stick; but she hesitated, and I couldn’t see what she saw up there, but her rifle barrel dipped down.

“Curbstomp?” Gangrene asked, her voice filled with horror.

That split second of hesitation was all it took; the machine opened fire upon the arcade.

BOOM!

~~~

Wow, you finally arrived at the den of the evil wizard. After what, 13 sessions? It has taken FOREVER for you to get this far. On the first major arc. This is just like one of those japaneighs cartoons, taking forever to get a single thing done! You know what, do not pass go, do not collect 200 dollars! You don’t level, so there! Hah, enjoy being level 9!

Also, I have to say, I enjoy watching what the others are doing compared to watching the main protagonist. Gosh, what a loser--His super power’s akin to getting kicked in the face for eternity and surviving it. At least I’m having fun...

What? I’m sadistic? How dare you call me sadistic! I’m the GM, I control the world! Do not argue with my wisdom or--What? Where did you get that photo? I swear, it was a phase! It’s a lie, it’s a natural part of growing up, it was peer pressure! Fine, you can have some exp! Just...Give me that photo...

Character Progress Review
Not like much has changed. No loot, no exp. Gear degradation.

O’ Captain, My Captain BY WALT WHITMAN--Used without permission.

Chapter 14: Spilled Milk

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“Spilled Milk”

You shouldn’t cry over it...

O’ Captain! My Captain! Rise up and hear the bells;
Rise up—for you the flag is flung—for you the bugle trills,
For you bouquets and ribbon’d wreaths—for you the shores a-crowding,
For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning;

Here Captain! Dear father!

The arm beneath your head!

It is some dream that on the deck,

You’ve fallen cold and dead.

Party hats and party-blowers, noisemakers and party-poppers; what lay behind me was a party fit for the lunacy befitting the curly pink-maned pony I could scarcely remember. All the robots back in that lot, at one point firing lasers, now had been repurposed to celebrate a party--complete with all the regalia of old. PNK-3 had rather easily reset the robots and installed a ‘party function’, causing the machines to enter a jubilant state of singing and playing loud music at which point party favors were produced. I left that misnomer of informal attendance swiftly behind in case the spritebot sought to crown me with a cheap, bedazzled, plastic tiara.

“I’m sure once the others hear this AWESOME party is going on they’ll rush in to help you! Just give them about fifteen minutes travel time, give or take half a tickle-tock!” PNK-3 was permanently optimistic, seeing the glass as half full no matter the circumstance. If the glass was filled with mud she’d more than likely declare that “It COULD be chocolate milk!” Oh, and I could be the queen of dairy products, Pinkie! “That’s udderly ridiculous, Steelgraft!” -- Yeah, mooooving on now.

Before I could make myself scarce, the pink robot thrust upon me a pie, double latticed and still steaming with the rich scent of apples. Standing there dumbfounded, the tin clinked against my horn as PNK-3 insisted it upon me. “It’s dangerous to go alone! Take this!” She stated, proffering upon me the pie and a bedazzled tiara. What the Tartarus was a pie going to do for me?

“I am not taking a pie into a bossfight,” I stated defiantly.

“But you can’t go to a party without bringing something! That’s just rude!” Which was just like me, I wagered. Still, as I tried to leave, she situated the pie in front of my face, wafting the nostalgia inspiring scent up to my nostrils. “Come on, it’ll come in handy! It’s BURSTING with flavor!”

“Fine,” said I in the most resolutely disgruntled fashion I could muster. “What’s the tiara for?” I immediately found regret for asking such a stupid question.

“It’ll look fabulous on you!” She chimed.

“It’s pink,” I observed. “Pink isn’t really my color.”

“Pink is everypony’s color, silly willy!” She gave a scoff, as if what I said was a gross, disgusting lie. “I can only think of a few things more fun than the color pink!”

“And I’m not one of them,” I muttered, absconding with her pie, now nestled firmly in my inventory. Somehow.

“You, unfun? Oh, come on, you know how to utilize hammerspace! That’s comical fun 101!” I stared at her as if she was crazy. “Where else would you store a pie?”

“In my pocket,” stated I. Obviously.

“Wow, you aren’t much without your muchness!” PNK-3 digressed, donning the bedazzled tiara with a giggle. That’s PNK-3 for you, so random, so...Pink. It was as if someone supplanted Pinkie Pie into a robot and told it to follow me around as some eternal punishment for a crime. Puppy kicking, again, maybe?

As refreshing as her unfettering positivity was, I felt it had no place in this world, and I knew that shouldn’t be the case. The Equestrian in me remembered some good times, where the reason for a party could just be to party. PNK-3 was programmed to remember that time, to help the past survive--She was a part of Equestria, its history and proof of its greatness and ingenuity. All that positive energy built up around half-remembered smiles came crashing down about my ears at the entrance of Tartarus’s kitchenette. The smelting facility was not likened to what was expected, like everything in this dark twist of the life I once claimed to know.

Serene, soft music filled the air along with the pungent aroma of machine oil and rancid meats. Tantalizing, the aroma danced on my tongue, making me salivate, something that prior I thought I was unable to do. I really needed therapy; Cannibalism was not part of a balanced, healthy, vegetarian diet.

This was a smelting facility, plain and simple, a decrepit industrial complex masquerading as something it could never be, a five star restaurant. Hickish and roughshod, the interior of the Baker Barbarian’s main hovel was a place no sane pony would call for reservations nor grant good review. This was a kitchen nightmare; the service was lethargic, neigh, nonexistent; the tacky, grotesque design clashed; the drink menu was limited to the flat, half empty bottles of Sparkle Cola littering the table; and worst of all, the table was covered in corpses. Cooked, dressed, and meticulously prepared corpses, but still CORPSES. All that I could forgive, all of it, if there wasn’t a live rat scurrying about, soiling all the plates. For as kill happy the raiders around here were, you’d think a rat would be a rabies-filled balloon in a pit of psychopathic sea-urchins.

Oh, and there, beneath my very hooves, a giant red carpet had been rolled out to greet me; Steelgraft: 2 Headcase: 5. He was still beating me, since he’d been right on most every other occasion. I was correct on two accounts thus far, leaving Headcase to scoff dismissively; “Even broken clocks are right twice a day...” Somepony sounds like he hates being wrong.

“But what if the clock’s hands are missing? Technically, it’s broken and can’t be right!” Victory was mine today, jarhead!

“Ugh, fine, your verbal whip is countenance to your unctuous charm.” He digressed me my point before making his own, “Just remember, you only need proof that Muffincake is dead. Chances are, judging by past results and current lack of aggressive response, I conclude the Warlord is likely dead already. Just take a trophy off of him and get out before you get embroiled in a less than genteel dialog. I think his head would be most satisfactory.”

“You want me to lop his head off? Now that’s just unsane-itary. ” I could hear an audience groan, and not just Headcase. The abjectly miserable captives with their cramped cages dangling over vats of boiling machine grease was an occasional source of sound, mostly blotted out by the music. They were too damn quiet for my liking, either they were beaten and hopeless or they were entranced by the song tickling my ears. We had to get them out of there somehow.

“Stop with the puns already,” my mind begged of me. Silly brain, you’re just along for the ride. Let. Me. Off. Oh, you can go anytime you’re ready!

Another point to Headcase (6); he was right. Dangling over the center of the table was the ugliest chandelier ever conceived, making generous use of the fat blob formerly known as Muffincake. His crispy body dripped with natural oils, saturating the table in gravy.

“Now that’s a lot of calories,” I said to myself, making both the voices in my head and Headcase groan in tandem. A chimed tone demanded my attention, blanketing my vision with an obtrusive update. Intel streamed down a swift list, goals assessed and checked off via an automated system.

Mission Complete: Baking Bad
Optional Mission, From Cradle To Grave: Unresolved.

Closing the screens prompted me to wonder who bothered naming my missions, Headcase was suspect. Cradle Robber, he jumped to mind, he had to be here, leering at me from the shadows...Also, where the buck was the music coming from?

“Observant as always,” Cradle Robber’s voice danced up my spine, raising a needling sensation. My EFS picked him up as two red blips, at the far end of the table. In plain sight, backlit by the furnace and caressed by the crepuscular lighting of crooked banquet candles loomed a beast, hardly dwarfed by the massive furnace just behind him. A mash between a minotaur and pony, the cybernetic meat freak had me wondering how I glazed over him in the first place. PP-012 was emblazoned on the minotaur’s forehead, identifying him as one of the Pony Prometheus models, part of the first elite line that supposedly started with members of my crew and flight team. Huge hands on massive pistons sat at the end of grotesquely modified forearms, thick as tree stumps, bolted to a housing fed by rubber hoses leading to a large pressure canister on his back. His visage was wreathed by the open kitchen behind him, arranged about the furnace were the chopping blocks and cluttery used to prepare the meals, everything was likely cooked in the furnace. Most novel of all, they used the bar molds for ingots to make pastries and bread.

Note to self: Pay better attention to HUD displays.

“You’ve finally arrived,” Spoke the vicious upper head to the conjoined duo. My attention was brought to the torso stitched between the minotaur’s shoulders; like an unnecessary add-on, slapped on post-production. He was the spoiler to the horse-drawn carriage. Coated in a black rubber suit, the stitched little tumor of a half-stallion was painfully ordinary, the number emblazoned on his chest: PP-011. “Why don’t you take a seat?” His voice plethoric with sarcastic tones, false kindness brooding under a desultory smile.

I glanced to the chair nearest to me and furthest from him. A tiny, embroidered, paper plaque read; ‘Captain’. “I’d rather stand.” I muttered snarkily, my voice echoing in the warehouse. “I won’t be staying for dinner, but I might have time to kick your...” Don’t say ass, he doesn’t have one! “...Dick.” Does it look like he has a dick, moron? “I mean, beat you up. To death. Yes, I’m going to beat you up ‘til you die.” Yep, you still got it, old boy.

Cradle Robber cupped a hoof to his chin, his glowing green orbs roaming the room as he tutted, shaking his head, “Oh Captain, my Captain, as inconsiderate as ever. An hour late and you greet me with threats? Organ Grinder, play something soft, lighten the mood.” He turned himself sideways, gesturing to the stage on our left, upon it were chained musicians and another cyberghoul. A third red dot filled my EFS, joining the multitudes of yellow, non-hostile dots.

How the hell did I miss seeing that?! “A Perception Score of 4, nimrod.” You know, I might be near-sighted. “No, not near-sighted, you’re just horribly unobservant!”

As with most Deadmare, he was fitted with something mundane made horror, in his case, he was a walking gramophone. Organ Pipes jutted from his body, and the horn of the gramophone resembled a flower blooming in a pile of weeds. This smooth, if somewhat atypically dressed creature in Canterlot dress looked more avant garde than warrior, and I was about to write him off as just some macabre flunkie until Headcase gasped. Maybe he was a huge fan of Clair de Luna, which the maestro played on his gramophone, leaving his chain-ganged musicians to stand in reserve.

“Three Gravelords?” Headcase said to me, his tone worried. “That’s PP-010, the funeral musician; Organ Grinder! Steelgraft, you’re in over your head. I’ve captured video and screencaps of Muffincake’s dead body; That’ll be adequate proof for the Mechanic to vouch for mission success. Abscond from the mission premises!” During his rambling, Organ Grinder eased from a piano-solo to full concerto, leading the captives into a haunting hymn of slow, wordless chorus. Everypony was singing, the musicians and the caged ponies that were previously silent in their cages. Yeah, that’s not the least bit creepy.

Time to leave.

“Would you look at the time,” said I, pretending to look at a wristwatch I clearly didn’t have. “Raincheck on that ass-kicking. I’ve got...A thing! Obligations. Gotta go pay your mother for that wonderful evening last weekend,” I stepped back from the table, not wanting him in my life. Sure, I wanted to kill Cradle Robber, but that was before I knew he was only the tip to the hirsute henchman iceberg. “It was fun, you know, the party...But I hear my common sense calling...And your mom.” Maybe he was more of a wart, or a mushroom on a treestump...

Belaying further action, the door behind me slammed shut with force, the latch locking with a series of wretched clicks. I wasn’t going out the way I came, not now, and any avenue of quick escape was closed up. Massive hole in the wall? Blocked with a large scrap dumpster. Open window over the walkway? The stairs to ascend the walkway were weighing down the aforementioned dumpster as scrap. Okay, so my odds were bad, three on one...Or was it two and a half on one? I couldn’t really consider Cradle Robber one, being less of a stallion.

“Nonsense, Captain, you just got here! Socialize, eat, make more jokes at the expense of my mother!” Cradle Robber gave a wide, languid gesture to the seat and the food set out. He didn’t at all seem angry, calmly taking an entree by the skull and pulping it over a waiting glass. Several of the ponies on the table were still faintly breathing, bound or pinned in place, the lucky ones were dead and cooked... This party sickened the Equestrian in me, the Deadmare on the other hoof, salivated.

Rend. Tear. Feast. Easily ignored at first, this three word blurb turned plaguing susurration. The pony nearest to me on the table was bleeding out, near death and already unconscious. Black drool hit the table under my chin and I bit my tongue when I slammed my maw shut and shook those dark thoughts from my mind. “Don’t feel so guilty, there’s nothing you can do to save them,” I thought bitterly, or was it just another voice that bickered in my skull?

“I’ll take it to go,” I said, my jaw clenching so hard I split my tongue against my teeth. Black ichor filled the bowl of my jaw, cascading down my chin to the lip of the table. The roiling black puddle sizzled against the cutlery, a testament to the heat of the smelter. The ‘food’ would never become tepid and I noticed several ponies collapsed in their cages, panting, too tired to sing, lips moving wordlessly beyond their control. “You know, how about I take them all, I’d hate to leave you with leftovers...” Wishful thinking, no chance they’d release their captives to me and let me on my merry way, still, worth a shot.

A brief exchange, one of threats and promises; He threatened to drop the remaining cages into their respective vats of oil if I didn’t sit down and I promised to shove him up the minotaur’s ass--Not really my most civil of verbal exchanges. Not wanting to be the cause of even more death on this foul night, I sat down, picking up a spoon and fork, one in either hoof. I was a rather disgruntled dinner guest, one that refused to eat. The music played gayly as a backdrop to this tense, awkward party while I entertained the prospect of jamming the dessert spoon into Cradle Robber’s sockets.

“What are you doing, Steelgraft?” Headcase was already on my case. “It’s not worth the risk! If they capture or kill you--”

Click. Host Terminated Connection. I love being able to do that.

Looks like it was party time, seeing all avenues of escape blocked off, I wagered even the windows were covered somehow, at least with bomb traps. It was a requirement for every evil lair, death traps and a seemingly inconspicuous, restraining chair. I took my seat suspiciously, half expecting the chair to jump or lock me in place. Surprise, it’s a regular crappy chair, made of crappy wood and held together with crappy, rusted nails bound in duct tape. The duct tape was a recent refurbishment.

“You think I’d sabotage your chair? I’m much more severe and direct.” The top head snorted while the lower one flicked their ears, staring at me with an incredulous expression. “Don’t you remember my Modus operandi?”

“Nope.”

“Pravum est cor omnium, ubi vos satus,” Cradle Robber spoke, using a dead language of all things. “The heart is where you start, it’s a New Roaman saying.”

“Using the dead language of latin,” I found it humorous, it was easy to tell he was utilizing some form of in-built auto-translator. “The heart is deceitful of all things, where you start with? Your Modus Operandi should be ‘pretend to be cultured, look like an ass’. “

Cradle Robber coughed into his hoof, quickly taking a sip from his glass. “Ah, you can remember your fascination with ancient languages, to think a moron like you can actually retain some form of knowledge.”

“I was an archaeologist before I was a soldier,” I reminded him.

“You were a pirate, Captain. A vile scallywag as vicious as they came.”

I was at a distinct disadvantage here, they both knew me, yet I didn’t recognize either of them and they expected me to know them. No formal introduction was given, only proving how horrible of a host Cradle Robber was. For as poor as their hosting was, they put a lot of work into imitating a proper high-society snafu, nailing the stiff and dull parts down with equal accuracy.

True to the emulation of the prim parties of delegates and politicians, this one hid its real purpose by facade. I wasn’t rubbing elbows with aristocrats, who had more money than morals; instead my hosts were psychopaths with more power than common decency. After some polite banter and introductions, of which I spent a majority pushing a disembodied eyeball around my plate, my mood for flat sparkle cola and gutcakes sullied by poor company. I was getting sick of small talk about the weather (Gloomy) and the traffic (Roamer) getting here.

“It’s a shame your little whore couldn’t make it,” Cradle Robber cooed. I tensed visibly. “Did she die or was she just not in the mood?” He was obviously talking about Gangrene.

He gave me an opening like a back-lit barn-side. I took it. “Your mother? I’m not sure.”

Cradle Robber cringed, drawing his teeth into a hard clench, speaking through them, “Not my mother, you little WORM! Your little bandit marefriend!” Quick to anger, the pint sized pimple was a dream to irritate.

“Oh, her,” I realized with mock innocence. “She’s going to be late, had to powder her horn and try on a few dresses.” Gangrene might come back with Keena or not at all. PNK-3 told me to trust them, to believe I wasn’t alone, that I had friends.

“It could be chocolate milk...It could be chocolate milk...”

“So we won’t be disturbed? That’s good,” Cradle Robber said, which chilled me with concern. “It’s so nice to finally see you again, what has it been, fifty years? Yes, a good fifty years since you died last. You have a bad habit of getting yourself killed.” He gave a pause, taking a sip from the wine glass before handing it off to his minotaur companion. “Do you remember Tomb Town?”

“Can’t say I recall,” I replied honestly, staring daggers at the both of them from over the table. I roamed my eyes up to the dangling dead warlord then back to the derptastic duo at the other end of the table. “So, you killed Muffincake. Why?” I had to get them talking, about something else. Getting the evil villain to monologue his exploits was a sure-fire way to buy some time to find an escape route or a way to kill him--Those vats of boiling oil and the massive smelter’s furnace were options, my eyes shopped around advantages as I kept the conversation rolling.

Cradle Robber seemed nonplussed by my dismissal, yet he was more than happy to gloat about his grand machinations in true supervillain fashion. “Ah, because it’s part of the natural order,” The sock puppet reject said. “Look there,” He gestured up to a painted mural on the foremare’s office; a pony being swallowed by the jaws of a hungry earth. Beneath this macabre symbol was written, ‘Deh Week Behcum Deh Eats.’--It was all painted blinding white over red. “The weak are devoured by the strong, even the Bakers revered natural order,” Cradle Robber licked his lips, picking a loose piece of flesh from his teeth. “Survival of the fittest. Not,” he gave pause to roll his head in gesture to Muffincake’s ballooned form, “The fattest.”

Honesty wasn’t the strong suit of these meat-machines, I trusted their explanation as a way to save face. Imagine, how would the rest of Detrot react if they found out the God King felt threatened by one of the Warlords? I accused the deadmare of such a thing.

“So, the dead feel fear,” I said, hoping to keep him talking. The foremare’s office was added to my prospective options, the levers inside operated the overhead crane as well as any mechanical controls. If I could pull any of those levers, it could dump the oil. “And then what, you’ll ride the table out on a wave of grease? Be practical--How do you get the captives out?” There’s. No. Couches. Right, the captives, I couldn’t pull out without them, Keena would be cross. Which cage held the Eternite kids? Unless they had aged rapidly over the past few days into emaciated, sedated adults they were not among the captives.

My accusation offended the meatfreak, who scoffed and surely would have popped a monocle at such an insinuation had he attained the class to don an aristocratic ensemble. “Afraid of him? Now, why would we fear him? His ambition simply exceeded his grasp, much like yours.” He was beating around the bush, not unlike the smooth cabinet officials in days of yore. Deflection with a question followed by a veiled threat; typical political circus. “I was as afraid of Muffincake as I am of you, Captain.”

“You don’t have to lie to me,” I trilled, “Having me so close is hazardous to your health.” Actually, I was an idiot for allowing MYSELF to get this close to him. Was I bluffing? Yes. Yes, I was bluffing. Fast-talking my way out of this was akin to avoiding Pinkie Pie on your birthday.

“Your affliction of gross stupidity is noncommutative.” Ouch. “Let me tell you now, you intrepid little worm, every inch you’ve wriggled was allowed by Hades’ good will. You’re not a threat.” He nickered jeeringly, patting his minotaur companion on the head before stroking him like a mustache twirling cartoon villain would a cat.

Curiosity bit me hard, knee-jerking my eyes back to the host. “Then why let me get this far?”

“That’s the whole point.” The beast licked his lips, grinning so wide I expected the top of his head to slide right off. “You don’t get it, do you? Do you have the faintest idea why I organized the biggest settlement raid ever seen since Tomb Town?”

“Hormone imbalance, geldy-boy?” I hazard this guess nonchalantly to my predicament, poking the bear relentlessly as it were. My declaration only made that half-mad half-corpse smile wider, showing blazingly white plastic.

“My, you’re eager to die,” Cradle Robber cooed, planting his hooves upon Tauros’s horns. Cradle Robber took a sip of pulped grey matter from his glass before swirling its chunky contents. “This is all for you, as usual you get to be the center of attention. Isn’t that nice?”

Tensing every servo, the cutlery in either hand crumpled, the head of the soup spoon splitting off and catching me under the chin. An eyebrow twitched indignantly. “For me? You shouldn’t have. You really, really shouldn’t have.” Angrily, I chucked my salad fork, breaking his drinking glass.

Cradle Robber snarled once, pausing ever so shortly to give a derogatory comment under his breath. He coughed lightly, forcing an insincere smile before he continued, his temper visibly constrained, “Hades, the God-King is willing to overlook your traitorous ways and welcome you back. You’ve already seen what we’re capable of, there’s no point in resisting.” Another veiled threat.

“After reviewing your offer, I say neigh!” I threw my plate next, Cradle Robber ducked down, casting me a stern glare. A spark between us, a forced connection, peer-to-peer was established. It was a feeling I recognized, he’d done this before, projecting his words right into my mind.

“You know what he does to traitors,” cooed the voice in my mind, “or have you forgotten Canterlot?”

Canterlot?

Reality flickered in and out, distorted by the candlelight flickering on the candelabras. White pillars met marble floors, jubilant music died in the air, an abyss, wide yet shallow, swallowed the warmth from my breath. Blood pooled under my bullet-ridden form, nails of iron pierced my lungs, forcing haggard breath to launch streaks of red.

“Of all the stallions to lose their conviction, it was you! Have you forgotten what they took from you?” Goldenblood said to me, filling my vision with his stern disappointment. “We shared the same dream!” His hurt expression sharpened vengefully, his hoof cupping under my chin roughly. “Why would you betray me now?!” He spat.

“Stick a cupcake in my eye,” said I in a strained voice, spraying bloody breath in his face.

He frowned, turning around, wiping my blood from his cheek using a red, monogrammed napkin. “Put in a call to Dr. Stable, tell him we found our precursor.” He sighed wistfully, as if he was aiming to push a great galleon with his lungs. “Psalm, give Operative Penance his severance.”

A piercing thump through my eye, deep into the soft flesh of my gray matter, scattering my thoughts across the nearby fountain. Dying--I was dying, greased by icy fate, my vision faded to a monotone kaleidoscope. My final thoughts were of my failure, to my best friend and to the Ministry Mares, and perhaps all of Equestria.

Goldenblood--That’s how I died, my best friend had me killed me. The more I knew, the less I wanted to know, true for much of my past. It didn’t make sense, none of it, it wasn’t congruent with how I remembered things or how I felt. Cradle Robber continued to tamper with my mind, triggering another memory with sanguinary susurration.

“Or perhaps you fancy an ascent up Tartarus Tower? Deadzone could always use an expansion!”

Fires erupted from the center of an ovoid obelisk, pulsing energy shook the ground. Displaced, my mind reeled to catch up. Bending like brittle stalks of wheat to harsh winds, skyscrapers bowed to the might of a tremorous shockwave. An ivory tower, double helix, climbed into the moon’s eclipse. Burning pain eviscerated every last thought that went through my mind, my body ashed against the curtain of hellfire. “Like Icarus, your waxen wings melt in the sun. You can not undo god.”

A floating head in a pickled-egg jar seized with crab-claws and hoisted me out of a black lake, speaking through garbled static. “Steelgraft! Focus! Your systems are unshielded against tampering! He’s triggering memory recall!” Headcase--Was that his name? He looked much better in life, for one, he wasn’t a head in a pickled egg jar. Another memory slammed into my own, another mind melding into the connection in efforts to insert itself between Cradle Robber and I.

“Interloper--Do not interfere!”

“Ooooo, a movie!” Chimed in another voice. A fourth entity pushed into the conference, straining the connection. “Oh, I wanna watch, can I, huh, huh, huh?” So much for privacy; we were all subject to the voyeuristic tendencies of PNK-3. “Oh, this one looks good! A medical drama!”

Figuratively, PNK-3 had stolen the remote from Cradle Robber, and she elected to choose a show more her speed. A brief hiccup occurred briefly between us, aligning a memory between Headcase and I.

A doctor’s office, small and cluttered with stark white walls not unlike the room I first awoke in, the only difference was the maneframe terminal and heavy black desk.

Looking through my host’s eyes, I saw scattered paperwork with chicken scratch scrawl in the borders, my host was assuredly a medical doctor. A phone was hot against his ear as he tangled himself in the cord tethered to the desk. “He’s not ready for deployment, mister Goldenblood. His memories are still an issue--”

“Can he fight?” There was a time when hearing that voice would have made me happy--Those times were long in the past.

“I...Suppose he’s combat ready, but-” my host sputtered, rolling his eyes thoughtfully among paperwork, hovering each stack of disarray up to quick scrutiny.

The answer over the phone was laconic. “Combat ready is sufficient.”

“My colleague, Doctor Steelgraft, is still reviewing the Steelpony report. There could be complications,” He sighed, hanging his head to rub his temples as the voice on the line berated him for his slow progress.

“There will be no complications, only results. I’ve supplied plenty of release candidates.” Goldenblood again, his tone terse.

My host sighed, hanging his head, “Yes.” He lifted up a form from the stack of papers, in bold at the header it read; Patient No. 39--Buttersquash. “Plenty of volunteers.”

Distinguishing faces from asses in these disjointed memory fragments made a roller coaster’s journey out of a non-linear path. White, crisp noise conjoined to thumping bass of irate anger pulsing into my mind. Seconds turned to eons.

Victims of us all.

Snap. That was either my sanity or my last nerve, perhaps both in tandem. The world came rushing back as anger filled the empty tankard of my soul, topping it with mouth-frothing rage. Sagged with interference, the connection was terminated--My iSeeU displayed a broken line icon between four tokens on my active call screen. Feedback boomed into a siren’s screeching, ringing my ears with screams beyond the mists.

Host terminated connection.

A distant boom of thunder far above the stratosphere shook the cracked window panes of the factory, awakening me to a more recently made familiar ring of Tartarus. The music jumped tempo and increased in speed, the sticky air billowed with gusts of heated steam pouring out of fat pipework. Yep, I was back in the dimly lit restaurant, poor company included.

Still seated, I found myself immobilized by the long table against my chair. Tauros and his midget tumor were methodically trotting over the table in my direction, kicking up entrees and occasionally polishing off any pony ‘entree’ unfortunately prone in their wake.

“So, you’ve escaped the black opal. Their interloping changes nothing, I have contingencies!” Infuriated at my escape from his mind-rape, the little control freak took it out on the table. In mouth salivating rage he let loose a stream of foul bile, the table blossoming with holes as the mucus turned the tableware into puddles. It was official, he was a pimple. A teeny, tiny pimple filled with acid.

“You liar,” I squirmed against the table, snarling in anger. “Those memories weren’t true, they can’t be! Goldenblood, he wouldn’t have done those things!” He wouldn’t have, couldn’t have, or worse, shouldn’t have. My world was coming apart at the seams--Headcase had tried to warn me, he had said Goldenblood’s project had gone too far, but why attribute malice when he was surely just misguided?

“Oh, no, those memories were real. Very real. I’m not surprised you’ve forgotten,” Cradle Robber drank in my pain and relished in my discomfort. “Betrayal is in you, your very nature. You betrayed Goldenblood so he had to make you quiet as the grave...But then he brought you back. He brought us all back, all of us his toys.” He let out a weak cackle, tilting his head back, “Goldenblood is the father of the Deadmare, and you its progenitor--Without your vengeance, your hatred for the world, there would be no us. Your ultimate betrayal was to all of Equestria. Look at us in our glory, we are revenge served cold, dead, neverending and eternal!”

The memory I’d seen belonging to Babs Seed in Donuts Extreme was dourly recalled. It all started with the rehabilitation directive spearheaded by Robronco. It was signed over to the Office of Interministry Affairs--At which point it became Project Second Wind, and something good was twisted sinister, evident by the horrors of Detrot.

Where did Second Wind go too far? When did it all go wrong? Goldenblood, whatever he had dreamed, it must have failed, and I had failed to stop him. This wasn’t the world we wanted, this isn’t what we had dreamed, old friend!

“So, what shall it be? Will you finally see the light and join us, Captain? Don’t you remember your dream? A world without death, pain, or suffering.” Cradle Robber gave a dull snort, “We just have to clear the pests off first--Then, then we can complete his grand design. Everything will be wiped clean; history unwritten, as if the war never happened.” A world without death, they just had to kill everything first.

My body went limp, my struggling ceased, and my mind was blanked momentarily of thoughts. Grief, I felt, was an appropriate response. I ground my teeth together hard, praying for tears to fill my eyes, to show me my equinity, but Deadmare cannot cry. We are monsters. I had no choice in any matter, each side wanted me to fulfill an obligation they felt owed; To destroy the Deadmare and free them their eternity or to join their ranks to wipe the planet clean. Then what? Destroying the Deadmare would remove one threat to the world, a world that I couldn’t debate was worth saving.

For the first time in my brief unlife, the voices were quiet, as if waiting for my answer. There was no gnashing or clashing of ideals or the pushing and pulling of my fractured id and ego. There was no Headcase badgering me, telling me what to do or guiding me. Just silence, leaving me the weight of the decision. It terrified me, being so alone.

“Well, what shall it be?” Cradle Robber encouraged me, his patience waning. “We are working to create a new Equestria, one without war, pain, or death. It will be beautiful, our reborn Equestria.”

The thing I missed most about Equestria was not her greenery or cheap breakfast cereals, but her smiling people. A nation of good friends and prosperity, where all were equal under the shared sky. This wasn’t my ideal Equestria, yet, I could not agree that the Deadmare were to make it any better.

Not all that inherited our Equestria were bad, far from it. Equestrians were in short supply, but they existed, and with them a sense of community, no matter how shallow. Gangrene, a mare who had been through the worst the world had given her still cared for others, she still fought to protect the young and the elderly. Keena was naive and idealistic, believing in friendship and charity. Standtall was dependable, honorable, and good--A real Steel Ranger whom even Applejack herself would approve(even if he did steal things from others, he more than made up for that).

“-make a better world,” Zone Control whispered in memoriam.

Equestria is not a place, but a state of mind, it is Harmony.

“Neigh,” said The Captain with a firm tone. “My Equestria is them.”

“Is that your final answer?” Cradle Robber beamed, making no attempt to mask his elation.

I did not utter another word, my eyes locked on him, a smile broke over my torn lips. I didn’t feel so alone anymore. “It really could be chocolate milk,” I smiled.

Our civil discourse was done, now that he knew I had no intention of joining him, he was seeking to end me, or worse, capture me. “Render him as inert as he is inept, honey bull!” Pet names, really? Some couples are joined at the hip, but rarely is that ever literal--At least now I knew they were dating, which was something I never wanted to know.

“Hey, I wonder how they make snoo-snoo!” a voice in my head erupted with mental images I could never scour free. Oh, so now they were starting up on me again! I think I preferred it when they were dead silent.

Tauros slammed down onto all fours and sling-shotted himself into a purple blur, horns lowered. His contingency was to beat me to a pulp. Oh Cradle Robber, I had such higher expectations of you!

I was only able to free one leg by the time he was nearly upon me. SATS went off, slowing time and granting me the clarity to catch the bull between his horns. Stiffening my foreleg, I let the force of the six-hundred pound beast splinter the gaudy, overstuffed wooden chair. My other foreleg joined the first and I regained footing, vaulting the bulk overhead to touch down hard.

CRUNCH! That didn’t sound healthy, all that weight came down on Cradle Robber, cracking his faceplate. Tauros was was slow to recover, both mouths catching generous helpings of floor, busting their chops and knocking a few teeth loose.

“You have some fight left in you!” Cradle Robber hissed, both heads spat out a tooth in unison, “Good! I’d hate for this to be quick!” He snapped at the maestro. “Where’s my music, Grinder?!”

“In music, timing is everything.” Said the augmented conductor cryptically. With a flicker of his horn’s magic the mesmerized victims began to play a harsh melody, hard with a foreboding, deep chorus. Lyrics were sung with focus and timing; not that I had time to reflect on the meaning of the words. Coming from the same creatures that consumed the flesh of the living to survive, it likely matched their abominable taste.

“Thrash now, Riot now
It's time to meet your vengeful dead
Thrash now, Riot now
It's time to break our bread”

“May I have this dance?” Cradle Robber sent his request with a hydraulic punch. Blazingly fast, his strike caught me hard center, smashing me into the table’s edge and tumbling me end over end. My fingers carved up thin, long curls of wood as I skid to recovery. That single punch had sent me from one end of that banquet table to the other, the open furnace just behind me singed my tattered coat tails.

In one stroke, Cradle Robber had caused enough damage to cripple one of my limbs. A damage indicator popped up, my crippled foreleg wobbling on a weakened joint. The panels on the back of my hands grew hot with an intense glow matching my anger, sputtering my carcass into overdrive, digging into power reserves and draining ambient death from the freshly slain victims.

I played with a loosened tooth, licking at it. “Crapth, there goeth my award-winnin’ thmile.” Eye for an eye, tooth for a tooth, that’s what they say.

“You’ve made an ill choice! Do you really think they’ll accept you?” He pointed with one of the minotaur’s heavy hands. “You’re an even bigger idiot than I thought if you believe you had a place among those insects!” He sneered.

“Well youth didth callth mesh a wurmth...Th...thh...thhhhh,” I spoke through the gap in my teeth, sending globs of spit everywhere. I was doing it to irritate him, I couldn’t imagine anything more irritating than being near someone that talked with such a lisp.

Cradle Robber did not find my comment the least bit funny, shrewdly flattening his lips into a discontent scowl. “Must you speak like that?” He shuddered, “That voice is just horrendous!”

“Yeah, sorry, I can’t even stand it anymore,” I relented.

“Thank you,” He said with a sigh. “But now, I fear pleasantries are over. I’m going to enjoy knocking out your teeth and doing unspeakable things to your every orifice.”

There was nothing pleasant about that rapid escalation. “What was that?”

“Oh, after I’m done beating you, I’m going to humiliate you with gratuitous penetration.” Cradle Robber accented this with a flex of the minotaur’s hips.

“Hey, hey!” The music stopped as I vehemently called a time out. “Do you have any standards? You’re going to rape me? Seriously?!”

“He has no standards,” Organ Grinder agreed. “He’s a special kind of evil.”

“He rode the short bus to evil school, huh?” I deadpanned. “Villains have really declined in quality. Rape jokes and mass murdering gambits. I’m lowering my expectations from this point on.”

“See,” interjected Organ Grinder, “I told you this would happen! You damage our hard-earned reputation. We’re not even evil, we’re morally ambiguous, but you go and ruin it for everyone by being infant-raping evil! It’s deplorable!”

Cradle Robber slapped his forehead, giving an indignant groan, “Not this again! Just play your silly music and let me complete my mission!” Organ Grinder agreed, though seemed unhappy. “Our fight begins after the first verse.” The music began to play once more, filling the air with dread.

“Thrash now, Riot now
It's time to meet your vengeful dead
Thrash now, Riot now
It's time to break our bread”

“Wait!” I shouted, just as the fight was about to commence. A fist-tipped pistion stopped just short of knocking my block off, the wind tossing my hair back.

“What is it now?!” Cradle Robber groaned as Tauros retracted his fist.

“Nothing,” I chuckled, “I just wanted to see if that would work.”

He officially hated me--Not only was I irritating, but I was also wasting his time. He sent a full force punch at my skull without hesitation, however, this time I was prepared, diving flat to the table and pulling out my knife, Alice, the blade hissing with dark whispers. Stalling allowed enough time for my SATS to recharge, which proved invaluable as it aided my throw. Shame my accuracy was horrible, leaving my intended target, Cradle Robber, unscathed as my vorpal blade sunk into the minotaur’s shoulder instead of the stallion’s juicy, glowing eye socket.

Fantastic! I still sucked at fighting for the most part, didn’t I? This titan had more experience and better upgrades and here I was going for a frontal assault. My ego was quite disappointed with my poor decision making skills.

I loved carnival games, one in particular was my favorite. It was one where you set a rubber chicken onto a tiny teeter totter then hit the other end with the mallet. The goal was to land the rubber chicken into a basket for a prize. It was all about skill, no luck involved, and the whole point was to win a tiny stuffed animal. Now I knew how the rubber chicken felt, Tauros having slammed one end of the table to vault me into the air, his whole point was to make me sad.

The ground tasted like blood and dirt, my body twisting into a crumpled heap as more leaks emerged along my stapled sides. I scarcely heard the mocking laughter over the ringing in my ears, nor could I see much of the world through the shattered screen of my iSeeU.

A frontal assault wouldn’t work, case and point; a few more hits like that and it was curtains. Knowing my luck they’d be argyle. Argyle print was so damn tacky, but I put it up in the bedroom because Recoil so loved the wedding gift her father gave. Options, I had options, one quickly hashed out plan saw me to the foremare’s office. Slap around the levers, diddle the controls, and dump the oil vats. Even then, it might not be enough to kill that punch-drunk titan.

Untangling my twisted legs, I jumped, narrowly avoiding another strike coming in, perching on the piston bar above the minotaur’s massive hand.

“Lucky runt,” hissed Cradle Robber.

“Skillful runt,” I argued, luck was never on my side. So far, so good! Over the shoulder and off onto the catwalk, halfway there to home free!

My ambitious wave crashed against the meatfreak’s open palm as he caught me from behind, whipping me back off the catwalk by my coat tails. This brief flight slammed me into the flabby, dangling body of Muffincake, swinging me into the ceiling to leave a misshapen contour of a ruggedly handsome, undead cyborg. “Just a minor setback...” I huffed, “Everything is according to plan.” Yes, I was at his mercy, exactly where he wanted me, and that meant he’d overestimate himself. He seemed like the gloating type, why finish this quickly when he could prolong his fun when he thought me helpless?

“Two arms, loser,” Cradle Robber chuckled, the minotaur’s digits flexing into the shape of an L on his forehead. “Are you even trying? I expected more!” He punished me by sending a telescoping punch up into me, sinking me further into the ceiling. Crunch. Another. Crunch. Another. Crunch. The beast reigned supreme at rock-paper-scissors, he always chose rock and he tore straight through my paper.

Stars danced around my head like a conga line, objecting to my unfair treatment of my coagulated brain-matter. If my brain could leave my body and find a less feckless host, it likely would, draining from either nostril as a soupy paste. A nosebleed, like the ones I used to get during the cold winter months. Could I even get those anymore, being undead? It’s the little things I miss; Nosebleeds and not getting fisted randomly. Yep, the little things. The universe’s cosmic outhouse wasn’t done raining down plop upon me by any stretch, the warlord’s fat, blubbery body exploded on the first strike and every blow thereafter was grinding fat organ paste into my white coat. My coat used to be white, right? I can’t seem to remember, perhaps a lovely shade of Thursday?

The voices in my head were knocked into senility, one was quoting Shakespearean quotation while my id was playing go fish with my instincts, instinct always ate all the cards. It must be quite the psychosis to personify every part of yourself as an entity--Sometimes it felt as if my heart was conglomerate of diverse memoirs, or fragments therein, all of them different but similar. Some of my memories didn’t even make sense at times, since I knew I never worked on a rockfarm or had at any point been a lesbian with a hoof fetish. Did I ever dance with an android named Lupei?

“Driftin' (Driftin') off to weep
Your regrets will find you
Wishin' (Wishin') you could sleep
And the joy of nightmares bind you”

“I’m almost saddened...” Cradle Robber sighed, looking up at the indent puttied with fat fuck and damaged cyborg. “Why would you fight for them? They hated us before the war, then when we were necessary we became heroes, then we were tried as traitors--But it didn’t end there. Look at us all now, Captain! We’re shadows of our former selves--We were weapons! They used us and yet you still, in death, turned against us for their sake!” The beast sent an open palm to peel my flattened body off the ceiling and delivered me hard into the table, audibly cracking sinew, bone and ancient formica.

Distinct imprints of my body left their mark on everything he tossed me into. The floor, that pillar, that other pillar, the side of the oil vat, to name a few locations now sporting a new Steelgraft indent; it was vogue, the new thing in retro-archaic industrial wall relief sculpting.

How many Deadmare does it take to paint a room? One, if you waylay them hard enough.

There was no skin left on my teeth to hold on by, and I wasn’t splitting hairs here, I was holding on only by a single thread. Yeah, this was a point I’d have to give to Headcase, he was right; as usual. Doubt he’d care much that I was keeping score if I was dead. For those of you that DO care(me), the score was; Steelgraft: 3, Headcase: 6

Speaking of the egghead in the pickle jar, he should be badgering me, demanding I flee. The only sound that came through was a soft crackle of a dead line ringing. Something was jamming my onboard radio, along with my communications. A blessing in disguise! Listening to Headcase complaining about my methods was the last thing I wanted to hear when I was close to doing the last thing I ever did.

What the hayseeds was Cradle Robber rambling about? None of it made sense to me! I knew nothing about my crew being tried as traitors, I could hardly remember any of them at all! My brain caught up with me, forcing syllables to sentences that came out with a stream of black ooze and splintered enamel.

“Shut up or start making sense,” I groaned, the chain coiled up over me, heavy and thick.

Sparks flittered around my battered wounds, I was falling apart, my flesh hanging in huge, tattered chunks. Beneath my flesh there was nothing but metal wreathed over bone, bolted and bound in place. Wires spat angry hisses of energy, dancing lights of embers across the concrete floor. No pain, no sensation, but I lamented the loss of my good looks.

“Pray now, beg now
Lay your sins to rest
Forget now, remember now
We're already dead”

“Sense, Captain? You didn’t protect us! Look at me, what you’ve made of me!” Cradle Robber raved, storming over to me on his ignoble steed, teeth gleaming. “And those weaklings you protect; Selfish, worthless, and weak!” He licked his lips. “You’d choose them over us!” He launched into another attack, a left jab, fast and heavy, snatching my unresponsive body up and bringing me down into the table, splintering it in half. Laminated particle board disintegrated to acid and abuse, littering the floor with plates, goblets, and cutlery, all somehow in pristine condition. Indigo must have sold them some wares, in all likelihood, who else had the audacity to collect miscellaneous indestructible objects?

Groaning, I dug up from the ballpit of splinters and pristine dinnerware. “I’ve met plenty I’d choose over you. Very, very many...” I rasped. I might even choose Key over him.

The siamese twins of sin were faster and stronger, I couldn’t reach the foremare’s office on hoof, he’d tear me apart. Finding my grip around one end of a heavy industrial chain, I judged its length and weight. The chain was long, I’d say a good fifty feet and heavy. Now that had a decent reach, enough to hit the Foremare’s office--Or come up short and leave me completely open to a sound beating.

“I don’t think this is a good plan,” spoke that little voice in the back of my head. I think at one point I called it common sense. Good, we’re doing it anyway! That little voice was buried deep, locked away in a pit of despair, gagged, and beaten with a dil--”Don’t you have someone to kill? Focus, dum dum.” Oh, right.

Backing up, I kept myself just out of his range, walking him forward to stand next to one of the vats, trailing the chain as I did. He thought little of it, a novelty, a security blanket to my tattered nerves. He drank in my broken appearance, marveling at how I hobbled back, half dragging myself. My act was convincing, enough to make him take it slow and enjoy the power he had over me.

“Thrash now, Riot now--”

“What’s the matter, little filly, all tuckered out?” Each meaty finger flexed, curling into slow fists. Tauros gave a dejected sigh, finding interest in looking elsewhere. Cradle Robber, however, was firmly enamored. “Are you hoping to trip me with that? I’ll snap it like a mort’s spine.” I shuddered at his imagery, shaking my head.

“Just biding my time,” I replied, waiting for SATS to cooldown, which was taking much longer than usual. It was too hot in here, and the brightness was near-blinding, compounding upon the difficulty of navigating my broken menu screen. My gear loadout was low on bang, boom, or pointy. Alice was hilt deep in the minotaur’s upper chest, I thought about what I may have on me and it prompted a response from my HUD. The device was decidedly finicky, many of the features were disabled by sonic interference. The inventory menu, however, worked, displaying its meager list with such a cheerful tone I could only imagine that it was quite proud of itself, being useful for a change.

Access Inventory;
Frag Mine(1)--Weapon--Looks like a salt lick. Coincidence?
Pinkie’s Pie--Weapon--Electrifying flavor! Zap-Apple Deluxe!
Deadly Mixture(1)--Drug--Inject directly to temple! Boom, headshot!
Magical Bandages--Healing--Boo-Boo Bandage and Nightmare Night Costume
Meeting Ponies--Magazine--+10 Speech; A coupon for ‘Cosmare’ is inside

Looks like the inventory had a sense of humor, granting brief descriptions of each item as if seen through the eyes of a sarcastic cynic. At least it didn’t have voice-over dialog! Lessee what we have to work with! Gee, that magazine for diplomacy would have come in handy ten minutes ago, said nopony ever! The frag mine looked like a salt lick, an ironic coincidence. If all else failed, maybe he’d bite down on it if I asked him nicely?

Why the buck was the pie listed as a weapon? That’s just absurd, there was no way--Wait, it was PNK-3, from past experience, that pie could very well be an engine of destruction capable of rending the very fabric of existence with its steamy, wholesome, apple goodness. It could also literally just be a pie. A pie meant to taste delicious and be thrown. I wasn’t desperate enough to stoop to pie flinging just yet.

Innovations I once thought inane were now paramount to my survival. I never thought I’d utilize the inventory feature in my iSeeU, such a superfluous addition to an already simple action. It just saved time, shaving precious fractions of a second off fumbling to grab something myself, grasping my items in its own magically generated field to prep them for use.

Action Queue
Use: Deadly Mixture
>Equip: Chain
>Delay action: 5 seconds
>Combat Action: Trigger SATS--Called Target; Foremare Control Panel
>Movement Action: Surf

“It's time to meet your vengeful dead--”

He took a step back, concern filling his features, “You really think I’m stupid? I know your game, you always pull something cute and clever. I’m not falling for it!”

“You’re too smart for me,” I mocked. My HUD went through its rotation, the drug was proffered to my temple in the blinks of an eye, triggering its pneumatic needle, then came the five second delay for my systems to utilize the combat enhancer.

The drug took effect; the neon blue tube was filled with a concoction known by the name of Cooldown, an incredibly toxic synthetic lubricant known for its incredible heat retention. SATS renewed once the coolant stabilized my overheating, lowering my internal temperatures to peak performance, ending my Overclocked state before burn out. Worst brainfreeze ever!

That’s when Cradle Robber charged, gripping the ground to launch himself, his other arm in reserve to deal a charged, steam spitting punch.

Coming in with a speed that rivaled the take-off of a Shadowbolt, there was no time to dodge, the window panes rattled and shattered as Tauros’s punch broke the sound barrier. SATS triggered prematurely under my prompt, lending up a meager counter to the monolithic impact, the internals of my left foreleg all but collapsed from the resounding impact, the sacrificed limb buckling like a crumple zone as I redirected the force away from my center of mass.

I cursed internally, my thoughts going at an intense speed to understand the blurs of the world around me, filled with flying debris and long, low sounds of music slowed to a crawl. I listed left, turning with the momentum into a spin to juke Tauros and line myself up for a clear shot of the Foremare’s control panel, leaving me to only circumvent the horizontal catwalk crossing over just in front of the wide window.

“---tiiiiiiiiimmmmme---toooooooo---brrrreeeeeaaaak---”

SATS hit cooldown again, just in the knick of time, allowing me to finish off my maneuver with a riposte, snapping the chain forward in an arc. The coiled chain jumped up, catching the contour of Tauros’s center and coiling about, binding around his midsection, drawing taut as his center was garroted. The pressure sent acid spewing from Cradle Robber’s mouth, saturating the air as he was whiplashed back mercilessly. The catwalk echoed a deathcry of twisting metal as the bulk of the minotaur was sent through it on path to the Foremare’s office just beyond.

The shock in their expressions as this unbelievable turn of events unfolded was forever burned into my brain as one of my favorite moments of my unlife. I love it when a great plan spontaneously forms out of mad desperation. (Even bad ideas were great ideas if they turned out favorably, in my opinion.)

Acid burns dotted the stallions mask as new fractures grew, spider legs on porcelain silk, and one of the frayed pressure hoses struck him intermittently on the side of his head. The chain compressed down to his spine, sizzling as acid seeped from the deep wound, squirting everywhere and melting metal to mush.

“Driftin' (Driftin') off to weep--”

Wordlessly, he tore free of the wrecked office, landing hard among the acid burns on unsure, but steady hooves. He looked more irate than damaged, his wounds second only to his bruised ego. “If that’s the best you can do--” He was interrupted mid-snarl by the release catches of the oil vats opening, pushing the massive pots over into the center of the factory.

“Your regrets will find you--”

Torrents of hot, bubbling oil came out in waves, washing away any evidence of the table or its decor. Cradle Robber and his lackey were blindsided by a large cage leaping out with the rushing oil, knocking him senseless as he was assaulted with the viscous, bubbling fluid.

I discovered the buoyancy of a formica table as well as my skills at surfing, both of which were competing in their horribleness. I wish the frantic screaming leaving my mouth was manly, but in iteration, they were shrill with panic as I flapped my forelegs to maintain balance on my rear hooves. Desperation lead me to Tauros, the only island above the pooling grease. From ruin to riches, interest on my investment was paid in combat equity. An attack of opportunity firm on the ugliest part of his anatomy, stomping right between his beady little eyes.

“--Wishin' (Wishin') you could sleep” The music continued to play, even as boiling oil lazily lapped over the edges of the stage.

The first attack I’d managed to land was enough to turn one of the heads into a gibbering drool mop of stupid. Sadly, the other head could still talk, and it began to badger me for trespassing. “Get off, you little gnat!” Cradle Robber hissed angrily, his words coming with a spew of acidic bile. Twisting out of the way, I lost my balance, slipping on a grease stain and falling to the bubbling black muck.

Do you know why you never wear a tie to a bar? Not only are most bars not business casual, but most bars had the tendency to get sluggish, as in hoofs a’plenty, and you never wanted to wear anything like a collar around your neck for fear it could be used against you. I had learned that the hard way, since I had once found bow-ties fashionable and the bars I attended were seedier than Apple Acres’ fields on Spring Seedapalooza. This was a lesson I’d pass on to Tauros by example.

Winding his noose necktie in my gauntlet for a firm grip, I stopped my fall just short of the bubbling heat breathing on the soles of my boots. Slobberknocked, the beast groaned drowsily, jaws agape, his open mouth making an adequate handle to leverage a fast and furious alley-oop.

I said ‘hello’ to Cradle Robber’s disbelief stricken face with a full metal cracker, ringing his bell with satisfaction several times in rapid succession. It made a satisfying ping against his mask, and the act of backhanding him was one longed for since I first heard his voice. Every strike pulled the noose taut, tossing and steering the dazed Tauros as he struggled to remain standing against the boiling tide of black.

Cradle Robber caught me in the temple with a wide legged sweep displacing not even a hair from my head. Add a comical squeak sound effect and it might be a bit more potent. His noodly appendages lacked the raw punching power of his massive conjoined twin, and due to design choices, Cradle Robber was out of his element. I however was perfectly positioned, a veritable Viceroy of Violence.

“Do you even know what a Viceroy is? It--” Sounds awesome and official. But. It. Means. That I’m about to exercise a royal decree upon his crown with utmost prejudice. I hate this guy, really, I do--If I were powered off hatred, I bet the heat coming off me would bake a potato. “...” I. Got. Nothing. “We really are dealing with a fraction of an idiot.” And I form the head!

Hatred fueled an impulse of hot lightning down my foreleg to slam steel hard into the center of Cradle Robber’s super punchable snout. It was literally built to be punchable. Looking at it made me want to punch it. It had to be punched. And so it was. His mask cracked like brittle china, the crumple zone that had once been his nose now sat an inch further back in his skull. A thick spew of black ichor sprayed from his nostrils, draining down the channels of my knuckles. His head snapped back, the sinew of his neck stretching, eyes flickering to vacancy. I sent his teeth an inch back into his skull to join his nose, jerking his head back into the pressurized container. He lost a few more plastic teeth, tumbling out from his glass jaw.

Only when my damaged arms drained my reserve power did he get a chance to retaliate. He chose to spew dialog. “You idiot! Do you know what you’ve done?!” Of course I did, I was claiming victory right now--This is how it ends for him.

“Pray now, beg now--”

“Shut up!” My demand came with instant ultimatum, my discourse in this debate rendered in bullet points made bludgeon. His rebuttal was to laugh while I performed facial deconstruction surgery with the blunt sides of my knuckles. Power bled out from my servos with every hard strike, over-extended and packed full of seething rage--And then I went for the coupe de grace. Plucking the handle of Alice from Tauros’s shoulder, I primed the blade to bring it down on Cradle Robber’s masked face. Lethargically, he gazed up at me, still giving that irritating, wheezing laugh.

“What’s so damned funny?” I demanded, holding Cradle Robber still for the decisive final blow.

“--Lay your sins to rest”

Rolling his head back, Cradle Robber only laughed hard through his broken mouth. “What happens when oil touches open flame?” A riddle in the middle of getting his block knocked in? Wait...Oh. Oh Horseapples at tea time.

“--We're already dead”

That verse, the end of the song, it was poignant as it was applicable to our situation. At that moment, perhaps in an ironic twist of fate, was when the oil pushed over the thresh of the furnace’s guard and slid into the furnace. I’ve made a grave mistake. No sooner had that thought shot acrossed my mind, the fire spread over the inky black lake, turning it into a roaring fire. I turned, abandoning my attack on Cradle Robber in order to make a mad leap for the catwalk. Black hooves held me back, Cradle Robber holding me firmly as he could, a crazed look in his bioluminescent eyes. In seconds, the fire was eating into Tauros, creeping up his body.

Lodging that knife into his eye would have been better had it been fatal, but my stroke was made shallow, the black black jutting down from his lower jaw. Still, he reeled back with a shrill hiss, releasing me to snatch freedom just as fire consumed his bodily form. A blind leap of faith, my eyes seared by blinding light, a needle of discomfort lodging into the back of my skull. Metal against metal, my digits gripping tight against railing, it was all I could do to trust that was the case, unable to see.

Pulling myself to safety, I clasped one of my hands over my ocular implant. Vision returned slowly, with vestiges of pain pulsing right into my nerves. The music lingered in the smokey air, turning to a cacophony of coughing and weak cries. Fire, it was everywhere, with thick smoke rising like a blanket, choking out the hypnotized creatures trapped in their cages. Blistering heat was rising fast, and with nowhere to go, it began to collect.

Damnit all, this was a disaster! How was I going to save them? One thing at a time--Quickly! I selected the medical bandages from my inventory using my iSeeU’s management function and queued up an action to bind it over my left eye. My body acted on impulse, possessed by my system to complete the task laid out. Now I could see. Sort of.

The music died as the stage below vanished into the blaze, and with its absence, the thralled ponies took hold of their senses and found themselves in dire need of help. Bawling and mewling, they threw themselves against the bars, stretching out their hooves for help, some going so far as to bite the bars themselves, no matter how futile the effort. The cages seemed enchanted, as not even the unicorns trapped among them could displace the bars or heavy lock.

“Think!” I am! “Think faster!” I’m trying!

Solutions, solutions, I flittered my gaze briefly about, exhausting my just recently cooled down SATS spell to grant me precious seconds to think. The heat was nearly unbearable, a temperature gauge hidden behind warning screens on my HUD detailed a temperature that--Oh, it’s only one-hundred and five degrees.

“That’s Celsius.”

Oh. Oh! That’s bad, the air temperature was too hot, they wouldn’t last but a minute, and even then, they’d need medical attention. What to do-what to--A rattle sounded ushered in the final nail to my conundrum coffin, the large metal beam of the overhead crane was coming down, taking the cages with it!

I leapt into action, trying to snatch one of the chains as it whipped slack, one slipped through my digits, another snapped at a weak link, and the third held firm, dragging me to the railing. Bracing myself, I dug in and held the cage, the flames licking at it hungrily. I tried to shut out the screams of agony, the smell of burning flesh, feathers, and fur filling my nostrils. I tried to ignore that bittersweet feeling of loss and enthusiasm with each life I failed to save.

My integrity steadily improved as my cursed body fed on the brightness leaving husks behind, and that gave me just enough strength to hold on for a moment longer. “No! No! NO!” Yes. Feed. Us.

Two cages burned in the oil, creatures marred by fire and oil desperately scaled one another to escape, limbs curling into black ash, reaching out to me, cursing, and crying. And then they died. The cage I’d captured fared little better, the bottom was heating up, causing pain as the heat of the air burned their lungs and singed their flesh. A few thousand pounds of steel and creatures hanging off the catwalk wasn’t doing any good either, leaving it a twisted mess, barely holding as it swayed.

WARNING: Power low

Whoever thought it cute to make my power notification an empty mug of apple cider should be injected with acid and fed to sharks. The order, however, had to be specific, as the sharks would no interest in an acid filled body.“You really are terrible.” I know!

“Save us! Please!” Cries from below.

My body sagged, collapsing on the catwalk. I lost grip with one gauntlet, now dangling the cage lower over the edge. The lights began to fade on my other gauntlet, the leering, craggy smiles losing their opulent sharpness as the bright yellow faded dark, giving one last final flicker of stubborn will. I locked my grip, seizing my gauntlet closed so it wouldn’t open.

That bought me three seconds before my ruined arm began to fall apart at the seams, the staples snapping off as the skin stretched over ruined metal tubing beneath. There was no scenario that ended with me saving them, there were, however, plenty of scenarios where holding on any longer would just serve to get me killed as well. No right choice, no wrong choice either. Holding them up, just over a fire was cruel, but letting them die? Letting myself die? Was this murder? No time for that, no time to think. Just act, act now or don’t act at all.

“I’m sorry,” the choice was made quickly. I unclasped my hand, causing the entire catwalk to lurch as its load dropped, screaming all the way. I imagined Keena’s flock burning among the cages.

Ignoring the sound of my own skin burning on the metal grating, I rolled onto my back. I couldn’t feel the pain, the sensation of burning, at most I could only feel a discomforting heat about my horn. The entire facility was crumbling in a fire so hot it weakened rusted iron and steel. A fire I made to defeat Cradle Robber and Tauros--And, well there was that third Gravelord. They were all dead, not in my wildest imagination could I believe even they could survive that fire.

I’m known to be wrong.

“I couldn’t have planned this better,” spoke a voice. This voice set my nerves on edge. The catwalk lurched and swayed as a heavy body landed. Half well-cooked steak, half metal machine, Cradle Robber and Tauros were crispy and burned in the third degree, with some errant flames flickering over their form. By Celestia’s flaming farts, he was hard to kill!

I sat up, getting back to my battered hooves, leaning against the twisted railing for balance.

“Don’t feel so bad,” Cradle Robber spoke, every word came with a billow of smoke. “I’d planned for something similar, but you outdid yourself. You’re your own worst enemy, Steelgraft.”

I don’t know what bothered me more, the fact that he was still alive or that he just called me by my proper name. Preparing for a fight, I snapped off a piece of the railing and brandished it.

“Oh, so cute! Defiant to the end.” He patronized me, grinning all the while. “Tell me, how does it feel to have a bleeding heart? Doesn’t it hurt knowing you can’t protect anyone? You can’t go against your purpose, Steelgraft.” It was the way he said my name, a mocking ring, straining his voice to sound childish.

“Stop your dawdling,” it was the maestro, Organ Grinder, behind me. “Grab him now, he absorbed enough life-force to cause a fuss, don’t let his talisman recharge his battery.” How hard were they to kill? Hard as me, I reckoned.

“How?” I demanded, “How are you both--”

“Alive? Not the proper term.” Cradle Robber rasped.

“Nine generously offered to lend us her portal entre,” Organ Grinder pitched in tersely. “She’s excited that you’ll be returning home soon.” Like Tartarus I was!

On cue, a rift opened on the far end of the catwalk, crackling with electric spiderlegs about its edges. A head popped out, adorned with twin tesla coils and a smile, which vanished from her stitched face as soon as a waft of black smoke curled into her eyes. The deep-red colored unicorn bayed and coughed, then sneezed most adorably before refocusing her eyes, both were bright and curious, though I’d wager there was something insidious attached to her head beyond the portal.

“Eeyuck! This place smells.” She made a sour face, balking and extending her tongue. The number PP-009 was tattooed onto her tongue. An odd place for her mark. He tongue rolled up fast at the sight of me, whacking her in the nose as she bleated out a tumbled jumble of words as she leapt out. There was nothing insidious attached to her(I make a habit of being wrong), she seemed normal, wearing a strapped and buckled outfit of rubber that covered almost every inch of her. Her tesla coils sparks occasionally, causing her messy hair to stand up on end, frizzing out wildly. By the time it settled a few seconds later, another pulse would cause it to spaz out like a million-legged, brown spider.

“Cap’n!” She squealed, rolling forward and falling flat on her face--Or she would have if she hadn’t turned into lightning as she struck the floor, portalling to tackle me. I maintained my balance, swinging my twisted railing bludgeon at the air. “Oh it’s so great to see you! I missed you!” I tried to use the railing as a pry bar to dislodge her.

“Feeling’s not mutual!” I snarled, finally prying her nuzzling face from mine and pushing her off. I swung at her, catching nothing but air as she sunk into the catwalk and repositioned herself with another fast zap of lightning, a confused expression screwing her face up. She gave a twitch. “Four?!” I stated in disbelief, “Four of you? That’s a little unfair!”

“What, did you think we’d come at you one at a time in descending numerical order?” Cradle Robber mocked, giving a sick, rasping laugh. “What do you think this was, a Saturday morning cartoon?”

I stayed silent even though I wanted to naively say ‘yes’.

Nine, as she had been called, let her expression fall to one of sullen concern. She took a step closer, but no further as I poised to strike. “What didja do to him?” She asked, flicking her attention to Cradle Robber and Tauros. Her face scrunched up, “Ugh, what happened to you? You’re all burn’t n’ battered!”

“I did to him what was necessary,” Cradle Robber claimed. Organ Grinder tossed his head into a shake and huffed. The half-corpse ignored the maestro and sneered, “I admit--Even in his cobbled together condition, the Captain was formidable. He surprised me. He won’t surprise me again.”

“It isn’t over until it’s over. If they put you in a corner, own that corner. Make them pay the toll to take that corner from you.” Rainbow Dash, you certainly had sound advice, her pep talks had me going through thick and thin, glad I remembered enough of what she said to keep focused even now.

Cornering me was the last thing they wanted to do, and all this banter was giving my power talisman enough time to recharge my internal battery. After failing to save those three cages worth of survivors, my integrity was at a decent quarter high--It should be higher, but there seemed to be some diminishing returns on life force retainment. My inventory screen was thrown open post haste, options galore positioned betwixt my eyes. Shopping, shopping, window shopping for options.

Access Inventory;
Frag Mine(1)--Weapon--Looks like a salt lick. Coincidence?
Pinkie’s Pie--Weapon--Electrifying flavor! Zap-Apple Deluxe!
Meeting Ponies--Magazine--+10 Speech; A coupon for ‘Cosmare’ is inside

I was down to three items. I’d almost forgotten about the pie, blunt force trauma did wondrous things to short term memory, I tell you. Here’s the challenge; daring escape utilizing a Frag Mine, Magazine, and a Pie, make it work! Rubbing these items together would likely result in a mess--This wasn’t a point and click adventure, afterall. Well, maybe rubbing the frag mine on Cradle Robber’s face would improve the situation. You know, briefly, before my skull left my shoulders from the retaliatory punch of his piston-armed boyfriend.

“Nine, dearest, the Captain has none of the memories of us; those were removed, remember? The mortals wanted him to fight us, afterall.” Organ Grinder flicked his head once more and snorted. “I suggest we take leave through the portal now--Lord Hades would be most unwelcome to waiting.”

“Those morts. How could they tinker with our Cap’n? Turning him against his friends was a bad thing to do.” Nine said in a wholly non-sarcastic and naive fashion. Friends, them? Maybe once, when we were alive, but now I couldn’t remember them. They also ate the living. Bad for the karma.

“Actually, you two go ahead. I’m not quite finished,” Cradle Robber said, his tone not at all suave or endearing. He wasn’t about to wine and dine me, and if they left us alone, I’d need another plunger. Post-coitus snuggles are a requirement for me and he didn’t seem like the snuggly type either.

“You didn’t snuggle with Key” He. Wanted. To. Now is not a good time!

“Are you serious? Succor to ice, it is a gainless endeavor. Need I remind you, Hades will be erasing his memories of this regardless. This is a fool’s errand.” Organ Grinder sounded disgusted.

“What’s he gonna do to Cap’n?” Nine asked, nose still wrinkled. “Yah shouldn’t beat up on him. He’s one of us. It’s not his fault the morts did things to his noggin’!”

Just keep talking, yup, don’t mind me, thinking up a way to slip out of this situation. Fighting my way out wasn’t an option, so that left either swimming through a flaming lake or fast-talking my way to freedom. That magazine would actually come in handy right about now--If I had the time to leaf through it! What, were they just going to let me sit down and leaf through a diplomacy magazine in the middle of a flaming factory? Not likely. Still, there was a ‘use’ option on my menu screen, taunting me. I clicked it.

Auto-Read Enabled. Temporary memory updated with pertinent information. Thankyou for using the Ministry of Arcane Science’s temporary literary distillation and upload system!

The magazine was vaporized from my inventory, in its place knowledge filled my mind with confidence. I knew just what to say to get what I wanted and more, the articles in that particular issue had an advice column with Iron Will, a well known minotaur motivational speaker of my day and era. He answered all the questions with catch phrases followed by brief, succinct explanations. ‘To get what you need--You gotta pay heed--To my excellent advice column!’

“I’m not done until I’ve had my satisfaction!” Cradle Robber argued. “I’ve waited too long for this!” Tauros beat his chest with a grunt, shaking his head. “Not you too! I’m not budging on this, I’m going to humiliate him!” His flustered tone and belligerent attitude was wearing on us all. He didn’t seem well liked, even by his allies.

“But his friends,” Organ Grinder began his rebuttal, “They--”

“Are dead,” Cradle Robber cut him off, “That new Roamer proved too much for them.”

An unexpected turn of events socked me in the gut, draining my confident air. A full-body sensation started at my ears and spread. It was a strange feeling, like frostbite and arthritis. Deadmare don’t feel, but still, it was there. Snippets of the magazine flashed through my mind freshly, like snow in the summer. I hung my head and let the railing drop from my grip, that feeling spread slowly into every corner of my body.

“He could be lying,” said a kind voice. “It could be chocolate milk!” It’s. Always. Mud.

The other two fell silent and Cradle Robber was smiling so viciously I could almost taste it.

“You’re lying!” My voice rang out loudly, over the flames, echoing hard off the smoldering walls. I spoke with force, enough to scatter the smoke and tossle the scant hair on Tauros’s skull. My vocal cords rattled in my gullet. “There’s no way!”

Cradle Robber’s laughter rang out loud, his own voice shooting back with enough force to make the entire catwalk shake. “And where were you?” He asked rhetorically. We both knew where I had been. The half corpse continued, occasionally tapping his hoof against Alice’s black handle protruding from his eye socket as he spoke. “You were here. Away from them. You left them unprotected. And for what? I think we both know.” Cradle gestured to my collar.

Oh Celestia in Asphodel, what had I done? “I had to stop you.”

Cradle Robber smirked. “Yet you failed. You couldn’t save anyone. You couldn’t save your wife, your child, your crew, or your friends!”

“You killed them!” I roared, blind to anything but the beast before me. Possessed by spite, I charged, screaming. BZAP! The scream caught in my throat, coupled with a full body spasm. I flopped like a fish, arcs of lightning dancing around my vision, leading my gaze to a tether between Nine and I. Twin coils zapped the air, syphoning the power straight from my battery. Dry; my icon displayed an empty mug. “What do you mean no Cider?! How could you run out?!” Voices, so many voices, none of them my own.

“Sorry, Cap’n,” Nine said softly, “But I can’t have you fighting us anymore.”

Cradle Robber flashed a broken, twisted grin, watching my worthless body lay prone. “Thank you, Nine, now he’ll be easier to handle,” Cradle Robber chimed pleasantly. “Now where was I? Oh yes, I was gloating at your most spectacular failure!” He coughed into his hoof, clearing his throat of acidic bile and phlegm. He cleared his throat a second time. “Captain, you killed them the same way you killed us. You started the fire.” He pointed at me with both hoof and meaty hand.

I left them all unprotected. I killed them. Me, it was all my fault. My only purpose is failure! I’d failed everypony I ever cared for, betrayed my best friend, Goldenblood, and didn’t save my crew or my new...Were they friends? Yes, they had been something like friends. It may not be wholly true or factual, but it is how I chose to remember them, as friends. If the fires raging below ate me from the hooves up, it’d be only a fraction of what I deserved for letting them down.

“Nine, Organ Grinder, your part in this is done. You may leave.” Cradle Robber said with a shooing motion. This made Nine stomp angrily, giving a pouty little huff you’d expect from a little filly demanding extra sweets.

“Come oooooon, we have stuff tah doooo!” Nine squeaked. “Cap’n needs fixin’ and so do you, mister meany! We can regenerate in Tartarus!”

“If he recovers his stamina as he is, Nine, do you think he wouldn’t take it as an open invitation to cause a ruckus?” Organ Grinder spoke calmly in that airy sophisticated tone. “Tauros is going to blank him first.” The maestro spun on his back wheels and made for the portal. “Don’t you fret, Nine, it only takes a minute. Our captain will soon be back to his old self. Right, Cradle Robber?”

Blanking? Whatever that was, it sounded bad.

“Yes, of course! Don’t doubt me now, my plan has been successful so far!” I had to agree with Cradle Robber, he’d put this together near flawlessly.

“Gangrene, Keena, guys...” I groaned, wanting to see them so badly. I wondered why Keena hadn’t warned them of the Roamer, she may not have been there at the time, so there was a chance she and that filly, Delightful Dirge, were still alive. For now. Even if I could move, the guilt alone would keep me floored.

“See?” Cradle Robber beamed. “Broken. Just like I planned! Hades said his will was resolute! Hah, there’s nopony I can’t break!” He licked his lips. “I’ll toss in some ‘quality assurance’.” He accentuated such words by having Tauros do a pelvic thrust lewdly. “Just to be sure.”

“You disgust me, Cradle.” Organ Grinder spoke, tilting his nose upwards sharply. “I’ll be adding that to the report. Hades will know.” His threat fell on deaf ears, I doubted Cradle Robber cared. The musician trotted to the portal, pausing ever so briefly to give a sudden, ‘oh-hoh’! “Try not to take too long, if you dawdle, you may find yourself out of the frying pan and into the fire.” He offered a final warning before he vanished through the sparking veil.

Nine glowered at Cradle Robber. “You made your point to him. He shoulda never let the morts get to him! Don’t rub it in, you’re just being cruel!”

“Why thankyou,” Cradle Robber grinned. “I do try! Now get going. Unless you want to stay and help me blank him?” Nine shrunk away from the suggestion, her eyes wide. She shook her head hard and fast, making her frizzy ball of mane spark.

“Nu-uh! I don’t wanna see what’s going on in his head,” Nine lightly prodded my cheek with a hoof, “No offense, Cap’n.” None taken, neither of us wanted part of what was happening in my mind.

“Then leave, you’re only in my way.”

“We can take him now, I’ll keep him drained! We don’t have to blank him!” Nine insisted.

“Don’t be so mortish, Nine. Hades ordered him blanked before we take him home.” Mortish as in mortals? That was disheartening, they had a negative slur against mortals and emotional attachment. Par for the course with the Deadmare and their ilk. My ilk.

Enough power returned to move a digit. Then an arm, slowly. Many of my HUD’s functions were inoperable. My temporary memory was filled with all the contents of that useless magazine, Meeting Ponies. “We could use this knowledge to make new friends!” One of the voices unhelpfully suggested. The only thing I found interesting among the articles was Iron Will’s advice column near the back. There was a particular pegasus who asked Iron Will for advice on how to get over the loss of a pet, Iron Will had so helpfully suggested; “Take the pain, make some gain!” Iron Will was very motivating, even on paper, and taking the advice out of context made it applicable to my situation albeit with poor scaling. Pets weren’t as valuable as all the friends you’ve ever known in a new life.

List of things I enjoy? Zero. I enjoy zero things right now.

“That’s an order, Nine.” Cradle put his hoof down hard, shaking the catwalk. “I don’t have time for your childish antics. Keep the portal open like a good lil filly and leave me to my mission.”

Nine’s cheeks flared up with words, puffing out her cheeks. She tossed her head, sputtering out a frustrated groan. “Fine! No blood pudding for you tonight!” The stitched ruddy red mare spun on her hooves and skipped through the portal. Very angry skipping, if you can believe that. Cradle Robber didn’t seem well liked among the throngs of our kind.

Several tense seconds passed, with Cradle staring at the portal as if to challenge anyone who dared to interrupt his task. Finally, content he wouldn’t be bothered he went about the usual fare of a supervillain, starting with gloating, of course. “Alone with you at last--There’s so much I want to talk about--But so little time!” I wondered what I had done to him to inspire so much hate, other than the obvious. The minotaur’s hefty hand seized about my skull and slammed me into the catwalk in the blink of an eye, “Ooops! Sorry, kind of a habit.” Cradle slapped his companion on the horn, “I meant pick him up, not smother him into the grating!”

Tauros mooed, scratching the center of his forehead. His acrid breath washed over my face as he leaned forward. The minotaur seemed discontent.

Stiff as a board, my rigid body refused to move, as if possessed by the grips of ice. Metal buckled and whined, creaking to the rattle of highly pressurized fluid in galvanized hoses. I’d resist now, but my cells were bone dry.

Tauros hefted me by the loosened scruff of my neck.

“If you could work up some tears, that’d be lovely!” Growled the tumor. “A few tears for your little friends? The ones you failed to protect.” That sickly ear to ear bare-fanged grin make me want to vomit. I spat instead.

“Oh...” Cradle Robber muttered, the spit rolling off his mask in fat, stringy globs. “This might do.” He scraped some off his cheek with a hoof. He was pleased with the viscous fluid, rubbing it between his hooves with a disgusting smile. “I’m going to need a LOT more, don’t you think?” Both meaty hands came to bear at either side of my temples, pistons hissing as pressure built to dangerous levels. “Maybe a bit of a squeeze!”

The sound of my skull fracturing was like thunder, muffling all other sound. Sparks and black ichor flowed from splits along my chin and lips, warning icons blared and filled my vision, my integrity was nearing a zero sum. Morosely, the minotaur mooed, studying me with a sullen expression before letting his head droop, soon to be followed by his ears. Poor bastard didn’t seem in the mood, but it was Cradle Robber running the show.

Tauros thumbed my horn, putting an uncomfortable pressure on it. Pain screeched through my body, a near alien sensation. “Do you know what I’m about to do to you?” Cradle Robber asked. The pressure lessened incrementally until I dropped hard to the catwalk, limp and damaged. “Since you’re in no state to ask, I’ll assume you can still hear.” Tauros slathered my fluids between his thick palms, greasing them up with a frothy lather. “I’m going to wipe your memory. You’ll be an empty husk. Don’t worry, your old memories are backed up. Those will be loaded in once we get you home.”

Oh thank goodness, I was worried they’d leave me as a vegetable. Good thing they weren’t leaving it there, no, they were adding in the good ole ‘turn the hero into his old evil self’ gimmick. I strained to move, eliciting only a spasm of muscles and servos. There was no escape, was there? I looked to the edge of the catwalk and the fires below, weighing my chances. The metal beneath me felt weak. Supports were giving way, the whole factory would collapse in on itself in time.

“Do you have any last requests?” Cradle cooed. “I’m a fan of the classics.”

“Yeah, could you kindly bite down on this frag mine after I arm it?” I thought. Not gonna happen. Was there any hope left, any reason to struggle? Was it more noble to fight til the end, enduring the slings and arrows of grand misfortune? Yes. Would going out in a blaze of glory be preferable to joining them? Yes.

“Why?” One word, last request. Just a few seconds and we’d go to oblivion together...

“Why what? That could mean so much! It could mean so little.” A snort left the half corpse and he rolled his head back with a guffaw. “Or it could mean exactly what I want it to mean!” He wrung his hooves together greedily. Cradle Robber conferred with Tauros, “Should we show him?” A brief pause. “I know you want to go home. We’ll go as soon as we’re done.” Another brief pause. Tauros grunted and let out a huff, shaking his head hard. “Don’t get an attitude with me!” A soft moo followed. “Fine, but I know you’re just stalling--” I visibly tensed. “--Tauros, you just don’t want to do anything for me anymore!” A plaintiff moo came soon after, allowing me a sigh of relief. “He won’t remember once Hades gets a hold of him. There’s no harm in it. I want him to remember we were friends once.”

They were too busy with each other to notice me gaining bearings, fiddling with what I had inside my coat. Out of all the junk I had, only one thing was powerful enough tip the scales in a favorable direction, The frag mine. Its one-time use nature was akin to putting all my marbles into one basket.

“That’s not how the saying goes, moron.” The little voice in my head teased. Eggs and marbles were both round, damnit, stop correcting me!

Inconspicuous clicks wound the dial until the proximity mine’s flashing indicator beeped...Oh, this was going to be a blast. One problem, proximity was in the name--Proximity meant ‘close’, as in, personal space, as in within throttling range. A minor problem--the catwalk wouldn’t survive it going off, it’d drop us both into the burning lake. Safety was an aftermarket commodity in the last ditch effort economy.

“We can blank him right after,” Cradle Robber squeed! “We won’t be late!” Tauros ambled over to my mostly prone form and neither took notice of my tampering, assuming I was crawling away. “Where do you think you’re going?” Came a low growl. A cloven hoof came down on me, pinning me to the grating. “You were going to try crawling for the portal? Oh, no, darling, you’re not fooling me!”

Unarmed, the frag mine was as good as a frisbee, and it hadn’t been set. Pinned, I writhed, cursing whatever forces of nature controlled fire, grilling lines like a hot dog (made of hay) in my pelt from this dirty, oily metal grating. Horizontal lines weren’t in this year! Or were they? Did anyone bother with fashion? Was it more fashionable in this day to kill someone’s friends and then rape them over a lake of fire? It was just then I thought of Gangrene wearing autumn colors.

“She was pretty, wasn’t she? Too bad she’s dead. She probably didn’t fancy you as anything more than a quick score.” Cradle Robber probed my thoughts, establishing a connection with me and cementing it. Fat fingers searched my coat, plucking the frag mine out and tossing it to the fire. “I’m in your head. I know everything-- You were going to use that to drop us into the fire.” Cradle tutted, waggling one of Tauros’s fingers to and fro, “Stop trying to be clever, you’re not good at it.”

Damnit, damnit, double damnit! I’d forgotten about our peer-to-peer! I thought he severed it, but I was still broadcasting! That was the only way he could have known. Cradle Robber gripped the knife in his face and wrenched it around, snapping his mask free of his face. It came down in a neat chunk, missing a section where the blade had torn his eye.

“You’re predictable,” The stallion said, jiggling the handle as the blade eschewed acid and black blood from a gaping socket. “You always have a trick or surprise.” The zebra stallion lowered his hoof, dropping Alice to the grating with a clatter. “I have a surprise of my own...” His face, what still remained of it, I recognized! He was from the portrait of my crewmates, the zebra standing next to the minotaur! Those honey-gold stripes!

I stared at his face studiously. His name danced on the tip of my tongue, but it flagged with only broken syllables. “Buh-wuh-fbrrt?!”

“You recognize me, but let us be certain you remember,” the zebra said softly, holding me still as he held me in a cold gaze, roughly stripping the bandages from my face. Tauros raised his hand, slick with my juices. He held it over my face as Cradle Grinned. “I’ll get inside you--One way or the other,” he cackled as the center of the minotaur’s palm split open, extruding a coupling that seized onto my horn and locked into the retaining bolt with a whurr. The fit was tight, lubed by my black blood, and the pressure made me claustrophobic. A second diode swung down over my iSeeU, taking a retinal scan.

iSeeU Access Granted
Hoofshaking peer-to-peer
Temporary memory compiled...100%
*Temporary files purged...
--Compiling short term memory...5%

“You like history, don’t you?” I heard his voice drifting away as the world fell into darkness, escorted by his soft, rolling laughter.

“Oh, wow, this has been a great chapter! Top notch! Not only did you get everyone killed, achieving a total party wipe, but you managed to empty your inventory of all useful items! All that’s left is that pie, erroneously named as a weapon. Whatever are you even going to use that pie for? Are you going to give him diabetes? What table do I roll on for that? Does it deal constitution damage within the first thirty years?”

“Oh, what was that? You wanted some Exp? I don’t think Exp works that way. You don’t get rewarded for abysmal failure! Wahahaha! Oh, you’re just precious!”--”Wait, what? You...Completed two quests? FINE! You do get some exp! Let’s just get you leveled up...Once you exit combat. Oh, you forgot? You can’t level up while in combat!”

Character Progress Review

O’ Captain, My Captain BY WALT WHITMAN--Used without permission

Chapter 15: Holiday Road

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"Holiday Road"

My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still,
My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will,
The ship is anchor’d safe and sound, its voyage closed and done,
From fearful trip the victor ship comes in with object won;

Exult O’ shores, and ring O’ bells!

But I with mournful tread,

Walk the deck my Captain lies,

Fallen cold and dead.

He stank twice as bad as a corpse, the addition of diesel fumes and sulphur made it somewhat bearable. For the second time, Curbstomp was dead by my actions, a bitter pill in a metal jacket to the forehead, dwarfing the hole of my previous prescription. The long-since retired Baker Barbarian’s skull hardly resembled anything that could be part of a pony’s anatomy.

The buck, when alive, had an aversion to soap that bordered on paranoia, accompanied by an unhealthy dose of aquaphobia. One time he did bathe, and that’s because I said I’d give him a blow if he did. Color me surprised when he came in smelling only musky--Still didn’t suck his dick, gotta have standards. He liked the kiss of consolation, though, so he started brushing his teeth at least once a week to try to get more. I missed those simpler times, when my biggest problems were the next big score or denying idiots access to my undercarriage. I’d give my left teat to go back a year, then I’d be content.

The poor bastard stood little chance against a well placed shot from the Compensator, splitting his carcass into two uneven, sparking chunks.

Shit. Everything was just shit. Let me recount the ways we’d been bucked sans courtesy reach around, shall we? House turned ash filled husk, my guy n’ gal pals mostly misplaced or dead, and to make matters worse, to top that suck-shit off, my favorite arcade cabinet had the Compensator halfway through it. That damn recoil was a jackhammer, in my normal state of mind, I’d imagine mounting a fake dick on the stock and making good use of the recoil, but I was far from my normal state of mind.

“Yah still itchin’ tah go find yer meal ticket, now?” Bitch Fit unwisely teased, standing abreast uncomfortably close. I shoved her away with a snort as I retrieved my cannon. Did she not see me skull bugger this thing with this ‘fuck off’ rifle? She had a major deathwish, and I had been wanting to polish her off for years. The timing had never been right...

“Got debts to pay,” I griped. “Not like you respect nothin’, Bitch.” Common sense urged me to dash out the door, if the deadmare had resources to spare for this, then Steelgraft was hilted raw. My maternal instincts twisted my horn to weather Bitch’s acidic smile a while longer. Had to check up on the kids first, Steelgraft wasn’t no two pump chump, he’d manage to hold on.

The former leader of the settlement where I once paid rent scoffed, turned her nose up, and rejoined her three skank-nurses. “Look, I appreciate him savin’ my fine keester,” She never appreciated anything, the liar, “but ain’t no sense going where that thing came from--He’s already dead.” She scrunched her nose, adding with a grunt, “you were late on rent this month.”

“Ash th’ rent, Bitch.” I snapped, working the stock of my gun back and forth until it popped free of the Dance Dance Pony arcade cabinet. All my high scores, gone forever, and there wasn’t another intact game like that in all of the Trot. Twenty-eight million, initials GXS, I made sure nopony took those initials off. Cost a ton of bits over the months...Small apples, big bushels, it’s the little things that really get me. She was really gone what little to remember her by vanished by the days.

Scattered, the other survivors were gathering together. So far, no dead bodies, and only minor injuries. Bitch Fit found laughter at the expense of Glazed Marshmallow, pinned between two arcade cabinets. The friendly Macitaur, the only one other than the Steel Ranger to not dive for cover, pried the cases apart to let the shaken mare squeeze free.

“MY ARCADE!” And it seemed Record Wrecker was unharmed, physically at least. That wasn’t saying much for the equity of her arcade. Her wild eyes peered through the smudged lenses of her aviator goggles as she dashed around in circles, her hooves laden with tattered paperwork in her futile attempt to take inventory. “MY EVERYTHING IS BROKEN! DON’T TOUCH ANYTHING!” She fled to the janitor’s closet, the only door in the building that wasn’t crooked before was now barely hanging on its hinges. It fell to the floor with a crash, “OH COME ON!”

“If only this place had been made with Stubbornite,” Said that one fat purple stallion, Indigo of Indigo’s Indestructibles, He tried to hawk his wares to the owner, offering to ‘rebuild the door’ with clipboards. He received a mop to the face for his troubles. “Perhaps now is a bad time, but next time, you mark my words, you’ll wish you had a Stubbornite door!” Did he ever quit? No, and from experience, I knew he hardly let an opportunity slip to make a sale. He was one of those special idiots that took no for an answer only if you’d buy something.

Giving the orange, panicked pegasus the dozen yards of hazard distance she needed, the (more sane)refugees began picking through their belongings and making sure everyone was at least kickin’. My assistance was limited to my own, the children first, two of which were already accounted for, Taffy and Shagrag were in the care of the neurotic hardly-mourning widower. I attributed it to the shock or denial. Frisky Fritter deserved gratitude, not that I’d risk showing it openly. I’ll bother them later, I had two other scamps to find first. Rebel and that little Dirge filly. They were by the reward counter last I saw. The same reward counter that was a complete wreck with piles of rewards, guns, and various other valuables scattered about! Crud! I took one frantic step before I felt a pair of hooves on my haunches.

Glazed was a blubbering mess and her embrace was unwelcomed with a flailing foreleg of my own. I winced, drawing in pained breath as I was forced to rest weight on my crippled foreleg. The urge to kick welled up inside me and I nearly did, cursing under my breath as my eyes watered.

“Whoa nelly, you be chill now, understand?” I grunted, granting the briefest of affections, my heart quaking in my chest. “You’re fine.” While I calmed the shaken girl down, my eyes scanned the area for Rebel Riot and the little filly Keena had brought in. The hippogriff herself was circling around, searching for the two among the rewards booth’s disarray.

“I see them!” Keena announced, pointing a helpful talon.

“ ‘Scuse me,” I muttered, extracting myself from Marshmallow’s blubbery, wet, sticky grip. I’m all for calming down some poor gal, but enough’s enough. I flashed my horn and heaved her weight, dealing her ass first at the first available target, tossing her at the obnoxiously titanic steel ranger. “Comfort this!”

Distraction removed, I left Standtall failing to console an emotional mare and scrambled over the counter to wade through wooden splinters and singed plushie stuffing. I joined Keena in her efforts to uncover the shifting lump under the pile of prizes, giving my horn a rest by using good old fashioned pony power.

“Hey! I need to inventory those, don’t break them!” Record Wrecker called over to me while she pointlessly swept up an aisle, she was missing the forest for the trees. Rolling my eyes, I regarded one of the split open plushies, a goofy grinning alligator without teeth, with a glare of contempt before throwing it at her.

“Everything’s totalled,” I sniped.

“You don’t have to make it worse!” Record babbled. “You still wanna borrow my gun, don’t you?” Her words made me recoil, my muzzle scrunching. With a bitter groan I rolled my eyes and began setting the prizes into heaps of ‘ruined’ and ‘salvageable’. One pile grew substantially faster than the other; Wrecker may need to stock up on more prizes if she ever re-opened.

“She’s serious?” Keena chirped. “She’s serious.” She answered herself glibly, still shoveling up prize plaques, half-melted rubber snakes, and false mustaches. You’d think Wrecker would run out of these stupid ten-ticket prizes, but she never did, she likely had crates of the worthless things in storage somewhere. “Couldn’t we just salvage the prizes later?” Keena asked.

Record Wrecker was adamant that the piles be segregated and not touching one another. With tandem sighs, we both chose to humor her with a half-hearted attempt to sift through the technicolor avalanche.

Whilst sifting through pencil toppers and name placards, a pristine grin beamed up at me framed in curly pink. I recognized it as the Pinkie Pie figurine that had once occupied the display case next to the Compensator, an adorable bauble with a steep price. How it escaped unscathed was a mystery, and even stranger, the words etched into the base where the pink pony stood. “Awareness! It was under ‘E’!” That made a lick spittle sense.

During my days in the bunker, under the oppressive gaze of my father, I’d done more than my fair share of “Approved” reading. Medical texts and great historical documents about the war. Of all the Ministry Mares, Pinkie Pie had been one of my least favorite to learn about, second only to Fluttershy. I pocketed that stupidly grinning figurine, figuring I could hawk it for caps and Record would be none the wiser, assuming it was lost.

My ear flickered and my nose itched. Twitch-A-Twitch.

“We’re digging in the wrong place!” I dove onto the pile of toys, ignoring Keena’s perplexed expression. “Here!” I tore the pile apart, unearthing the young treasures. Latent maternal instincts had honed my hooves into foal-seeking dowsing rods! Or something? Not really sure where the sudden inspiration to dig elsewhere had come from.

Rebel Riot was relieved to be discovered, even if he was rattling like a bag of caps. He had lain across the slate gray dapple filly, likely having taken her to the ground to shield her with his body. He gave a thousand-yard stare right through me. Poor bugger’d been overwhelmed, he was suffering from Shellshock, so I handled him as delicately as I could. The filly beneath him, Dirge, was it? She looked awful, malnourished, sick, and bearing the beginnings of an awful infection to a gash along her side, the flesh around the wound oozing. I mentally kicked myself, wishing to just look away--I had not the time nor the resources to spare helping her right now. Why did I look? Why couldn’t she have been older? I would feel less guilty if she were a decade older...

“Rebel, you’re alright. And Dirge?” I felt happy and relieved, moving to embrace them both, only to slam into an invisible obstacle.

Growl! An ominous, gravelly sound, not unlike tacks in a blender. Good feelings gone!

Snaking curls of smoke rose up from a three legged strider that revealed itself, prostrate before the children and scored with a half-dozen shrapenel wounds. Blood pooled in my mouth, I hadn’t felt the sting of pain, but only noticed that I had bitten my lip hard when I tasted copper. The rush of the previous fight rose up to tax my aching muscles with adrenaline, my body acted before I’d fully caught onto the situation. Compensator’s leg-length buck-knife bayonet settled between the cursed thing’s eyes.

“Back off,” I hissed, narrowing my eyes. My horn flickered, the safety clicked, the trigger flexed. “Now.” Why didn’t I just blast its head through its body? Simple--The recoil was a bitch, the kids were too close, and the ammo for this damn thing was scarce! Oh, was I pleased as pecker pie when it shuffled into a modest retreat, gulping at the air as it made pathetic attempts at words.

“No...” Croaked the sickly little filly. “Be a good girl...”

Was she talkin’ to me? Nope. The Strider backed off, heeding the call of her...Owner? Was this busted up reject a hacked model? I couldn’t tell, but typically, these things never removed their masks, so seeing its face lent to its equinity. It looked like a female version of Steelgraft, maneless, hornless, but with those same, striking blue eyes. I caught its gaze and I saw a glimmer of something deep. The eye is the window to the soul, they say, I don’t buy into that crap, but I could tell, easily, that it had some deeper understanding. Then it had to go and ruin it by saying something.

“Gan-Glee.” It said dumbly. Did the fugling just call me gangly? I was slender, spry, and lithe, not gangly! Smart mouthed bean can! Lucky that churchmouse Hippogriff and foal had vouched. It was protecting the filly. Why? Buck, kiss a gift horse on the mouth, get bit. Don’t question little blessings. Even as I stayed violence, I felt the judgemental gaze of Miss Pragmatic Perfect over my shoulder. Keena retreated a modest distance when the bayonet came an inch too close as I stowed the massive thing back over my shoulder.

“Curbstomp, is he...He’s...” Rebel was making use of his fancy large vocabulary.

“He’s dead,” I reassured him, finally embracing him now that the Strider was well out of the way. “And the Strider,” I shot a death glare at the docile beast, waving my gun at its general direction, “Knows better than to cross momma.”

Rebel sat up, moving off his charge to glance about. “The place is trashed.” Always the astute observer, this one. A shiver rolled across his body. Heat was draining from the arcade through the gaping doorway, into the frigid night outside. Dirge began shivering now that Rebel wasn’t keeping her warm. She complained wordlessly, whimpering as she curled up into a tight circle. If Fritter wasn’t already searching for a blanket, I’d be stuck doing that next.

“Yeah, but it ain’t so bad. Find some meds for Dirge N’ keep her warm. Help with clean-up after, if yah can.” My thoughts drifted to Record Wrecker battling a monolithic mess wielding nothing but a dust pan, a broom, and her signature, determined puffed cheeks. Shame we hadn’t all escaped the raid without losing something. While coyly lidding my gaze and chuckling, I added, “And I don’t mean sitting on her. You know, unless she doesn’t mind you gettin’ cozy on her.”

Rebel scrambled up, blushing from front to back, “Ah, s-sorry! I ain’t disrespectin’, honest! I was protectin’ yah!” He stammered, all while making my chest swell with pride. He was a good kid, I hope I had somethin’ to do with that.

Dirge only laughed, tapering off into a weak cough. “Thankyou. A-and it’s fine. It hurt when you knocked me down, but not as bad as getting blown up.” With Rebel’s help, she was able to stand, but she had to rest most her weight on him. Rebel toughly bore her weight.

“Gangrene, you’re not gunna get fragged an’...” He gulped, “Come back, are yah?”

Discerning what he meant punctured my swelling chest, letting out all the gathered pride as a sallow sigh. Didn’t wanna think about that none, dying and ending up like stinkass. I should of made sure to bury him or torch his corpse, no time to do so. No eulogy either. The only thing keeping me from breaking down at the very thought of hosting a mass funeral of my friends or coming back like Curbstomp and hurting my kids was watching Record Wrecker’s futile attempt to escort the bedraggled Strider out the front door with a broom like an unwanted stray.

“Out! You’re cutting up my carpet, out!” Record Wrecker bawled, smacking the thing upside the head, her provocative antics went ignored for the first half dozen wacks. When the three-legged killing machine had enough, it scaled one of the nearest walls(leaving massive scorch marks in the once cheerful murals) and hung from the ceiling. Record Wrecker’s broom swings came up a foot short, one wing flapping while the other strained in its sling. Angrily, she spiked the broom and then her straw hat.

She had bigger things to worry about, but I empathized with her desire to get that Deadmare out after that Roamer brought the boom. I had bigger apples to slice, and growing piles to mind, her problems seemed miniscule compared to mine, so she’d be on her own to deal with them.

“Don’t worry, it won’t happen. I’ll watch her back,” Keena assured. I had almost forgot she was there.

I nodded, with a flippant roll of my eyes, before turning to Rebel. “Just in case,” I added, drawing the small .38 special I’d neglected to return to Steelgraft, “You’ll have this. Just be sure to save a bullet for yourself--” I stopped there, unwilling to finish my thought. In training, my father always told me to save one bullet for myself. If you were unable to escape capture or suffering, that single bullet was a gift. Distancing myself from my father’s shadow, I amended my statement, “If anything tries to hurt you, point it and bite.” I set him up a box of ammo, leaving him with a paltry sum of ten rounds. Six loaded, four in reserve.

Rebel paled, his pastel blue face turning nearly an eggshell opaque, his eyes locked on the loaded firearm. Gingerly, he received the stock in his open mouth. For somepony that loved fixing boomsticks or playing with dangerous things, he was a bit gun shy--It probably had something to do with how his father died. I had planned to teach him how to shoot using Ol’ Gil, my shitty old Varmint Rifle, when he grew another hand taller, but it was time to set aside foalish things. It was time he got his first gun, even if it was stolen!

“Hmph...Hrrr rumph mph...” Mumbled my little tyke bomb.

“Don’t clop around or you’ll shoot your eye out,” I advised, leaving the colt unattended with the loaded weapon. I wouldn’t win any mother of the year awards, but you do whatcha can.

I spent little time scraping together some necessary supplies. Extra shells for the Compensator, a few improvised bandages, and of course, Steelgraft’s saddlebag, which was in Frisky Fritter’s possession. If only things were easy, but this ain’t candyland.

“No,” Said Frisky.

“What didja just say?” I demanded sourly.

The crippled stallion was refusing to give me Steelgraft’s bag. His bloodshot, beady eyes were filled with trepidation and worry. “Ah ain’t givin’ it tah yuh.”

“Like hell you aren’t,” I bayed, anger rising with my voice. The stallion raised his stump and shushed me before waving the flipper to the blanket bundles of fitfully sleeping foals. Okay, so yelling at the moron was woefully out of the question. Bastard picked a poor time to be greedy, you don’t screw around with a bandit--We fight dirty. My horn flickered, straining to ignite as a headache swam to the center of my forehead. Quivering, I lifted the duct taped sack off his back. Fritter leapt up and bit down on it, tugging it back.

“Nnnnn!” He grumbled stubbornly.

“That ain’t yours,” I reminded him. “Let go now n’ I’ll give you a bargain--You get to keep most your teeth!”

What a sight it must have been, the arcade wrecked, refugees huddled together to stave off the cold, and in the center, two ponies fighting over a duct tape reinforced bag of trinkets. We were less than gentle, yanking hard back and forth, until the bag split with a sick rip, spilling its contents. Frisky dove over the pile, scooping as much as he could underneath him.

Ding! There goes my patience. I was on him like ugly on his ass stamp, boxing his ears with my hooves. This beat down would continue until his stupid was reduced to acceptable levels, or until somepony peeled me off, the latter more likely. Whooping happily, Bitch Fit cheered me on, nearly waking the foals. Oh, so she wanted some too, did she? I was so punch drunk that I failed to notice the immense shadow looming until a twin pair of massive steel hooves stripped me from the stupid stallion.

“This nonsense stops,” Stated the steel ranger, “Now.”

I wasn’t gonna argue with something over three times my size, so the hooves stopped swinging, but a final insult left my lips in liquid form and struck the bloodied Frisky Fritter. “Next time, I reunite you with Zon--” That cruel phrase caught in my throat and left as a wheeze, metal pressing down on my back as I met the floor roughly.

“I won’t repeat myself,” growled the grizzled veteran.

CRACK! The Steel Ranger toppled sideways into a gaming cabinet, splintering it into a sparking mess. “Pick oan someain yer ain size, ye ruddy metal buckit!” Blathered the minotaur, one-handing his large rocket maul.

“That was unwise,” the ranger, Standtall, lived up to his namesake and stood a few inches taller than the minotaur, once he shuffled out from the arcade cabinet’s remains.

“Bein' a cowahrd's oonwise, specially roon a Mmmacitaur!”

“Do not let my calm demeanor,” Standtall began, calmly, until his voice broke, “Deceive you, cow. I am not in the mood to be called a coward.” He didn’t yell, instead, his voice grew sharp, more stern and cold. I’d heard plenty of voices like that, and generally, it meant somepony stepped in it big time.

“Ye interrupted a spat,” The bull snorted derisively, his disgust palpable on his heavy lips. “Ye choose fi’ets nae weel fittin' yer size, whit ah coward's folly.”

“I have no idea what you just said, but I feel I should be offended,” Said Standtall.

“Aye,” Affirmed the Macitaur, steam curling out of his nostrils. “Baha, yah moooof, Hauld me hammer, aam hammin' heem knuckled.” Handing off his comically - impractical hammer, the spotted goat struggled to drag it away from the potential fray.

Taffy stirred, and with arguing and fighting going on all around, began to cry--Shag Rag soon followed, rudely awoken, the otherwise street-wise colt began to sniffle. Up an at ‘em, faster than me, even on three hooves, Fritter, the punched stupid buck spun about, stumbling to address the crying foals. Unable to quiet them, he turned his ire upon the two largest creatures in the arcade.

“Carn sarn’it yah gits,” Frisky cursed. As angry as I was, Frisky was unmatched, his frothing lunacy pushed his small frame between the two titanic beasts. “Ain’t happenin’! Ya’ll ain’t fightin’ ahn she ain’t leavin’ neither!” He declared with gusto.

“That ain’t your choice to make, half-wit,” I quipped, levitating the supplies into my own saddlebag. I had to make a bit of room, and most of the things in the bag seemed like junk to me. Old journal pages, poetry and scribbles(The quillmare-ship looked eerily reminiscent of a certain tophat wearing ghoul’s), why would Steelgraft hold onto crap like this? It’d find a home balled up in a rubbish bin if it wasn’t already so neatly organized onto a clipboard. If anything, this confirmed a number of my suspicions about him--Zone and Fritter had confirmed another. Everything was steadily adding up, and my reasons for wanting to save Steelgraft multiplied.

I would make sure Star’s sacrifice would not be in vain.

Stone-faced, or the equivalent since he wore a helmet, Standtall loomed over the diminutive donut-baker. In my mind, I imagined him stomping the eyesore into the carpet like a cast-off fag. “You have no authority here, citizen.”

Ding! There goes my bell of patience, tolling again. “Neither do you,” I growled dangerously, horn flickering with cold indecision on whether to pick up the old crumpled box fastened with twine or to take hold of the Compensator and deform that oversized salad-bowl he called a helmet. “Drop the ‘tude or I toss your salad.”

“...You can’t handle the recoil.” Standtall replied firmly.

I motioned to the remains of the Roamer in the doorway, “Didn’t stop me before, but you’re right, I’ll have to find a bipod. Maybe after I’m done ventilating your corpse, I’ll pry your legs off and use those?” I wasn’t making any friends.

“You know,” Indigo promptly appeared, winding up with a sales pitch, “We could make a rudimentary bipod with enough clipboards--” I escorted the fat stallion from my sight with the barrel of the Compensator, shooting him a trigger-happy scowl. “Another time then!”

I expected the Minotaur to weigh in with the rest of the peanut gallery, but he was being cowed by an irate Record Wrecker who found him to be a much easier target than her last.

“Ach! Ooo! Mmmmnf! Lass, wot's yer problem? Gonnae-no 'at! Mercy!”

“No, no, no! You do not horse around! Do you understand me? I don’t care how big you are, mister!” Whack! Record Wrecker was in the foulest mood ever seen, punctuating every word with a crack of her broom. Normally, she’s cripplingly shy and very easy to bring to tears (Unless on a gaming binge)--But damn is she ever spicy when angry, and she’s allergic to stupidity in its most sincere form; males. Record chased the ducking minotaur off, herding him to the janitor’s closet. Moments later, only the minotaur returned, adorned in a pink, frilly apron much too small for him and holding a broom in his single hand, rather browbeat.

“Ach, wit’ah firecrackah.” He breathed. His goat companion bleated in agreement around a dust pan he noisily chewed.

“And don’t you DARE fire that gun inside here again, Gangrene, I’ve got more pink aprons!” Record Wrecker shouted from far back in the arcade. Her tone made me wince, buck, she was in a green apple mood.

Standtall stood silently, but I swear, I heard him chuckling under his breath.

“Fine, you guys suck anyway,” I neighed, levitating up the twine-fastened box only to have Frisky plant his single foreleg down upon it like an invader staking territory with a flag. I rolled my eyes, shrugged my shoulders, and turned away. It wasn’t my shit anyway, not like I needed it! If it was important, Steelgraft would get it back himself. “Come on Keena. Best get moving.”

Keena was where she shouldn’t be, making time to console the still-in-shock Glazed Marshmallow. Seems Standtall failed to fit the bill, no surprise there. Tartarus below, I didn’t even have the time to comfort my own, yet she made time for complete strangers, and a whore at that! Not that I disliked whores and strippers, but typically, Eternites looked down upon those who sold their bodies, even out of necessity. Keena was an oddity among their ranks, and not just because she was a Hippogriff.

“Where are you going, Gangrene?” Said Taffy from the blanket covered bench, rubbing tears and fitful sleep from her eyes. “Why are the big ponies so mad?”

“She’s abandoning you,” Frisky answered her, which only sprung more confusion into the little filly’s eyes. Shag-Rag followed suit, giving a sputtering cough as he tried in vain to choke back the swelling tide.

“W-what?!” They bawled.

Ding! These clowns were driving a train-sized rut-piston through my patience hole, working it over hard. The case-worker in my mind wanted nothing more than to break that damn ringer against Frisky’s skull. Without thinking, I lunged, my hooves coming just short of Frisky’s bloodied face as I swung them in fury.

“I’ll kill you, you dumbass! You’ll leave a dumb corpse and get pecked at by dumb birds!”

“Calm down, Gangrene! There’s no need for such violence!” Keena squawked. Where was she a minute ago when I was square dancing on his face?

“Oh, if you kill him, could I get his corpse?” Called Key from nearby, licking his lips free of something sticky. The twins had returned from a rather long bathroom break. Together. Do the math. Or don’t. Oh crotch-tits, bleach all the bathroom stalls! You never know what Key has or what he may have given his poor, seemingly more ordinary twin brother. Ordinary being a loose term when applied to the mirrored earth-pony twins.

“Not now, brother, we’re getting to the climax,” Spoke Lock crisply.

“I thought we already did,” Bemused Key.

“Seems we missed something big,” Lock hummed.

“The big thing is over there,” Key added. “It’s dead.”

“It appears to be Curbstomp.” Lock shrugged.

“No wonder I have no interest,” Key chimed, “He’s disgusting.” (Pot, meet kettle.)

The twins went back and forth as they always did, commenting on things with their dim tones. They once held short lived jobs as announcers for the Big Top’s fortnightly beat-down, a brawl where the fighter with the most wins at year’s end would get a ticket to challenge the owner of the Double-Beatdown Casino in New Pegas. Shame I never won enough fights, and shame they lost their job for frequent “Bathroom Breaks”.

I always entertained the notion that Frisky Fritter was a lecherous plot-hole that beat his wife, but never had I seen him raise a hoof, or lack thereof, at her or any other mare. He must not consider me a proper lady, because he hit me like any stallion would hit another, full on and without reservation. His stump split my lower lip near one of my piercings and would have knocked me flat on my ass if Keena hadn’t been holding me.

“Sit the buck down and shut it, yah stingy bitch!” Frisky scowled. “Let meh be perfectly clear. Ah don’t lahke yah, not one bit.”

Oh, how would I ever sleep at night? Quite well after I shot him and tossed his corpse into a dumpster, the stupid git!

“But the wool can’t be pulled over mah eyes, Ah know the kindah pony you really are.” He continued, uninterrupted. “Yah didn’t give two plops about that old robo-ghoul before. Mah wife had tah save him--You only cared about cher own! Mah...Mah wife...” He sucked in a deep breath and exhaled slowly.

“What, are we sharing our feelings? Here’s mine--She could have done better--” I pointed a hoof at Fritter, “Screw you,” I pointed at Standtall, “And...you!” I paused at the minotaur. “That apron looks good on you.” My outburst, sadly, went mostly ignored, with only the creepy twins snickering at my usual behavior.

“Yah told him yah wish yah never met him!” He shouted. “Ah know it! We all heard it! Thas why ah kin’t letcha go! Even if it kills meh, even if ahm the only one that says it! If you go, you die an these kids become somepony else’s problem! Personally, ah ain’t give two caps about yah, but ah ain’t trustin’ yer character. Yah said it yourself, the Captain was ah bad investment. What’s worth dyin’ for now? Did somethin’ change, or did nothin’ change at all?”

Bucking noser! “I dunno, asshole, was it a good investment? We finally got somethin’ in common!” I pulled away from Keena, shooting her a scrunched glare, daring her to touch me again. “People we loved went six feet. Doornail. Cold. All for what? For...For-” I grit my teeth, “An unkillable errand boy?!”

There was pain in Frisky’s eyes, “Then why r’ yah keepin’ on, if yah feel this way?”

He was seeing right through me! Credit where it’s due, he was sharper than I expected. Keep your head down and mind your own business, most were happy to do that. Clean snouts don’t scrunch, the saying goes. This asshole never learned that lesson, his snout was lined with scrunch-scars.

“The same reason you are, Frisky.” I spat on the ground, turning tail for the exit. “I’m seein’ this to the bitter end.” Dwindling were the things I had to remember the love of my life. The Dance Dance Pony game broken, our initials lost forever. All that remained were her dogtags and her legacy; Her investment into a better future for all Detrot and debt paid to the tophat adorned pegasus aptly named Nevermore. I’d had my suspicions, but now I knew for certain what Steelgraft was. He was left to me by Star Racer, a weapon worth a fortune that I couldn’t sell. Who would buy him now that Hades was targeting him?

“She could have just left us a fat pile of caps,” I thought. Some inheritance this was, foal-sitting the amnesiac enemy of the most powerful being in all of Detrot. How much would Hades give me for him? ”Kidding, kidding, sorta kidding.” Star Racer wouldn’t like it, but honestly, the thought did pass now and again, to cash out and move on.

With Keena abreast, I planned to leave these problems behind for a host of new ones. Steelgraft better appreciate this, and he better not be too screwed up or he wouldn’t be worth much! Damnit, I still couldn’t pawn him off once I got his contract annulled! Skipping out on such a score, one that could get us passage out of Detrot was a waste. Opportunity was knocking and I had to answer, then again, that nagging mare in my mind, the one calling itself a conscience, reared its morally obligated hooves to crush my selfish dreams.

We tread past the Roamer formerly known as Curbstomp. I recalled shedding a tear for him, not even I knew if they were disingenuous. I loved my kids, but that’s all I could care about anymore, that’s all the love I had left in my jaded, cold heart. Everypony else was a means to an end, acquaintances with varying degrees ranging from good for a fight to good for a rut.

“Goodbye, Curbstomp.” I whispered faintly so no-one could hear. Curbstomp’s lights were off, nobody was home, he was gone, and that monster was wearing his head. I just--Maybe he wasn’t all gone, he’d missed his shots. Deadmare were known to be accurate. We should all be dead, the arcade should be vaporized. Was it intentional? Had there been a ghost in the machine? He could have had his revenge, it was my fault he died in the first place.

Why couldn’t it just be black and white? I was a bandit, I should be bad, the wastes should have crushed every ounce of decency out of me as I struggled to survive. One standard, one limit to what I’d never do; a line. No children, no mothers, and I’d take in foals--Maybe I was what passed for a good pony now.

“No, Gangrene, you’re a bad pony,” I thought bitterly.

“Do not give credence to their words, I know you to be a good mare, Gangrene,” Keena chirped, staying alongside me as we crested over the fallen Roamer to breach the cold night. So naive, but she never had reason to believe me to be deceitful. Every time we had worked together it was in my best interest to play nice and even those times were few in number. Still, I didn’t like her--Not personally, seeing her pray or make generalizations about great happenings as ‘challenges’ from the gods grated on my rebellious nature. If they existed, who were they to challenge me? To judge me? Buck em’.

“The gods test those they love most, Gangrene,” Keena would always say. To which I would always wish that the gods would love us all less, if that was the case. Divinity in question was their nature, if they had such power that Keena claimed, then why would they allow evil? If they had power, yet refused to balm the wounds of the land, why call them good? I chose to believe they didn’t exist, and with that, coupled disdain for the Eternites.

“Yah hardly know me, Keena,” I sighed, leaving behind two bawling foals who felt abandoned--At no fault of my own. “You give me too much credit.”

“So, that’s your plan. A single Hippogriff, a hoof-full of supplies, and a rifle you can’t even fire accurately.” Standtall’s voice accompanied heavy, metallic hoof-falls and his fifty pound shadow across our backs.

“Hearing it like dat makes it sound like a bad plan.” I mused carelessly.

“Because it is,” Agreed the Steel Ranger. “Your idea to use me as a bipod was not.”

“Are you saying I get to take your legs?” I asked, a cruel grin flashing across my jaw as I turned to face the towering ranger. I must be nearing that special time of the month where I bled for about three days, because damn was I bloodthirsty!

“I’m saying you’re not the only ones with vested interest in the fall of the Warlord and his Deadmare Ringleaders.” Standtall growled deeply in his chest.

“Cut the gas, jack, and get to the blow,” I addressed, cutting through the middle man to get to the meat of the issue. “You want blood for blood, I dig that. I respect that--But what are you proposing?”

“Mount the anti-machine rifle to me, use me as a mobile bipod,” Standtall offered.

“You’d like that,” I accused, pointing a hoof at the tech-thieving bucket head. “You’d run off with that gun and go back to your cock sucking mili-tard friends!” In my mind, every Steel Ranger was nothing more than a tech-hoarding family of hobgoblins piled into fat cans. Then again, I knew what was under any armor, and that was just another fallible, selfish, worthless failure of a pony like every raider or ‘Friend’.

“You’re going out to help that stallion,” Standtall said certainly. “I need to get a statement from him to finish my report on this incident. Elder Haywire would like to meet this VIP from Phillydelphia.”

It wasn’t the fact I couldn’t trust him, it was the opposite. He couldn’t trust me as far as he could throw me, and given his size, he could hurl me a city block at least. This cheap tapestry of lies I’d carefully weaved was winding into a noose, and there was plenty of it there for me to dangle. Skepticism drawn across my face, I shared my concerns with Keena(leaving out the fact I lied to him a bunch), she was as usual, the irresponsible good cop to my irresistibly sexy bad cop. Keena mentioned her weight limit would be at its limit with my svelte badonk alone. She didn’t humor me when I suggested flapping her talons in junction with her wings.

“Alright, you’re in, you get no loot n’ you best not slow us down, pack mule!” I grinned. Standtall agreed to my reasonable terms with a silent nod. We saddled him down with most of our heavy stuff, keeping only what we couldn’t live without if he fell too far behind. Well, that wasn’t necessarily true, I did mount the Compensator to his armor, on the center mounting bracket so the barrel was aligned with the metal fin between his ears. His auto-mounter was broken, so it had to be done manually, leaving all manner of jokes to be expelled at his expense. “I bet you love getting manually mounted by a mare,” Being among my top five.

“You sound like Silver Tongue,” rumbled my stupid metal steed.

“Shut up, stupid metal steed!” I barked, adjusting the sights and stock to comfortably sit atop the Steel Ranger. “Hey, Keena, you be my spotter, alright? I’m gonna stay here and wear out my welcome,” Said I with glee, my ass pressed to searing cold metal, sending shivers up my spine. A guilty pleasure with every step, bucking firm metal into my unmentionables.

“That’s the scratch, awwww yeah!” I thought, leaving a line of drool along my stock.

Not half way down the road, a crash heralded the fall of heavy cloven hooves, and the emergence of the one-armed minotaur tailed by his goat companion. “Wa’et!” He hollered, closing the distance with a good fifteen foot skid. The apron hung from his chest by a single strap and his dopey goat friend wore a mop bucket on his head. “Bide, a’am comin' wi' ye!”

“Wouldn’t you rather just stay back?” Keena chirped with a worried tone. “You’ve lost a lot of blood.”

Saying this only made the splotched minotaur pale, likely a symptom of hypovolemia, his eyes glazed with a haunted look, ears flicking as they caught wind of a frustrated cry from Record Wrecker.

“Get back here, you have to clean up your mess!” Came the call of the rage-enthused mare. She stood at the exit of her arcade, screaming at the minotaur about personal responsibility.

“Eh'd raither die in battle than weaither 'er wark.” He said while stripping himself of the pink burden. The goat began to chew the mop bucket earnestly.

“Fine, fine!” I huffed, pointing ahead, “If nopony has any objections, take point and start running.”

Angus, the Macitaur, hesitated before shaking his head hard, shouldering his hammer. “We'll brin' up th' rear. Ah ainae keen oan gettin' in front ay 'at gin efter losin' me cranker.” He gave Standtall a terse, angered glare, seething a huff through bared teeth.

Dumbstruck, I shrugged, “Whatever.” No sense even trying to understand him, I wouldn’t have to deal with him long. Safety in numbers, even the one-armed minotaur would prove useful if he could still fight half as good as he used to. As for his goat, he was too stupid to die, as was the case with most doe-eyed beasts of burden. Like Steelgraft.

“Can we get going?” Keena asked from up high, cupping a talon over her beak. “I don’t want to be caught in a storm!”

“You heard her!” I growled, rapping my hoof against Standtall’s side quickly. “Giddy up-up!” He merely ‘hmmmed’ in response and went into a sudden gallop, nearly bucking me off. It took all my strength to hold on as his long stride ate up distance at an incredible pace. How something so big could move so fast was astounding, but he was a shock trooper, fast and durable and not much else. Mobility and firepower wins battles.

Our relatively diverse, dysfunctional party wasn’t destined to last, our dislike for each other stayed only by our dislike of a mutual enemy. We’d split up after this, as was typical with alliances in the wastes.

What’s this? It’s...Alive? I thought we died! Oh goodness, I’m so overjoyed! And...Are we doing this from the perspective of Gangrene? Oh! There’s more to come? Oh, it’s so fun following a narrative with a character bringing more than two brain cells to the task.

As overjoyed as I am to see this, I see a total party wipe as inevitable.

You know, being a companion, you don’t get EXP, but...You know what? Here. Here’s a song, for you. Now go get that unicorn!

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_nLiQBV6A7c

All glory to Calbeck, my other Proof Readers and Fans! The story is back and is scheduled for more regular updates, I promise.

O’ Captain, My Captain BY WALT WHITMAN--Used without permission.

Chapter 16: Mist Directions

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"Mist Directions"

True North is sometimes hard to find

Our endurance was tested, the weather worsened, and even without any snow, the cold front moving in froze all standing water along the wreckage we followed.

Any worry that we would get lost was dissolved by Keena’s tracking ability and the obvious path left for us by the Roamer, a straight shot through buildings that once stood as hollow husks now resembled half-collapsed tunnels. Any obstacle was swiftly knocked out of the way by the Macitaur’s massive hammer and explosive charges, saving us time and eliminating any detours. On straight aways, Standtall picked up speed, half dragging the wheezing Macitaur behind him. Occasionally, I worked up enough mental cognition, since I didn’t have to walk, to generate a medical spell. Renewed Vigor was one of the simplest in my repertoire to use, and it made sprinting miles at a time or flying long distances much easier.

“Ah feel loch Ah coods stomp radge yerd foo’evar!” Boomed the minotaur, his dunced goat companion flapping from his tail like a ragged flag.

“Good,” I muttered under my breath, “Now he’s not wheezing anymore.” If only I had a ‘silence is golden’ spell--Shutting him up would spare my brain from having to try to understand him.

Something that should have taken any one of us an hour took a fraction of the time, yet any kind words of encouragement were peppered with blatant vitriol. Keena was the only one among us with nothing but kind words to say, and in kind, no one said ill of her other than me, of course. It must be nice being a wet blanket.

We had distance to cover, and between stops to blast holes in blockades, the males found time for idle banter. Somehow, Standtall had found a subject that caught even my interests. “What is a Macitaur doing so far from their home?”

He confided in us that he was searching for a clan, it was part of his pilgrimage into adulthood. He had to find culture and comrades, learn a proper trade, do some soul searching, then return home a weathered minotaur. I don’t know what was more absurd, the fact that Macitaurs did not consider demolitions a proper trade, that his goat partner was able to help him translate his speech into ‘Common Folk Lip’, or that he chose Detrot of all places to travel to.

“Chose a crap place for soul-searching,” I spoke with a snort.

“Aye, perhaps ye right, controlled dit in thee, tois, a body!” Said Angus as he dropped the plunger connected to the dynamite. The air filled with debris and smoke with the eschewance of an old restaurant that had collapsed into our path. I always wondered what Swamp Water Casserole tasted like, as advertised by Gator Bite, the cajun style eatery depositing itself in ruins about us. “Noone's ever returned frae a pilgrimage tae th' rot. Aam plannin' oan bein' th' first.”

“Baaaaahaaaa!” Bayed the spotted goat as it picked up the plunger rod and began chewing on it fervently.

“Right,” I muttered softly. “Got the bar set pretty high.”

“Och aye, daein' weel mah third day!” Angus sounded proud.

“Bah!” The goat bayed.

“One limb down in three days is ‘doing well’? Are you delusional or just stupid and optimistic?” Standtall must gargle nails to sound that stern. Seriously, his voice was virtually galvanized. “We’re getting close to Big Top, we need to steer East to avoid getting caught.”

Angus scoffed dismissively.

“Detours take time, which is something we ain’t got in abundance!” I countered. “We kin run like hell and hope nothin’ made it out of the lockdown.” It was a gamble, but I knew that once the Blok closed its gates and the perimeter defenses turned on, there was no way in or out. We’d shut the gate behind us, and that irritating pink robot said that the gate would not be able to open.

“You don’t understand,” He insisted, refusing to budge an inch. “It’s not the Deadmare.”

An echoing boom shook the earth.

“Damnit Angus, stop screwing around with your hammer!” I snarled.

“Dorn’t look’it me!” Angus excused himself, holding up his exhausted plunger. His hammer was drawn across his back in its sling.

Then a dozen more earth shattering sounds followed. Keena flew up higher to get a better view of the situation.

“What’s going on?” I demanded.

“It’s Big Top!” Keena yelled, “It’s being hit with artillery! I can’t tell where from!”

“Don’t worry, I know where from,” I deduced, gritting my teeth, “Code Black, right?”

Standtall didn’t budge an inch, steady and still while the world rocked around us. “I’m surprised you know that,” Standtall cooly replied. “When a settlement gets overrun, this is the measure that has to be taken. Allowing it to exist just gives Hades a new launching point to take other settlements.”

“What about survivors?” Keena said, landing down roughly.

“We’re the survivors, Keena.” I reminded her, “But you!” I raised the barrel of the Compensator and brought it down onto his helmet with a resounding ‘DONG’! “What gives?! You called Code Black on my home, you ass-magnet!”

Standtall growled, his head dipping from the hard impact, “Your home is gone, Gangrene.” The blasts continued. Northside would keep shelling the settlement for sometime, until nothing remained but a war-torn crater. “It had to be done, for the good of the city! Don’t you understand, this is war, and we’re losing!”

“You idiot,” I grunted, “Call it off!”

“I can’t.” Standtall replied. “Comms are down.”

Code Black was the guaranteed death of a settlement, it meant that the Steel Rangers decided a settlement could not be saved, regardless of the state it was in. Just a reported sighting of a Deadmare at a settlement was enough to condemn it in some cases, a horror that Greenvale Heights nearly faced when Steelgraft had shown up at their doorstep. Fortunately, stipulations were in place, hacked and collared units were a grey area, and typically, as long as the hacked unit was turned over upon request(See: Demand) the settlement would be spared. Few settlements were well defended enough to be immune to the whims of the self-interested Steel Rangers. As with every Code Black, communication with the settlement and all units in the surrounding area had been severed until bombardment concluded. It was hard to keep shelling a settlement if the survivors had radio contact with you and were begging for a cease-fire, the silence was to insulate the artillery grunts and their superiors from ethical implication.

Sticking your hooves in your ears didn’t excuse you from taking responsibility, in my opinion, they were still murderers in my book. I and others like me coined a term for those willing to avoid active deployment by taking the soul-crushing job as Artillery-Operators. We called them the Firing Squad. Necessity was the mother of all cruelty. I always argued the necessity of leveling an entire city block to slay what might be no more than a dozen Dead Mare. In the case of Big Top, however, I digressed, it may have been a necessary evil.

Nothing was ever Black and White anymore, and teetering on the fence was getting to be a tiring balancing act. I just wanted to throw my chips sky high and see what side they landed on.

Bitterly, I bit my tongue, condemning Standtall silently. I wanted to scream at him, to angrily strip my provisions from him and walk. My emotions were far cry away from where they needed to be--My head needed to be in the game for the long run. For now, we needed the Steel Ranger, as much as I loathed to admit it. I’d find the first opportunity to be rid of him after tonight, if any of us survived.

“You’re not the only one that lost something,” Standtall said softly. His squad had been in there, or at least their remains had been. There was no time to carry out the dead, all were abandoned. The wounds were fresh, I abandoned a crate full of woe at the doorstep of that town, and now, they’d be nothing but ash. No one, not even Hades, could hurt them now. Standtall was right, he made the right call. He’d never hear me admit it, but I had the decency to drop it.

“Get moving,” I muttered, my mouth dry like cotton. “We’re not taking a detour.” He was going to see the bounty of his actions. So would I. The sound of booming artillery dogged every step, drowning out the sound of hoof falls and wing beats. The smell of pony ash in the air, ever present in Detrot, was now a thick soup, a meal all its own. Standtall was spared the coughing fits thanks to his armor’s filtration systems, but eventually those were overwhelmed. We came within a block of the old mall, the haze of heat baking off the shattered structure drove away the cold.

The closer we came, the more I wished the cold to return, to distract me from the shattering quakes rocking my body and the worry of misfire. The Artillery Grunts were known to send a payload wide. By the time we passed the mall completely, the shelling had stopped. Keena offered to survey the surroundings for movement of any kind. I didn’t think she’d find anything, but she did, carrying somepony in her talons.

They were an earth pony, badly burned, bleeding, and likely deaf from the shelling. My ears were still ringing, too, and I had some buffer distance. The hippogriff was concerned about the pony she’d found, and under the ash she wiped off him with a torn piece of rag, starting at his face and moving down over his shoulder to their flank. He was a gaunt, sickly, and malnourished thing with purple fur. His bloody, black mane stuck to his face and one of his ears had a perfect bite mark in it. His cutie mark was a pickle jar, meaning he could have been a vendor at Big Top. I didn’t recognize him personally.

“Keena, we don’t have time!” I growled, having assessed his injuries. They were beyond what a ‘quick fix’ of a potion could cure. She was supposed to be scouting, not bringing back another problem! The hippogriff gave me a cross look before she went back to fawning over the stallion. She’d already upturned a potion to his lips, wasting half the potion before I could seize it with my magic and replace the topper. “Damnit, Keena! We’ll come back for him later!” That was an empty promise, I expected him to die from exposure, another “oh-well” of the wasteland.

“What if we don’t come back?” Keena argued, snatching for the bottle and wrestling it against my grip. “He needs help!”

“More help than we can give.” Standtall added, “And we have no provisions to spare.”

My mind went blank for a moment, in shock that I’d taken the same stance as Standtall. I grit my teeth, mentally kicking myself as I let Keena take the potion. No! I was not about to agree with him, even if I knew he was right! I’d spare a potion just not to agree with the bastard.

“I knew you were a good pony,” Keena chirped before popping the cork and helping the stallion sit up to quaff the rest of the potion. My teeth ground hard as I stared daggers at her; that wasn’t it at all! The stallion coughed, sputtering as he fully came to, his eyes fluttering open. The last few dregs of the potion ended up rolling down his chin and onto his chest, wasted. “Hey there, don’t worry, you’re safe now,” Keena consoled the startled stallion. The churchmouse began to unload her frock of her rations and medical supplies, giving him no less than half! She was trying to give me an aneurysm! That’s it, Keena was banned from holding onto any supplies!

“That was generous of you.” Standtall hummed, “Offering aid to an enemy.” My mouth opened to ask what he was on about when I spotted it; the only item on the stallion’s person was a single torn muffin cake box. I’d made a mistake.

“Oh, for the love of...” I groaned, slapping my forehead hard with a hoof. “Keena, he’s a raider, he’ll find a weapon n’ go round robbin’ folk n’ killin’ em too!”

“Like you, Gangrene?” Keena countered, leaving me disarmed. Didn’t she know what I did was different? I robbed merchants too dumb to travel with caravan guards and killed raiders, not random travelers--Well, okay, I did all that, but I never really--Well, okay, I killed them if they resisted, but what I did was totally different! I had the decency to not eat my kills!

Before I could correct Keena’s mistake by turning the purple pony into red mush, he had skedaddled with all of Keena’s supplies, darting right between Angus’s legs. Seems he had the sense to realize he was unwelcome.

I gave Angus a mean look. “Why the buck didn’t you stop him?!”

“Coz 'at was funay tae watch.” He rumbled with a careless shrug before bursting into laughter. I was surrounded on all sides by idiots!

“What a waste,” Standtall muttered.

“Do you have any idea what you’ve done?!” I shrieked, tearing at my mane.

“I know precisely what I did.” Keena spoke with a sharp, defiant tone. “I saved a life.”

My rage was held back by my puffing cheeks, my muzzle scrunched as my mind processed the stupid drivel leaving that hippogriff’s beak. “This is why I hate working with you!” I blurted. “We needed those supplies! Do you even care about us? Standtall’s with me! Back me up, Angus!”

“Th' lassie did whit she thooght was reit.” Angus shrugged, trudging onto the beaten path. “What's dain is dain.”

“See, you can’t understand a word he says, but he totes ‘grees with Gangrene!” I figured, flailing my good foreleg at the air. “Next time, shoot the raider!”

Keena took a step back, looking at her talons, “I am sorry. I care about you.” She sighed softly, “Next time, I promise, I won’t let us lose any more supplies.” She made a show of crossing her heart with a single talon and made a motion of sticking a something in her eye.

“What?” I huffed at Standtall, “Do I gotta stick a cap in you? Mush!”

Standtall merely sighed as he worked his way back into a heavy trot.

There were limits to what a scout, a demolitions expert, a lightning bruiser, and a medic could do, and we found our limit at the mouth of Nommage Valley. From here on, there was no trail left by the Roamer, and no evidence of where to go.

“Well,” I grunted, “Where’s those amazing tracking skills you boast about, Keena?”

“I need to fly higher to get a better view,” Keena chirped, shooting me a cross look. “Try not to argue too much, would you?” Her request was directed mostly at me, but was met with a heavy rolling of eyes and snorts from all of us.

The hippogriff disappeared from sight to find a heading. She had to contend with rolling fog, coming in from the Eastern harbor that settled in the recessed bowl of Nommage Valley’s industrial park. Good luck seeing anything through that fog, even I doubted Keena’s eyes.

“Would you mind being more subtle with that infernal grinding?” Standtall finally complained.

I didn’t even pause, rubbing my rump back and forth over his armored back. “I’m just tryin’ to get this assplate warm again,” I half-lied, biting my tongue piercing. The whipping winds were frosty, and I was the only one not wearing anything, so I had to keep warm somehow.

“I can hear you panting,” Standtall added, rather put off.

“D-don’t be such a prude, you won’t have tah deal with me long--Juss til after we save Staple-Face and bury that warlord and his flunkies...”

“Ur ‘til weh die.” Interjected the minotaur. For once, I was able to understand him.

“Beh.” Bleated the goat.

“Aam tryin' tae spick normal folk gab, Baha--taint mah faut yer lessons ainae th' bess.” Well, that moment of clarity was short lived. Back to ignoring him.

Rata-tat-tat!

Keena returned, russet feathers misty with flakes of ice, her gun held firmly in ice-bleached talons. “I could hardly make anything out in this fog.” She squawked, landing firmly on the broken asphalt. She popped the slide on her rifle and checked the ammo in her clips. She must have been low, she had a habit of making sure she went into a fight with a full clip. She swapped out for one of her reserve clips and holstered her weapon.

“Raider contact?” Asked Standtall.

“Yes, I think. It was hard to make out, but I definitely shot someone.” She spoke hollowly. Well, she did promise to shoot the next raider she saw. This Eternite was supposed to be the moral center of our (temporary)group, but she was merely a sanctimonious trigger-finger, cherry picking the times to be wholesome and good between bouts of sociopathy. I loved her bouts of sociopathy. If only she knew how to keep that switch flipped, then she’d be a threat.

“So you just shot them?” Standtall asked casually. “Were you certain they were a raider?”

With a thoughtful moment of reflection, it dawned on Keena that she may have just shot somepony without knowing for sure. Worse yet, she may have shot the only pony around who might have directions! Chances were, however, if you were in Nommage Valley, you were in league with them or about to become lunch.

“Oh crackers, I never considered--I was just trying to--” She lamented, in genuine talon biting worry. I thought beaks tended to make griffins look severe, yet she managed to pull off malleable expressions. She looked really, really sad right now, much to my glee.

“We ain’t faultin’ you for having an itchy trigger talon,” I snarked. “Better safe than sorry, but if they’re alive, we could use some directions. And if they are a raider...”

“Then finish them off.” Standtall stated.

Did we just agree on something again? The notion made me feel sick enough to reconsider my stance--I might swing my vote if it came down to it. “Yeah, but you’ll have to do it, Keena, my ammo’s too pricey.”

The hippogriff swallowed at the lump in her throat and coughed. “What if it’s not a raider?” Keena asked, her eyes wider than her loud-assed beak. She really should have thought of that before blowing some sorry-assed sap away with her rifle.

“A bullet cures all wounds,” I chimed, delighting in the way her expression paled through her russet plumage. I sighed. Better play nice. “We’ll bandage em’ up and give em’ a lolli and they’ll live happily ever after.” I begrudgingly grumbled.

“I’ll lead the way,” She chirped.

Less than a block away, we found her target, bleeding out near a set of toppled supply crates filled with metal scrap. Nearby, an old oil barrel burned with new fire and what looked to be a meager meal of wormtail(nasty, vicious rodents of unusual size and appetite) sat half-eaten. He was an ugly malnourished earth pony covered in mange. Green was definitely his color, and to Keena’s relief he was adorned in typical Baker Barbarian attire. Cupcakes: Premade, no baking required! Creamy-Creamy Frosting not included! That warm-eyed, pink maned pony on the box was hiding something insidious, I knew it! The box art always made me anxious, since I typically associated it with incredibly dangerous, sociopathic cannibals. If you saw that pink pony around South Quadrant, you could be sure the Bakers weren’t far behind! Watching you FOREVER!

I grinned nonetheless, “Yah done lucked out, Keena. Totes a raider.” I slid off of Standtall, leaving a trail of feminine juices. A faint, mischievous snicker left my weary, pink-cloud-tortured lungs.

The raider hadn’t managed to crawl very far before passing out, but he’d been wise enough to crawl for the fire barrel to cauterize his wound with a piece of heated rebar. I inspected his still breathing form and came to the conclusion he’d survive, at least long enough for us to pump him for intel. The bullet passed right through, leaving a clean hole through his guts.

I didn’t want to waste a healing potion on him, since some “saint” gave away a bunch of our supplies, so I utilized his campfire to make healing powder from some Roc Flower and Xander Root I had in my supplies. I traded for these herbs as often as possible, since most of them grew better in regions to the east. Zebra traders were notorious for cutting the shit with bad juju, so it was always a good idea to test out the mixture on somepony you cared little for first.

“You know what you’re doing. Where did you receive your training?” Standtall put me on edge with his observations, assuming I couldn’t just pick this up on my own.

“I picked it up from some passing Zeebs,” I half-lied. My knowledge in alchemical brews was picked up from the passing zebra friendlies, however rare (I once had the pleasure of getting hoofy with Vusi, a friend of my late marefriend), while my medical training was purely a Steel Ranger application. Last thing I ever wanted any Ranger to know was my AWOL status. “Give me some room before I muck up and glue his kidney to his lung.”

After applying the powder, his wounds sealed with patches of his mange flaking off to show a healthy, restored pink layer of skin beneath. This stuff was potent as a pony! I tested out a bit more powder, spitting on it to activate it on his mangy fleece. Good stuff, I’d save the rest for Shag-Rag, if I could, maybe it’d detangle his mane. Or make him go bald.

“Why isn’t he waking up?” Keena asked with a touch of concern.

“I dunno, do you think it could be becuz yah shot out most his blood?” I sarcastically wagered.

“Beh,” Bleated the insipid Baha, chewing noisily on a can.

“Aye, Baha, Pyregum woods be och quekfex. Warks oan hanno’ers bonnie sweel!” Angus agreed to the baying goat as if something clever was hidden in his dumb mastication. While I tried to process that mush mouthed slang, the minotaur was going through his sizeable waist pouch (which I referred to as a cockpurse) and began tossing things ranging from explosives to unarmed mines and canteens of so-far-unidentified alcohol.

“Checking your purse, fair ‘lass’?” I mocked the skirt (kilt, whatever) wearing bruiser.

“Can oot, fair wench, aam helpin' ye.” He boomed while tossing his belongings out to his companion, who gathered them up into a well organized pile. After the sixth or so bouquet of grenades, my suspension of disbelief had taken a walk around “come the buck on” lane and hit the local bar to pick up mares or stallions. My suspension of disbelief wasn’t picky in that regard.

“How many sex toys do you carry in that purse, mooman?” I berated justifiably.

Angus retorted by hurling the next object at my head, eliciting a squeal. No, not my squeal, somepony elses’. My spinning eyes swirled until they locked onto the dazed, powder blue foal on my chest. I’d be angry if I believed what I was seeing, but Angus must have knocked the sense out of me. My suspension of disbelief was getting lucky, the bar was actually a strip club.

“Ooooh...My head,” Rebel groaned, rubbing his temple.

Next, flying monkeys would fly out of my cooter. “Rebel!” I shouted, causing the foal to flinch. “Angus!” I sputtered, confused at who to be angry at first. I chose to berate them equally at the same time. “How didja get in there?!” I demanded, holding the foal aloft. “And how didja miss this in yo’ bag? You better plead stupidity or I swear, I’m cramming Compensator up your ass and using you assa’ silencer!” My angry, gleaming brown eyes fought to settle on one or the other simultaneously.

Angus offered a shrug, inverting his bag and shaking it out--Producing no more foals, fortunately (for him) and dropping a small mountain of blasting caps, hay, mead bottles, and personal items. “He main hae hitched a ride while Ah was moppin'!”

“Back, we’re taking you back right now!” I decided, much to Rebel’s protests. “You had an important job to do and you chose to--”

Rebel squirmed out of my grasp and stomped hard onto the ground, “No! You gave me a job tah keep me busy! Record Wrecker knows first aid stuff better!” He shouted over me, which lead to a shouting match and grinding snouts. He learned a ton from me, from mannerisms, to frothing rudeness, thankfully skipping the lewdness. My own personal male mini-me. Most ponies didn’t believe me when I said I wasn’t his biological mother. (They might have been too stupid to know what biological meant, but I only considered that just now.)

“You listen to me, yah fidget midget!”

“No, you listen to me, yah slutty sow!”

“You’re going back, double stamp, you prepubescent plop-pile!”

“Back to what?!” Rebel pushed at me with frail legs, managing only to faceplant himself into the muck covered ground. He coughed, spitting as he glared up at me. I went to help him up out of reflex, but he batted my attempt away, snarling. “Our home is gone! The gang’s dead! You’re all we have left and you’re running off saying you might not come back! That’s not fair!”

He caught me by surprise, making me choke on my next words. “The world’s not fair, Rebel,” I finally managed to say as a faint whisper. “But you have to stay safe, that’s what I want for you.” I dotingly rubbed the smear of ‘please be mud’ off his left cheek.

“There’s no time,” Standtall asserted. “We cannot spare resources to return him. We’re in hostile territory--We need to question our prisoner and move on.” He nudged the still form of the ugly brown stallion with the dreadlocks. “Get up, you...” He breathed.

The stallion merely groaned.

“Ya do not decide what’s best for MY boy, you got me?!” I bellowed, feeling that hot, acidic bile worm up into my throat. I’d weld his knee joints together and leave him in a bog!

“Yes, you have done so well with your little ones,” Standtall said without an ounce of sympathy.

“How dare you say such things to a grieving mother,” Burst in Keena.

“I don’t need you defending me, you heckling, hybrid hen!” I snapped at Keena.

“Och aye, hae some class, ye cowardly scattershot,” Weighed in Angus.

We were all back at each other’s throats at the drop of a cap. Pre-Dick-Table. Words grew heated, then swelled to threats, and soon, onto the edge of violence. A curdled scream filled the air, one of pure masculine agony, one I knew from experience. Crushed grapes.

Snapped from our bickering, the sweet sound of somepony else in agony diluted the frothing blood rage just enough to seek out the source of the screaming, perhaps to put a bullet in it. That poor, unfortunate raider, his balls were a stage upon which Rebel Riot danced with rude wreckoning, pulping his groin like he wanted lemonade. Biting my lip, I held my breath, backing up to hide my arousal at such a scene. Nothing gets me hotter than going geld-happy on a sleazeball.

Forgotten was our arguing, all eyes watching the foal complete what we all had failed to do with a ruthless set of stomps set to puree.

“I don’t agree with the methods, but I like the results,” Standtall broke over the sound of wailing, a weak tinge of sympathy pain in his voice. I imagined his plump oranges crawling into his guts out of reflexive fear was the cause of his voice jumping an octave.

Angus grabbed his kilt and tugged the plaid fabric down taut, snorting so hard his nose-ring caught him on the bridge of the nose, his voice joining Standtall in reflexive, male empathy. “Where'd he learn tae dae 'at? that's jist barbaric!” The Macitaur further complained that his own ‘haggas sack’ ached at the sound, which curled my lips into a dry grin--I’d taught Rebel well, the little sadist. He’d go far.

Only one had the gall to berate the foal, Keena, the churchmouse, of course. “That’s enough, Rebel! You’re hurting him. Quite a bit.”

“Oh, yeah, says the one that shot him? Maybe we should give this one the other half of our supplies?” With a roll of my eyes, I pushed Keena aside to bustle my way in on Rebel’s action. “Good job, sweety. Very good, butcha don’t know where his balls been at.” I moved the foal aside and let the sad excuse of a raider to fold himself in half. Lofting up a flat, jagged piece of scrap, I held it over the fire to heat it up. “Yah should sterilize it first...” I had no intention of branding or cutting(yet), but the raider did not know that--He didn’t need to know. As the world came back to him, he’d see my ruthless grin and a posse of revenge-lusting widowers.

“W-what are you going to do to him?” Keena asked, her feathers bristling. I knew if I went too far, she’d step in. It was a point of contention in our relationship. She never went far enough to do what needed to be done--Either from irresponsibility or plain thoughtless morality.

“Only enough to make him talk,” I promised. “Rebel, try not to look away. If you’re gonna follow momma around, it’s time for some life lessons.”

“Lesson number one: Know what you want. Find out how to get it.” Ponies were weak, pliable, and easy to manipulate. They had needs and desires, many of them crossed over in the Venn diagram of survival. Everypony needs food, comfort, sex, and routine. Well, not just ponies, but every breathing thing. You’d be surprised what you can get from someone if you threaten those things, that’s a cruel lesson I knew first hoof--A lesson I instilled into Rebel Riot and everyone else I dared to call an acquaintance.

A little push and he broke into a sobbing wreck, a little healing powder and he was whimpering gratitude. Everything I wanted to know and many things I never cared to know. His name was Hash Tag, not that I cared, it only made it an inconvenience to tie a name to a pony already dead in my eyes. At any moment, I could plunge that red-hot piece of rebar into his trembling form and end him--right now, I was merely tracing little hearts on his flesh and soothing them with healing powder as long as he kept warbling my favorite song: intel. I didn’t have to up the ante, just the hint of heat against his flesh made him bawl a river of sweet tears.

Their boss was dead, a blatant betrayal by Hades. Why wasn’t I surprised? Why share the market with an army that required sustenance. Liquidated to resources once they fulfilled their purpose, Muffin Cake and his unmerry band of bakers were rendered undone. Color me pissed off, robbed of a bounty--But you know what I say about gift horses. This raider was merely a low ranking Left Over, a conscripted peon, forced to work and adopt their lifestyle. Any sympathy I had died when he mentioned he was a drug dealer, evicted from Greenvale Heights for peddling to foals. Typical piece of shit. He disavowed being a raider any longer, having a spontaneous change of heart in light of recent events, but I didn’t buy it, not in the least.

Keena wanted to stop me, but she grew wise when I swung at her with the hot rebar--Do not mess with momma when she’s cookin’. A deal--That’s what’s for dinner. A healthy dose of false promises--A carrot on a stick. If he showed us where the base was, we’d let him keep his plop-smear of a life.

“N-no! Ain’t nev-nev goin’ back, yo! Tis mads bad! You gots no idea!” He whinnied.

“Yeah, no idea,” I purred. “We just came from a hell of a parteh up in Big Top, so you’re right. We wouldn’t know plop from apples, would we?!” I applied a deep burn, twisting the rebar into his shoulder and refused him any healing powder. “Get the buck up! If you try to run, this lil foal here? He’ll shoot you.” I pointed at the traumatized Rebel Riot, who up until this point associated me with making boo-boos go away and kissing them better, not making them. “Won’t you help mommy out?” I snapped the foal from his stupor, his eyes wide as saucers. The little earth colt had begged to be a part of my work, and now he was my protege.

“I’ll keep Hash Tag in check,” Keena stepped in, trying to ease the burden on Rebel Riot’s sudden step into stallionhood.

The greasy-maned, supposed ex-raider begged for mercy, choking on a mouth full of saliva as snot rolled down his nostrils. “N-no moes! Ah soweh, no moes!” He burbled in that disgusting, ill educated trash talk that marked him as the raider-raised scum he was.

“Make him get up, Rebel.” I ordered, ignoring Keena’s protests.

Looking lost, the young pony stepped up, fumbling with his mouth-piece, nudging the stallion with a hoof. It wasn’t the same when his target was awake, able to beg, spit, and threaten. The raider swung at Rebel, causing him to drop his revolver. Hash Tag went for it, giving me reason to pin the bastard’s foreleg to the ground with the jagged, still-hot piece of rebar. Hash Tag belted out a scream, loud as it was lovely, echoing off the walls of nearby buildings.

“Can’t change, once a raider...” I twisted the blade in the hock of the stupid git, making him groan. “Always a raider.” I clicked my tongue and gave the rebar another half-twist for good measure. “Next one gelds you,” I promised with that punctual twist.

Little did I care how the others thought, but I was relieved the only one trying to get involved was Keena. Standtall merely scrutinized silently while Angus, now finished with gathering his belongings, offered encouragement to Rebel in the form of slurred drivel.

“Gie yer hooves dreich wi' bluid, it gits easier.” Rebel could not appreciate this “wisdom” as he failed to understand a single slurred syllable.

“We’re wasting time,” Standtall finally spoke up, no longer content to stand watching. “Teach the whelpling on your own time, Friend.”

He just called me a raider?! Where would he get the gall to call me that? I gave the rebar another twist and sneered, taking out my aggression on Hash Tag’s limb before stripping it out, crippling his leg. Letting out a groan, the ugly beast rolled onto his back and clutched his steaming wound, flailing about like a freshly beheaded radroach.

“Rebel, get tha buckin’ gun,” I snarled, giving a very careless application of healing powder to the injured raider, a trite amount, not even enough to close the wound--just enough to keep him able-bodied. “You, up nows er’ you’ll be speakin’ soprano wit’ a lisp!”

Rebel rubbed his bruised cheek. Hash Tag had punched him, and it seems he expected me to make him feel better. I gave a dismissive grunt and pushed him to the task. “Wipe your eyes, you ain’t no foal!” I scolded. It pained me to be so hard, but if he was going to survive tonight, then he needed some spit in the eye and grit in the guts.

We were on the move again, my mood dark, and my dislike for the Steel Ranger in our party growing to obscene rage-spitting levels. I let him know by politely tipping the Compensator’s barrel forward and clunking him on the back of the head with it. This did little other than create an exasperated sigh and mutterings of ‘being too old for foalsitting’ from the aging Crusader.

Clunk!

We were lucky it was so cold, or else the sewage filled potholes, now frozen over, would be another added hazard to avoid thanks to the blanket of white mist. So thick was this fog, that I would doubt even the raider would know the way back, if he wasn’t making use of landmarks he knew. At every milestone, the raider would pause to reorient himself and move on, giving each macabre waypoint a second’s glance before snorting dismissively and hobbling on, encouraged by a hard push to the flanks by Standtall.

I’ve seen the horrors of Friends, amoral raiders with a penchant for murder; they were polite neighbors compared to the Baker Barbarians. We passed twisted metal power-poles, each truss bowing under the weight of several bodies dangling by their spinal cords; wrecked wagons adorned with wreaths of carcasses, long picked clean, their foreleg, talon, or other extremity pointing out in one cardinal direction unanimously; and one that would stick with me, thankfully mostly obscured by fog, a pit of gravel surrounded by inward pikes. This is where they kept their livestock. I couldn’t make out whether or not there was anyone down there.

“Weh tri’tah keep em’ cold, but dey spoil quick-quick.” Hash Tag spoke, driving that bitter nail of hate deeper into my throat. Only the gates of my teeth kept the foam from spilling out all over Standtall’s armor, and only his necessity spared him from an overkill shot with Compensator.

“We didn’t ask for a guided tour,” I growled at Hash Tag. He offered a soft whimper and hobbled faster, trying to get out of spitting distance.

“I hope we find the choir soon, this worries me greatly.” Keena mentioned sadly, her sharp eyes drinking in the details for only a second before she turned away, shaking her head free of mental cobwebs. Many of us were in the same rut, trying not to let our imaginations pen in the suffering those ponies must have gone through--Or worse, yet, what the Eternite Acolytes were possibly subjected to. “This is a tragedy, no doubt, but they will never feel pain again.” Keena offered some of her unwarranted anti-pragmatism. The choir was likely already dead, they were dead the moment Keena let them leave the arcade without escort.

Angus and Standtall hadn’t been there, but they both offered hope for the best in their own way. Standtall merely ‘hmmmed’ in either agreement or thoughtfulness while the large, splotched minotaur patted her roughly on the head with his meaty palm.

“They likely already got bumped,” Rebel Riot stated honestly.

“Our gods watch over them, they will keep them safe,” Keena chirped solemnly, fluffing her feathers after being handled by the Macitaur.

Some part of me envied her psychosis, that ignorant belief that some creature of great power watched over them, protecting them, making sure they were never alone. It was just a rose colored spy-glass looking into the sun, burning bliss right into her brain.

“Radiation,” Standtall neighed quickly, “This area is saturated.” He moved on, pushing the others to do so. “Somepony was playing with Balefire eggs out here...”

Yeah, I had some idea who, that crazy retard of a stallion, Chunky Salsa; since deceased. I let the barrel drop again out of ire, making me remember how I got into this mess was not appreciated. Stupid bounties, no share for me either; guess I should be happy my treatment was free. Still, it was Steelgraft’s fault I got hurt in the first place, that moron! “It feels good to do something right for once,” I recalled saying that. Stupid mare, getting all sappy! My number came, my card punched, then he just...ARGH! After this, this last time, if I survive, that’s it! I don’t owe him anything--I’ll sell him and take my remaining family to New Pegas--

Clunk!

“Stop that,” Standtall barked.

“It’s not so easy to be, well, out here like this,” Keena consoled the young blue foal, who trailed behind her, watching how she ‘encouraged’ the raider who kept a limping pace ahead. “No slacking, please.” She squawked, prodding the ugly stallion in the flank with her assault rifle. He bitterly cursed and mumbled under his breath. “Wait--Repeat that,” Keena asked, a bit more sternly.

Pointless banter, I was sure, so I was going to just tune it out. Keena’s politeness to that waste of life angered me, I saw no point in being pleasant to somepony we had at a disadvantage and was going to be dead soon, anyway. Maybe I could convince Keena to pop him, her bullets were cheaper...

“Sa’ehd dat flooty bot n’ dat stichy-stich stal was nicer n’ yous.” His words made my mind come to a screeching halt. Then everyone else followed suit, nearly bowling each other over, Rebel ran right into Keena’s plot, getting a blush-inducing faceful! (Lucky brat.)

I dropped the stock and perked up, for once delivering an accidental blow to Standtall’s headfin. “You saw him?! You saw Steelgraft?! Where? Tell me, now!” My heart pounded in my chest--We might catch him yet, before something terrible happened to him.

Clunk! Standtall grunted, “Definitely too old for foal sitting.”

Hash Tag hesitated, weighing his chances, whether action or inaction would retain his life.

“Please,” said a voice. Mine. Did I just say please. I covered my muzzle with both hooves as if I’d cursed, that foul word passed my lips genuinely. “Damnit, ol’ girl, don’t go showing weakness! Why did you say please?” I chastised myself mentally, biting my tongue.

“Eit wi' it, mmmooook.” Angus rumbled, echoing my own impatience.

Deciding that his life would be in further jeopardy, the raider stopped, leaning into a nearby overturned hauler-wagon. Sputtering over his own flabby, slit lips he offered up a meager tale of rescue and redemption (Pshaw!) where he played the damsel in distress and Steelgraft played his knight in shining armor (GAY). I was half-glazed by the story, quite familiar with the reckless yet revolutionary antics of the undead pre-war delivery colt. He was half-decent at delivering packages of pain and carnage. “He gut blat tah fsssh--but kay-yay.” Yeah, taking a beating, kinda his super power--Rebel Riot said as much, somehow enamored by the raider’s grisly tale of comic-esque bravado.

A single lower lid seized, refusing to open as it cut into the white of my eye, leading to a spontaneous development of a twitching tic. “Cut to thah CHEESE, skunkmeister!”

“Slo-mo think-meats, mote short a’ full huff, tangoed the poprock, spaghetti...” Hash Tag sputtered incoherently, so deep was his fear that he devolved into rattling off in the universal tongue of junk humpers and fizz suckers. To those that didn’t understand ‘Junker Jive’, he just rattled off like a crazy drugged up Friend-Zoned, tweak-freak not unlike those half-mad, Fallen Freakers that roamed tipping back Discord’s cursed soda. In short, to understand crazy, you had to be cray-cray-to-dah-Z.

I understood him perfectly.

“Lipflap casual, frag-fag.” I replied swiftly, narrowing my eyes, hating him and the cunt flower he spawned from.

Ruffling her feathers for warmth, the hippogriff flitted her headcrest forward, like an antennae feeling around the air. “Isn’t that the language the Falle--” Her surmise was halted as my magic zipped her beak shut. She clasped her talons to her squawk hole and worked her claws into her split, trying to pry her jaws open. With my stamina drained, it only took seconds for my focus to wane, and soon she was free to move her sore jaw, glowering at me the whole time. Wisely, for a change, she did not speak. (So she can learn!)

“...Tey’s kill me--Tey’s fin’ ou!” He sputtered. “Find out I helped!” If his entire gang was dead, I highly doubted they’d come back from the dead an---wait, they could come back. Like Curbstomp. That was a terrifying idea, what would become of insane cannibal bakers after Deadmare conversion? Well, if he was going to be put into such a bind, understandably so, then up the ante--Sweeten the deal!

“Tell me where to find Stitchface and the pain stops,” I offered.

Such a deal was too good to pass up, he knew it, I knew it, and the shallow grave with his name on it knew it too. Never is Gangrene kind when her generosity is snubbed. Unsurprisingly, he took my offer in trade--His worthless life for the valuable information.

“North!” He blurted, pointing in the cardinal direction.

Everyone jumped back at the sound of his foreleg splintering as I ruthlessly brought the heavy piece of jagged rebar down. Hash Tag squealed, his foreleg dropping to the side, crumpled and useless. Cannon bone to Pastern, multiple breaks with significant displacement. Yeah, no walking for him, not without a healing potion or a splint.

“Don’t lie to us!” I snarled, visibly seething.

Keena became an obstacle, and rounded swiftly to ‘target’ as she stared me down. “That’s more than enough, Gangrene! You’re scaring Rebel!”

“Momma, stop!” Rebel Riot begged. He tried to tug at me, nuzzling against me. His tears wet my pelt, tugging at my heart strings. Keena’s position wasn’t helped, even with Rebel on her side. Nopony else cared hide nor hair for the raider’s well being.

“Get out the way, Keena,” I warned, raising the rebar. I caught a face-full of her rifle’s cock and backed off, not wanting to get a load to the face. “Whose yard you roostin’ in, churchmouse?” I mocked angrily. “Does your stupid Goddess say something about sparing raiders?”

“This is torture!” She squawked! “And you still plan on killing him!”

On any other day, yes, I’d kill him. Remorselessly. Today was special, you see after getting drenched in more blood than a lesbian midwife in a communal hospital, I’d lost a bit of bloodlust. Extracting information was now a new tier of asspain now that the raider believed he would die.

“No, Keena, this ain’t torture; this is me negotiatin’.” I licked my lips, glowering. “Do you even care what this prick would do to your own? He’s one of em, the rat bastards that took your charges and madja look stupid!” No conviction, not for this, to do what needed to be done, she didn’t have that gumption. She could be cold, I knew that, when pushed, but there was never true spiteful malice, just loss of composure. I’d prefer that to this.

“Do you want to do this in front of Rebel?” Keena asked pointedly, talon on the trigger.

“Maybe yah should ask him,” I smartly replied, nodding over to my left. Rebel Riot had skittered back, far behind me as he clutched to my rear legs, eyes shut tightly to the world, the poor lil greenhorn!

“Enough,” breathed Standtall, his voice taking a surprisingly sharp edge. “You’re not getting results. We have constraints.” The large, barrel chested stallion set one single foreleg between us and broke us apart, his armored underbelly brushing the very tips of my ears. Suddenly, I felt so very small, like a child being chastised by an overbearing parent. I hated that.

The domineering ranger offered no words or requests, only actions. He scooted Keena aside with a sweep of that same leg, causing her to squawk in protest, and towered over the crippled stallion nursing his injuries. “Point.” Was the only thing he said to the crippled raider.

Content to let somepony else do the work, and even less interested in getting on the bad side of a one-ton horse, I stepped aside to rummage through my supplies for a watered down healing potion. No bone mend, that stuff was rare to come by and nearly impossible to make without a zebra alchemist’s expertise. Those crafty stripes had a way of finagling common, mutated flora into doing the jobs of their rarer, warmer-climate cousins.

Once Standtall had gotten the ugly buck’s attention, enough for him to point in a direction, I proceeded to hide the potion in one of the many junk-filled boxes dumped by the rickety old trawler. Why waste a weak potion, hiding it for Hash Tag to find and use?

Simple, I had two reasons. It’d keep him busy so he couldn’t follow us or warn any of his friends that might still be around, but most importantly, I didn’t want him to die too quickly. If he died, his suffering would be over, and I couldn’t let him off easy. He may have never harmed a soul, not directly, but he’d enabled many to do their sick work. That bottle was more spit n’ water than potion anyway, not nearly enough to save his life. He’d suffer for a few more hours before succumbing to his injuries and exposure. Keena would be none the wiser, had she not given away half our supplies earlier, I might have bothered saving him, so it’s really her fault.

“Was that so hard?” Standtall breathed out heavily, directing his discontent to both Keena and I respectively as he trudged off in the direction that Hash Tag pointed.

“Yeh sure he ainneh lyern’?” Angus called after Standtall, a bit skeptical.

“I’m sure,” said Standtall, “He’s pointing in the same direction.”

“So he was telling the truth the first time?” I smiled viciously.

Keena shot me a dirty look, turning away with a flutter of feathers. Angus gave a sigh, offering the raider a canteen of alcohol “To keep him warm” and “Kill the pain.” I guess that was okay, I had no claim over any of his supplies, and if it squeezed another hour of suffering out of Hashtag, I was all for it.

Sniveling, Hash Tag went limp, his teeth gritting hard together. He shrunk away from me, eyes clenched shut as I whispered into his ear, “Pot’s in dah wood cube. Fast-find.” I spoke to him in his disgusting gutter language, telling him he could find a potion in one of the crates.

Cast off, like a used rag on the floor, the raider would spend the rest of his short life reflecting on his stains and how he would die like all did, wasted and unfulfilled. Every step I put between that sad excuse of a stallion made Rebel’s burdenous weight lighter on my shoulders, which I chalked up to elation at being rid of excess baggage.

Rebel, who was shivering so violently he could barely walk a straight line sober, was the only weight I gladly carried. Standtall was not a bicycle built for two and I wasn’t about to trust Keena to carry my kid. With no alternatives, I had snatched up the disgruntled, traumatized runt by the back of the neck like a disobedient puppy and tossed him on. His complaints were brief, but the chatter of his teeth was constant.

Walking in the biting cold was a chore, and with a crippled leg, I could forget about running. The best I could do was a labored, weak trot. At some point, my bandage had frosted over, clinging to my skin where I stripped a good, rotten chunk free after exposure to Pink Cloud. Rebel’s exposure had burned his lungs, evident by the raspiness of his voice and shallow breathing. A life of chronic respiratory ailments lay ahead for him and a leg brace for me. I wanted to kick myself for not grabbing any medical braces while I was at the Stable Heart Hospital, but how could I have known it’d come in handy now?

One good thing about it being so cold out, there wasn’t a single creature stupid enough to be out on nights like these, they would be in shelter, probably in one of the nearby buildings or wrecked convoys. That only became a problem when you tried to find shelter for yourself, competition was nature’s way of reminding you that you were made of edible meat-stuff. Last I checked, most everything had added meat to their diet--Or reproductive cycles--Like Paradores. Good thing Paradores hated cold! Freaky, little, egg-laying, body-snatching, neurotoxin creating, googly-eyed hate beasts! Still, we could chance upon a nest or disturb a shelter, which is why I was glad Standtall took the lead; anything he disturbed would end up flattened.

Standtall’s massive form cleaved through the thick mist, the bright light from his headlamp doing little to scatter the ground-bound clouds. This is what it must feel like to be a pegasus, to be inside a cloud. From the reflected light of the headlamp, Standtall made out the shape of obstacles like overturned cargo wagons and mountains of discarded office furniture, weathered from exposure, and turned us to avoid them.

For several minutes, the only sound was the beat of hooves on hard, broken concrete, the chattering of teeth, and eclipsing the rest, the mighty din of Standtall’s metal hooves. If we were trying to be quiet, then we were failing. A mile out, maybe more, those metal thuds echoed, giving any enterprising raiders or Deadmare plenty of notice to expect us. Soon, all sounds quieted, Standtall stopping abruptly, causing a short scuffle on bodily collision between him and the Minotaur just behind him. Angus gave a displeased grunt and knudged the massive Stallion in the hind end with his hammer’s haft, saying what we were all wondering, “What's th' hauld up?” Well, I think that’s somewhat close to what we were thinking, if a bit hard to understand.

Our favorite resident bootlicker took time to respond, tapping his large hoof to the side of his helmet in valiant effort an ex-Ranger like me recognized. It was the “work, you stupid piece of crap” strike, a common trouble shooting technique urging compliance with a shoddy or malfunctioning module. “Something is scrambling Navigations, EFS just went offline. I got a bead on several unknown contacts before everything went dark.”

It was then, that faint singing could be heard, and on its coattails rode faint laughter.

Keena was the first to come to a conclusion, one that was likely to be wrong. “Friendlies? That could be the choir,” Keena chirped, touching down next to me, her tone hopeful and relieved, “Oh they’re alright! I’m so glad!” I wasn’t at all convinced, it wasn’t like the Bakers would let a hard-won meal stand out in the middle of dense fog to hold a candlelight vigil.

I grit my teeth, glaring daggers in the rough direction of where Keena stood. “Good, we find em’ n’ beat em’ til they stop singin’.” My teeth chattered loudly, my nose drippings were nearly frozen.

“We will do no such thing!” Keena squawked.

“Fine, whatever,” I grumbled, “Can we get movin’? I’m freezin’ to death here!”

My tail began to twitch, a dancing irritation on the end of my spine. It finally stilled when I gave it a flick, giving my hind end a curious glance over Rebel. What was that all about?

PLAP! A sweaty stink filled my nostrils as something heavy, wet, and warm hung over my face like the world’s most unpleasant blanket. The musky smell of body odor and the feeling of damp fur against my cheeks made me gag. Angus had heard my complaints and removed the Timberwolf skull pinning his cowl together before depositing it upon us. The gross thing stuck to my horn and unraveled, slapping between my forelegs. I didn’t understand a thing he said after that hot, sticky hide met my numb face, but I wouldn’t slight him for being ‘helpful’. Rebel offered up a soft ‘ugh’ of disgust as I wound the pelt around my neck and over his shoulder, embracing the musky, sweaty warmth that still radiated with the minotaur’s body heat.

Keena stifled a giggle, which I killed completely by mentioning I could use a few feathers to complete my new look. She was rather attached to her plumage, in every sense of the word, and it did wonders to keep her warm in even the coldest of climate.

Not one to show gratitude openly, I warned the minotaur, “I better not get fleas...”

“Ah eent gut fleese.” Angus sniffed, “Ah mite bi’ smelleh tho’.” Understatement of the day! It was a far cry from Curbstomp stink, but it wasn’t roses either. Of all our party members, I think Angus was the one I disliked the least. I was considering keeping him around after this, he may be hard to understand, but he never took offense when I chose to ignore him. Being new to the city, he’d need somepony with experience to show him around, and being a gang leader, I could always use more willing muscle. My mind churned with ideas on how to best use the minotaur, I had yet to properly gauge his moral compass, to see if he was Viper material.

“Let’s get a gander on this noise complaint,” I said.

“He's way aheid oan 'at,” Angus snorted as he trundled past, after the vanishing shadow of the giant Steel Ranger. They both ignored the call to slow down, and Keena was much faster than me, giving a quick flap of her wings to shoot off after the two. Standtall was much too far ahead now, and he wasn’t slowing down. His enormous shadow vanished into the fog, taking the other shapeless shadows of our group with him. Limping along, I struggled to catch up, hoping to see their silhouettes in the fog. The light I summoned from my horn was faint, but the fog was dispersed, if ever slightly, by the presence of my weak magical light. I thought I saw brief movement, here and there, in the fog, but the shadows vanished behind thick blankets of fog as soon as I looked in their direction.

I wanted to holler for them to stop but the cold mist chilled my breath into a violent, full body tremor. “Ey! Ey! Slow tha’fricklefree down!”

“F-fudgesicles.” Shivered Rebel, his hot breath tickling the fur of my cheek.

I pushed ahead, nearly slipping on the occasional patch of iced overflow. All I could do was follow the direction we were headed and hope I didn’t run into anything. I couldn’t see any tracks, making me worry I’d taken a wrong turn, which wasn’t possible because I was walking in a straight line! How the buck does a one-ton horse not leave discernable tracks? Even worse, what kind of blind idiot loses a one ton horse? The only things that grew louder was my tired panting and the growing sound of music.

Lucky for us, we didn’t have to go much further, I could hear the music just up ahead, as well as the laughter. I saw movement overhead, a shadow dipping low and touching down. Was that Keena? I got my answer soon enough when I emerged from a blanket of pea-soup fog into a clearing where the fog had thinned. The shadow from earlier was roughly equine in shape, facing away. There was a mass on their back, which looked like a folded pair of wings. The origin of the eery laughter and music remained a mystery, but now I could scarcely make out the tune of “Hush now Quiet now.”

“Keena! Wh-why’d yah leave me t-tah trot? Where are the others?” I wanted to sound angry, but I was much too cold to do so, instead I chattered away with my teeth, eyeing the vaguely pony shaped form with contempt. The music only grew louder, in pace with my struggles to scream, as if trying to drown out the sound of my heart beating in my ear drums. It only pissed me off. “Where the buck’s th-that racket c-comin’ from?!”

Rebel yawned, his head falling heavily onto my shoulder as he drifted off to an unnatural sleep. My horn began to itch, the air became thick with magical power. The fog grew denser. The form slowly turned to face me. I shone the light in their face, my eyes widening with absolute terror as I looked myself in the eyes. It was me! A gaunt, decaying version of me, with sunken, soulless eyes. Under its gaze, I froze, unable to act as my tortured mind tried to make sense of the horror show. The corpse smiled, her horn flickering as she pulled an identical foal from her back and set them on the ground.

I shot my gaze over my shoulder to see Rebel still sound asleep. I blinked a few times and shook my head, looking back to see the apparition still standing there, now over the sleeping form of her own duplicate Rebel Riot. She began singing the most haunting version of “Hush now” I had ever heard, consolingly stroking the foals mane. Then, she put a gun to the sleeping child’s brow.

“Stop!” I shouted, terror gripping at my heart. Trembling, I held the Cornhusker Revolver to Rebel’s temple. Invisible little strings tethered to my limbs, pulling me to act out a homicidal dance. Tears roll down my cheeks, bitter and cold. My confused mind betrayed me with a sense of calm relief, that I was merely laying my child to rest for a final time. He would see his brothers and sisters soon, Taffy and Shag-Rag would follow.

“Rebel, wake up!” My fitful cries, at odds with my body, failed to wake the foal up. Through gritted teeth, I forced my neck to stiffen and raise, locking the other mother in my sights. There was a thick, swirling fog filling my mind, my pulse sounding a drum in my temple. I couldn’t escape the sound of music accompanied by laughter. Mirrored movements, right down to the breathing. At no less than my greatest effort, my horn blazing with magic so hot it scorched my skin, did I manage to tip the barrel upward until I felt its cold kiss under my chin. My twin, in kind, held the barrel just as I did. With a saucy grin, I locked gazes with her, seeing a hint of surprise in her soulless eyes.

“Hush now, Quiet now, we’re already dead...”

The gun went off, lodging the last sliver of sanity into our skulls. I could taste the smoke in my mouth and the rising steam burn my tongue. Blood streamed from every hole on my face, same as the spectre’s, but only one of us stood. She fell to the ground with a sick thud and vanished. My choked grunt was akin to a sigh of relief, tasting of heat and copper. I seriously just shot myself in the head, I must have missed my brain, because I had the wherewithal to consider how batshit crazy I was to do such a thing. The constant spew from my snout steamed on the ground. Cold asphalt never felt so soft, even with my skull bouncing off of it. Sunlight’s warmth kissed every limb. I’d never seen the sun, or felt its warmth directly on my skin before, but I imagine it must have felt something like this. I would die soon.

The nature of the beast and my own will did battle; natural chemical cocktails eased my pain and put me into a complacent state of mind, preparing me to die, but I was not ready to die. Pushing my mental fortitude to the brink, I focused to cast a spell. Stablize was a bread and butter spell among medics, and incredibly useful to stop bleeding. In trade, I kept my life and got a migraine that put the pain of a gunshot to shame. Barely conscious, I stood, teetering on the fence between life and death.

After quaffing several potions from my barding, my wound knit itself together, clotting uncomfortably. I still had a hole in my palate, and I could feel the tell-tale rattle of a metal slug somewhere in my sinus cavity. I shook the final dregs of my last potion bottle into my mouth, choking it down. The taste of smoke and burnt flesh mixed with the bland flavor of Dr. Helping Hoof’s Foal Fixer--a child’s healing potion, topping off my health.

“Well, that was close,” I said to myself with a genuine sigh of relief. “I wonder how the others are doing.” The song persisted, but it was easier to ignore now. My horn continued to itch and my ears wouldn’t stop twitching. My horn never itched like this before, it was a new phenomenon. It had something to do with the song, a magical area of effect that caused whatever horror show that was. It was a wonder how I could sense magic, and while searching for smelling salts in my satchel, my hoof bumped the curious pink miniature. I almost regretted pilfering the queer little thing. Her smile hid something sinister, as if to say; “I am FOREVER”.

I pulled out the smelling salts, wrapped deceptively like candy. Candy with warning labels. I cracked the capsule and went to wake Rebel, but a sudden muscle spasm caused me to fumble. My tail was twitching again, much more fiercely, trying to jump off my ass. I steadied it with a hoof and grumbled, bending down to pick up the capsule between my teeth. Air rushed over my mohawk and something came down hard nearby. It was Keena! She nearly took my head off with that dive-bomb!

“Watch it!” I snapped, “You almost hit me!”

“Thought you’d get away with it, didn’t you?!” Keena accused madly, spinning to lock me in her sights. She shouldered her rifle and danced her sights up my center.

I lit up my horn and snatched the discarded revolver up as I dove sideways, a three-round burst tearing into the earth where I had just been. I popped off a round at her, aiming for anything vital, but she was much too quick, taking to the air.

“Keena,” I had to try reasoning with her, if it meant she stopped just long enough for me to pin her down. “It’s me, Gangrene!”

“You can’t lie to me, Meat Pie! I saw you try to poison that child!” Keena shrieked madly. Another trio of bullets sang out in my direction, one sinking into my shoulder. Damn, she was a good shot--I couldn’t juke the airborne hippogriff’s arbitrary aim. Warm blood seeped from the wound as I toppled forward, biting my tongue on the way down. My tongue piercing got caught in between my front teeth. My revolver spoke for me, a loud, resounding “Screw you” in metal form. I clipped one of her wings, taking out one of her primary flight feathers. As much as I hated her, I cringed in sympathy when I heard her bounce off the asphalt.

I had to make it quick and put her down now as painlessly as possible. I tackled the prone hybrid and wrestled her into submission, slamming her head into the ground twice. I’d stunned her well enough and set the the revolver’s barrel at the base of her skull. I went to pull the trigger and--

I. Could. Not. Do. It.

I’ve killed acquaintances before, when their usefulness ends or when, inevitably, they would turn at the fork in the road. Alliances rarely ended on notable terms, but with Keena, she always said that she enjoyed the time we spent, as if it wasn’t just a job I’d been freelanced to do. For all our differences, we had one thing in common, a motherly drive to protect those who could not protect themselves. She was a lousy babysitter and I was a horrible mother.

In our failings, we were undeniably equal. In our love, we were the same.

“Keena, snap out of it!” I begged, the revolver rattling in my grasp. “You ain’t yourself! The fog, it’s doing this!”

In my moment of weakness, the tide turned. As soon as she was able, Keena fought tooth and claw to take my place. My revolver clattered to the ground. I felt the cold barrel of her rifle poke between my ribs. She had me dead to rights, and I’d used all my tricks to cheat death once. Cheating death was something you did once in a lifetime, not something you made habit.

“Where are the other children?” Keena demanded, her itchy talon on the trigger. Some small talk to hasten the end? I wasn’t going to buy the farm, all I needed was some time to refocus my mind, maybe I could dispel the effects of the fog with a Cure Condition spell? There were hundreds of those spells in the medical field, but magical mind altering spells and their cures fell more into the psychological schools of magic, rather than the medical field.

“They’re already dead, Bird-brain!” I spat at her, sorrow creeping into my tone. “The Bakers caught the choir near a week ago, foals don’t last under their care, you know that! Lyin’ to yourself the whole time! Playing arcade games to earn a new shooter? How stupid do you think I am?” She could have ended my tirade at any moment with a single pull of that trigger, but if I was going to die, then she had to know exactly why she pissed me off so much.

“They’re alive!” Keena insisted, driving her point home by flipping to semi-auto and putting a round in one of my legs. I groaned and squirmed, letting out a brief cry of pain. She pressed the hot tip of her rifle against my fur, causing a painful burn. “Now tell me where you took them, you sick cannibal!”

“You friggin’ insuffera--” Keena cut me off with a firm riflebutt to the snout. She should have just killed me, ended it there. I wish she would have, the pain I was in was excruciating. I gave her another dose of reality, choking out my words in a nasally, broken voice. “The deal they had with that Gravelord went upside! Even if the choir was alive then, the Deadmare would have liquidated all resources! That means them kids! They’re dead, dead, dead, dead!”

Bang! The bullet clipped my ear and the blazing barrel was pressed right under my horn. I grit my teeth against the pain. Keena’s demeanor grew sinister, and she spoke no words of her own, buying into the illusion created by whatever foul magic was carried by the mist’s call. I wondered how this music was affecting the others, they were likely in a similar predicament, fighting one another just like Keena and I. My thoughts couldn’t be with them, they had to be here, focused on getting out of this alive.

“Pray now, beg now--Lay your sins to rest...” The lyrics were haunting, accompanied by the strings and winds of otherworldly instruments. The music didn’t sound natural. A dark whisper permeated my mind with the desire for death’s sweet embrace. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad, maybe this is how it was supposed to end? I could see her again. I could see my Star Racer...Buck that noise! There would be no rest for me, not yet! My chores weren’t done, I still had kids to raise and fortunes to make!

“The moment my eyes close, the kids become somepony else’s problem,” I thought bitterly. I’d fight a little while longer, then make the bed I slept in.

Keena began regurgitating the lines to the wretched hymn, her voice harsh and unkind. The barrel under my temple, now cooled, ground my head into the pavement. I closed my eyes and strained, reaching out with every fiber of my mental acuity to grasp for the rifle’s safety.

Click!

Lucky dice, the magazine had gone dry! Who knew Keena habitually swapping out magazines would save my life! She must have grabbed a short one while under control of the spell, and the orchestrator didn’t know her habits! Keena kept her full mags on her bandolier, low ones on the hip-strap. Sure, I was still bleeding pretty badly, but the lull in assault let me focus on my spell. The ethereal green channel of my spell struck Keena between the eyes just as she brought her rifle’s butt down at the base of my horn. My vision blurred with tears as the song of my pounding heart thundered in my ears, drowning out everything. I couldn’t think, everything grew foggy as my limbs numbed. I could hear her, the warm laugh of the pegasus that flew away with my heart, I could feel her breath on my cheek. Please, not now, don’t tease me!

“I’ll always protect you,” Star Racer whispered. You liar! You liar! You left me, you died! All that’s left, your only mark on the Wasteland, is that stupid, broken down warbeast! Why do I have to finish what you helped start? What good was fighting Hades when we could have just ran away together? You would still be here, the kids would still be here! I hate him! I hate you! I hate everything!

The pain in my head thundered, throbbing heavily, making images swim in the corners of my vision. Keena’s presence vanished, replaced by another foreboding shadow in the mist. Standtall? The massive Ranger secured Keena under hoof; maybe he was crushing her? I wondered what he had planned for me.

Standtall grunted, “I should have known--The Suicide Symphony.” The high beam of his headlamp cut through the fog, causing it to scatter and fall in unnatural ways. It was almost like butter, churning, swirling, and building up walls. That’s how we had been separated. “Angus! I found them!”

A haggard, winded Minotaur bumbled into the scene, bending himself in half as he wheezed, “Swair they waur reit behin' us.”

“It’s a good thing we ran into a friend,” Standtall grumbled, struggling to keep Keena under control. I could not make sense of Standtall’s words, I did not know what “friend” he meant. I held out hope that it would be Steelgraft, that somewhere in the fog, they ran into him and he knew what had created the song and how to counter it.

The song receded, leaving only the cacophony of laughter--The origin of which materialized from the mists, a collection of nightmarishly reassembled Robronco-model robots led by a garish, pink spritebot. That same, irritating enigmatic robot from Greenvale Heights. I had the misfortune of seeing it twice in one horrible night.

PNK-3 beamed down at our tired, battered little party. “Boy, it’s sure a good thing you guys ran into me in the fog, and I knew about that song, and I knew how to counter it! …I’m not sure why giggling really works, but gee-whillikers, does it ever!”

This was the friend Standtall mentioned? My unfocused eyes struggled to follow even the hint of movement, and feeling disoriented, my head fell back onto the ground.

“You guys are late!” PNK-3 chided. “And wow, you look awful!” She added, her voice very close to me. “Hey! You can’t sleep yet, the party hasn’t even started!”

I wanted to curse, but the world fell from under my hooves as I lost consciousness.

It is said, that on this day, Gangrene’s heart grew three sizes, for she could not kill her friend. Let me check the challenge rating of a Hippogriff so I can tease you about how much EXP you would have gotten.

...

You passed up on about 65 experience and a chance at a rare drop griffin hat. How do you live with yourself, you filthy casual.

Chapter 17: What's Left To Lose

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"What’s Left To Lose"

What happens to heartache when there are no more tears to shed?

There once was a time I used to dream.

Those days, I hoped, were long behind me, but there is no such mercy in the wasteland. It likes to take your greatest desire and your deepest regret and taunt you with them, reminding you that once upon a time you loved, you laughed, and now you cry. You could never turn back time, but the memory remained to be revisited. Some fools dreamed of better food, better company, and a place where things didn’t suck. The lies we told ourselves in our dreams, whatever you needed to hear to make sure you woke up the next day did little but stall the inevitable decline into a mad routine.

For me, it’s always the same, when I dream, it’s of her. The first thing I can remember of her is her scent, a strong, electric smell that recalled the aroma of freshly fallen rain. The second detail, and most striking, was her coat, stark white and tinged grey like aged snow. The way her mane and tail grew from her was like spring come early, with each strand sprouting from her tinged powder coat in an array of loosely organized chaos. I commit to memory every detail, and of all she had been, there was nothing I did not love. From her strong laugh, which she tried to restrain, to the feeling of her wings loosely wrapped around me. Her lips were a form of gentle suffocation, robbing my breath and resolve in equal measure. Star Racer’s tall, lean body dwarfed mine, and even in my dreams, she made me feel small by comparison. My slender frame had been a target of ridicule, and many brazen fools undid themselves with their mockery. Yet, when she teased me, my cheeks turned a cherry ripe red for an entirely different reason other than anger.

Every day, it got easier to give in, to sleep a little while longer, to eat a little less, to be a little more reckless. Bit by bit, day by day, the year of her absence eroded my will to carry on. Fear and duty kept me from punching the clock, but tonight had proven I was more than capable of finishing the score.

The world beyond my eyelids, the waking, mournful existence of pain that continued while I dreamt was not the world I wanted. When I opened my eyes, I wouldn’t see a hotel suite with all the amenities, on a bed warmed by my Valkyrie. I wouldn’t wake to the pitter patter of little hooves, foals eager to start the new day, to learn and play without worry as they became accustomed to their permanent vacation in New Pegas afforded by the great wealth of the world’s best mom.

As I thought of my dream, my mind made it so. Being a lucid dreamer in the wasteland is a curse, and now that I envisioned what may never be, I wanted to make it so. I had always been hard to wake, so I pretended to be asleep, nestled into my lover. She let me sleep in at times, when I really needed it, and this was one of those times. I wanted to dwell here for a few minutes, at least, to refresh my memory. Then, because it seems even in my dreams there are creatures out to ruin my life, a knock came at the door.

With a soft groan, the tall pegasus rose from bed, stretching her wings with audible pops before she crossed the suite’s living room to reach the door. There was no one at the door, and there was nothing beyond it, just an empty blackness, a future where she could not be.

“Gangrene,” Star Racer called, her voice drawing near, “Your friends are here.”

What friends? I tangled myself in my covers, cursing what lay beyond the door. Star Racer sighed, taking the comforter between her teeth and stripping my cover, leaving me to tremble at the sudden temperature shift.

I curled, closing my eyes, shutting out the world. And I cried.

“Gangrene,” Star Racer scolded, “You shouldn’t keep them waiting. They need you.”

“Comin’ from a figment of my noodle, that’s a laugh,” I croaked, wiping my eyes with a hoof. “You know what’s unfair? Losin’ you! Why’d you have tah leave me?”

“The Wasteland demands sacrifices,” Star Racer said, hanging her head so that her messy green locks fell over her pleasant, lean face. “This was ours.” Stiffening, she squared her shoulders and turned quickly, grabbing her helmet on her way toward the door. With a soft Pssst of air, she locked her helm into place, now clad in full Enclave Power Armor. “My friends needed me, my love. Now, yours need you.” Then, she was gone, just like before. A revisit to our final moments, muddled by mis-memory, yet accurate enough to renew the ache.

Sighing inwardly, I followed after, wondering how this would end and if really, I had friends worth fighting for.

I stirred slowly, my groggy senses shrugging off sleep, starting with the barest of sensation. Pinpricks of light burned my eyes, and the dull rumble of untranslatable conversation was lost on me. The short span of time I spent stunned concluded when the sharp smell of ammonia filled my nostrils. Reflexively, I inhaled and coughed.

Bolting upright, I launched Rebel off, scattering the smelling salts he’d used to rouse me. He’d helped the process along with a well-placed slap to my cheek, leaving a warm burn that had yet to numb in the cold. My neck popped loudly, not to mention painfully, as I snapped my head around to get a bearing of where I was, minding my stinging cheek with a frigid hoof. After a few moments, I acclimated to my new situation; I wasn’t dead, yet, and I was with the others. Steelgraft was nowhere in sight.

And Rebel had slapped me. There was that. My face hurt, but my body positively ached.

Jagged cliffs of rusted metal, made up of run down vending machines and robots, rose up around us. Dilapidated wooden crates, brittle and rotted. dotted the clearing around us, overflowing with rusted out service parts and recycled metals. Tinny laughter echoed from the bowels of a dozen Robronco robots stationed around the chain link fence marking the perimeter of what I now assumed was the scrap yard of a recycling plant. We had not been the first to pass through here, obviously, as there was a modest collection of remains to keep us company. The victims were raiders, Baker Barbarians. Given the nature of their wounds, and the occasional errant luminescent sparkle pile, I wagered they caught the foul end of magical energy weapons.

Someone, likely a member of our group, had moved the dead away to form a clearing

There was a powerful stench of fire in the air, thick with the smell of seared flesh. Radiant heat settling into my aching bones. Angus was busy tending the small fire, hardly big enough to cause the smell, and barely big enough to cook his titanic kabob over. He turned it lazily, after lightly charring one side, whistling himself a Macish tune. If I was out long enough for him to cook something, then that meant I’d been out for quite some time.

“How long hav--”

“Welcome to the Future!” screamed the pink spritebot, snapping me from my thoughts, “I knew you were coming, but I wasn’t expecting so many guests! And you brought one of my sisters!” The pink ball of random was enthralled with the area around me, particularly around my saddlebags.

“You’ve been out for about twenty minutes,” Standtall rumbled. “I was afraid you’d be out longer, and we’d have to move on without you.” He gave a brief pause as Rebel shot him with a disapproving look, before adding, “The little one would have none of it.”

I nearly choked on the potion Rebel Riot rushed to my lips. I downed it greedily, grunting my thanks. A small collection of empty bottles gathered around me as I quaffed the remaining potions from Keena’s now exhausted supplies. “Guest? I’m here to protect an investment. A very, very, very...” I took a weary breath, “...poor investment.” I winced, magic forcing metal out of my body being a sensation I never got used to. With tiny ‘thuds’, the pieces of shrapnel dropped to the unfurled, half-rotten cardboard box laid out for me.

“And I ain’t your sis,” I rasped, pushing the spritebot away both physically and emotionally.

“I wasn’t talking to you, silly willy!” PNK-3 giggled, bouncing back into place, undeterred by my murderous glare. The spritely construct ducked and weaved between no less than a dozen tasks, between making small talk with my party to making repairs on the robots guarding the perimeter. The rich, tinny laughter was constant, the echo drove off the sound of the wicked music. Both were maddening in their own right.

My expression fought itself to remain pained as a curious flicker entered my thoughts. I was going to ask who she was talking about, but the pain of a bullet grinding through my sinuses on the way out made me convulse, killing my brief curiosity cold. With gritted teeth, I waved the robot to go away. “Jus’ gimme space, yah cray-bot!” The urge to sneeze grew and grew, then exploded in a spray of red.

TINK!

My sneeze launched the embedded round back into the world, where it collided with Standtall.

“Shorry,” I grumbled nasally. Standtall did not reply, sitting there silently as he looked down at the collection of red specks dotting his armor. He gave a shrug. His armor had seen worse, but even so, he moved a massive hoof up to wipe the snot off his chest plate.

“It was subsonic. No way it would have gotten through.” Standtall joked, at least I think it was a joke. With him, you could never tell, and that was a problem for me. Angus, however, took cue and laughed heartily.

Rebel Riot, after a brief snort of a laugh at Standtall’s expense, weighed in with the inevitable queries, being utterly clueless as to how I’d gotten so roughed up. These were swiftly brushed aside with a pat to the head and a deceitful smile on the part of yours truly, acting the part of a mother neglecting truthful tones. “Encountered a raider,” so said momma bear, and the cub believed, with a healthy dose of skepticism.

“Fued’s almaste dain,” Angus thundered, turning over the mystery kabob to evenly sear the meat and vegetables. The stench of sour flesh in the air spoiled my appetite. The meat skewer caught fire and he raised it to his lips, extinguishing it with a great blast of his lungs, then it finally joined others on an improvised hub-cap plate.

“Oooo, you brought snacks? I knew I should have brought punch!” The pink robot squeaked out, bemoaning her lack of party favors. This didn’t stop her from letting loose a bouquet of streamers into the air. FWEE!

“We got more important things to do than eat yer smelly food!” I snapped, swatting the offered meat stick out of his hand and to the ground.

“It ainae mingin'! It's haggis! oan a stick!” The minotaur snatched up the soiled kabob and blew it off, taking a rough bite out of it. “Fife second rool!” He was disgusting. The others were offered some of this cuisine, but only Keena partook, dashing out from around Standtall before slinking back behind him, obviously avoiding me.

Baha brayed softly in agreement with his master, infatuated with a stray bit of metal lodged between his teeth. The small, wall-eyed beast of burden had a deep oral fixation, his current affair was a grenade pin (which stuck around long after the grenade), forsaking his usual fare of tin cans and metal scrap. He only dropped the inedible metal for a meat skewer when Angus held one out.

Once this adventure was over, I imagined Angus would consider a job as a slot machine. They’d even paint numbers on his bare chest and he’d make them dance by undulating his pecs. How would his sire feel about him as a jester? Or maybe a bar bull with only one hand? A minotaur with one arm was like a stool with three legs, effective if built right but less satisfying to break over someone’s head.

I hadn’t even felt Rebel Riot jam the syringe into my leg. Med-X was good stuff. One little prick and I’m thinkin’ of the stupidest things. Woozily, I held up a hoof to make a point, but my words came out mangled, decidedly silly, and I had forgotten my point in the first place.

The brief high that came with Med X ended just as quickly as it came, levelling off at a nice, pleasant numbness. I could rest a bit more weight on my crippled leg, and while it was far from healed, I was at least able-bodied in the loosest of terms.

The Spritebot chimed, “Rest up quick, we don’t have much time, though if you wanna talk, oh, I’m sure we could do that!”

“What are you even doing out here?” I grunted, pulling Rebel Riot up against my freshly healed side. The shivering little ball of spite nuzzled ruthlessly into me. His tears stung my chilled pelt, but I said nothing, not wanting to embarrass him in front of the others. I lightly stroked his mane before casting a glare in Keena’s direction. I only got an eye-full of Standtall’s colossal, metal-wrapped ass, he had wisely sat between us, Keena’s rifle laying between his forelegs.

“Waiting for you to come by. Steelgraft went up ahead, but I figured you guys would run into trouble.” The robot said in a smug tone. “I was right.” More than anything, I wanted to wipe that permanent grin off her stupid pink little face.

“Whenever you’re ready to leave, speak to me, and we can get going,” She added cheerfully, returning to her routine repairs. There was fat chance I was going to let her tag along, but I saw little choice other than wandering aimlessly without her. Road Apples, there wasn’t time to pick someone last for Hoofball, we needed everyone on the field. Rolling my eyes, I agreed with a groan of exasperation.

“Just one rule, no talking! Capische?”

I was met with silence.

“I said capische?!” Oh was I getting mad.

“Oh,” PNK-3 said coyly. Robots could sound coy? Who knew. “How am I supposed to give affirmatives if I can’t talk? Who’s a silly pony? Gangrene’s a silly pony!” I wanted to shoot her--Blow her right out of the damned air and then sell her scrap to buy enough drugs to hopefully bleach the very memory of her existence from my mind. Sadly, that would be counter-intuitive for our goals, and I try not to work against myself no matter how much I despised someone else.

“Fine! Just keep it down!” I shouted, already provoked to the edge of my final nerve. I just wanted someone I could yell at, anyone, really. PNK-3 was the perfect target for my rage. As far as I knew, nopony liked her, and no one would miss her. But we needed her right now, so I directed any further vitriol at--

Standtall had been staring at me this whole time, even before I snot-rocketed him with a .38. His faintly glowing visor hid his eyes, but I could feel his stoic gaze on me. Even after I noticed, Standtall didn’t play coy, he just kept staring. The only sound he made was his breathing, a shallow, unnatural rattling, which sent a brief tremor of unease up my spine. He’ll do.

I snorted, wrapping my leg around my foal protectively, “Whatcha want, old man?” When he didn’t respond, I got nervous, then annoyed. My nostrils flared open wide and I spat at him, striking him on the faceplate with a bloody lugey. Still, no response, not for a good while. PNK-3 fluttered about in front of him and he requested a quick touch up on his armor. He stood up, stretching out his limbs and displaying the wear and tear his repair talisman had failed to correct. His scrap hopper had likely gone dry, and rusted scrap wasn’t the best material for it.

“You almost died,” The massive stallion said.

“No shit,” I grunted.

“I saved your life.” Standtall stated definitely. “If PNK-3 hadn’t scrambled my audio inputs, I still would have been under the influence of the Suicide Symphony.” I stiffened at these words. He was right, but that’s not what worried me.

It was the fact he’d recognized the song by name.

“What do yah want, a thankyou?” I breathed out, pressing my lips to Rebel’s head, the poor boy was so cold. He shouldn’t be outside like this. The wastes aren’t a safe place for a defenseless, sweet little boy. Now here I was, teaching him how bad the world was. Maybe he’d never leave the nest after this, at least I hoped, he could get a job repairing stuff and not be some stupit’ assed bandit or adventurer that’d wind up dead. There were schools in New Pegas, or I’d find one of those eggheads in a labcoat to teach him an honest trade. Yeah, I was sending mixed signals! I went from distant, dark mentor to doting mother at the drop of “Almost died”. Rebel vacillated between content, confused, and disgruntled.

“I want you to think,” Standtall stated. “I’ve seen many things in Detrot. I still remember what it was like before the Deadzone dropped.” Just how old was this geezer? “I’m not a fool, I’ve been around the bend enough times to recognize the signs, to know when something is amiss or to tell when somepony isn’t being honest.” My guts knotted with worry, my gaze locked only on him as everything, including the laughter, became the backdrop to my queasy nerves.

What if he knew? Oh buck, what if he knew? He could have figured out I pretended to be a Star Paladin to get his help. He had to be older than sixty, at the least, which meant he had years to pore over Division 25’s dossiers. They had reports on anything from the terrifying Mega-Scorpions to the rarest of Deadmare models. He had to have seen my file, too! My mind raced as I tried to remember what I’d heard about this titanic trashcan while growing up in Northern Sector’s Steel Ranger Stable, and that’s when it hit me; Nothing. No-one talked about Squad D. Why? Maybe they had been a squad of specialists, which explained why they were so far out from the Northern Blockade. Surely, though, when you had a one ton, ten foot tall battle horse, you’d say something about it...

I’d been silent too long, lost in thought as I weighed everything, mulling over his armor with my gaze. “Look, I didn’t mean to-” I began, trying to forge a sincere-sounding apology.

He abruptly cut me off with his stern voice. “We need to be more careful. If anything were to happen to you, that boy would lose his mother.” I stared at him in disbelief, my mouth packed with the feeling of hot cotton. Was he actually this stupid?

“There, all patched up!” PNK-3 announced, “I’ve removed all identifying marks off of your armor, as you’ve requested, Standta-, whoops! I mean Mister Stay Strong! Also, I repaired your auto-mounter!” The bot flittered away, moving over to her troupe of robots. She was still working on their repairs, but had spared enough time to paint them all a warm pastel blue.

“Thank you,” He grunted, carefully standing up. I looked to his flanks, to his brow, and to his chest plate. Every identifying mark displaying rank, division, and identity were scorched off his armor, branding him a deserter. Only one remained, the large ‘D’ on his right shoulder, marking which squad he once belonged to. Just like I had done years ago, he was officially AWOL, with a new moniker to boot. Stay Strong, was it? That won’t last long...

“Stay Strong?” Angus asked, trying his best not to chuckle.

“My new last name. To remember my squad’s wishes.” Standtall said, “I was never attached to the name Stillshot, anyway.”

“They ain’t takin’ you back after defacin’ your armor!” I was beside myself, wondering why I cared one iota of buck. I was so confounded by these new feelings that I couldn’t focus enough to hate glare at the sulking Keena between his tree trunk legs! My modus operandi is “No bucks given”, and here I was, wondering why I couldn't hold all these bucks I now gave. The chain smoking party clown in my head (conscience) had chosen poorly what to juggle for the first time: +2 Flaming Chainsaws of Guilt. (I really had to stop giving Rebel Bunkers and Badasses source books, his terminology was enriching my internal monologue. That, and everypony knew 3.5 Pathtrotter was far superior to the later installments.)

“If I return, I will be issued another squad,” the newly monickered Standtall Staystrong countered, “I’m rather attached to my last one.” Was that vomit welling up inside, or a newfound respect for the ranger I’d ultimately wronged? Or maybe, just maybe, that ache was guilt worming its way into my cold, jaded heart. I felt he knew and it scared me. Squad D had no history on the records, which meant they had a lot of it that would never be told. Most his squad had died, but they had taken on over one-hundred Striders and put a considerable dent in those numbers. There was no way the townies had managed to put down that many, so that meant each Ranger had to have taken at least ten down before biting the bit and seeing blue skies. And now he was AWOL--and there was no way Haywire was going to let a piece of work like Standtall take leave. They’d come for him and I didn’t want to be anywhere near him when they did.

Concealing my feelings was easy, snort up some snot, turn my head, spit, and wipe my lips with a cruel chortle, giving him the empty promise that I’d be a bit more careful. Not like I’d be able to keep it, going to the corner store trader for milk was sometimes as dangerous as stealing candy-apples from the Baker Barbarians. There were no free meals, and no mission was a milk-run.

“Y’sahd ye ken abit what's gonnae oan?” Angus interjected, earning my eternal gratitude. Now full on meat, he was raring to go, palming the massive head of his weird rocket propelled hammer. It was one of the most curious weapons I’d ever seen, but it never pays to be too curious, especially in the wasteland. Curiosity can kill.

“I don’t have time to explain classified intel to civvies,” Standtall groused in an authoritative manner, mirrored by his previous affiliation as a Steel Ranger. My derisive snort caught the creak of his armor’s movement as he settled his gaze on me.

“Once a hardass, always a hardass,” I sniped. “I bet you don’t know buck.” Likely, he knew both Buck and Jack Shit. If there was one thing I knew, it was that this old nag had been around. Now I had to remember what lies I’ve told.

Standtall gave a defeated, sour grunt. “The song we’re hearing is the Suicide Symphony.” He paused for a moment, as if that’d be enough, but given our collection of blank stares, he cleared his throat and continued. “It was thought to be a myth, explaining the mass suicides that devastated the South-West for years, claiming small settlements. Every report was the same. Rolling fog. Paranoia. Irrational behavior. Anger. Violence.” He took a moment in his succinct explanation to prod Keena with a hoof. “Preys on guilt.” The horsebird flinched, her head in her talons, her failure to compose herself evident as she rocked back and forth, muttering a useless prayer. It didn’t make me any less mad right now, I postulated angry glares, like daggers, in lieu of spitting at the hippogriff.

“She has lots to feel guilty for,” I growled. Keena shot me this look of primal sadness--And I almost regretted what I’d just said. I’d rather be shot with a bullet than that look.

“There’s more than one Gravelord in there,” ‘Stay Strong’ continued, “There are more leads on fresh water springs in Detrot than on the elusive Gravelords. However, I know this one personally. His name is Organ Grinder. We have a history.”

“Lemme guess, wiped a squad?” I hazarded a guess sarcastically, rolling my head back.

The old Ranger merely nodded solemnly.

“That’s the history,” he grunted, “Still, his power won’t work if you don’t hear it.”

“Sae wa didne affeck me?” Bayed Angus.

“Hazard a guess,” the metal titan hypothesized, drumming his hoof thoughtfully into the ground a moment, “I’d say the countless years of enthusiastic explosives experience rendered your senses too dull to be affected.” Unapologetic and to the point, as usual. “Couple that with a Minotaur’s natural spell resistance, then it’s no wonder the Suicide Symphony had no effect on you.” His explanation concluded with a curt nod, that was the end of that. Even if Angus wasn’t completely convinced, Standtall was already moving on.

He proceeded to point at PNK-3, “Their magic is also nullified by positive emotions.”

“BAAAAAH! BAAAAH!” Baha interrupted, opening his mouth wide to make loud, obnoxious calls at the Steel Ranger. He continued to make these noises, until the metal clad horse placed the hefty weight of his attention upon him.

“What?” ‘Standtall grumbled.

“He's jist tryin' tae ask a queshton!” Angus bellowed, “Kin’t nae undr’stand im? He’s sae will pronoonced.”

We all stared. Angus eventually got the hint.

“E’s asskin ef weh kin’ laff em ta deff.” Angus sighed, slapping his forehead with his meaty palm.

“Laugh ‘em to deafness? Oh, no, that’d just be silly!” PNK-3 interjected with a soft giggle. “It just irritates them to the precipice of madness, choking them off from their stolid thoughts until they start self-mutilating, are driven away

Another squeal of laughter flattened my ears to my head as I screwed my eyes shut tightly.
“That explains the canned laughter, but why’re you painting them laugh-factories blue?” From the Protecta Ponies to the odd, mostly limbless Mr. Handy, they were all decorated in matching pastel blues, and at least for posterity’s sake, I wanted to know why.

“Why wouldn’t I paint them blue? Of course I’d paint them blue! It’s only obvious that I’d paint them blue! It’s all part of the plan!” Was the only response I received before the spritebot went back to her work, rearming the damaged Mr. Handy with a single functioning pie slicer. “We really need to be going soon, Captain Kettle might need back-up. Or front-up. Or sidekicks. All depends on the direction we come from!”

I snorted. “Typical of him, always the center of every little skirmish, the violent little time vampire.” With a groan and the creaking of sore joints, I pushed myself up, turning my head to spit another bloody lugey. It tasted kinda like bacon. “Let’s get this over with--KEENA! You take point.” That’d been the first thing I’d said to her since our little incident, and she was quick to respond, her sullen eyes seeking me out as her head crest peaked. Threading herself through that Steel Ranger’s massive legs, she held onto one for balance.

“Are you trying to get me killed?” Keena squawked, “What if we hit another spell or trap?”

Well, I didn’t want to tell her the obvious, but if we hit another spell field that turned her turncoat, she’d find her new coat color to be red. The same would probably happen if we ran into a trap.

“Then you’ll find it first?” I glowered, at the end of my sanity rope. Trust wasn’t one of my strong points, especially after taking a quarter mag’s worth of friendly fire. I made room for my little tyke bomb on the metal horse and wedged the squirming foal between my legs. “Sit tight, Rebel.” I grumbled, patting his messy little mane.

Keena didn’t want to take full responsibility for her horrid spell resistance, feeling as though the situation called for leniency. In my book, it didn’t.

“If you would feel better, I can stay behind and wait here,” she offered.

“I ain’t showin’ you ass to catch another piercin’.” I hissed like an agitated Viper. “And I ain’t doin’ you the favor of doin’ your job, squab!”

“My job?” With that muddled mind of hers, it was a wonder she remembered why she joined us in the first place. “Alright, I’ll take point!” She clucked, snatching her weapon from the ranger’s possession and taking flight, circling overhead. She waited until we chose a path. “You should watch your language around Rebel,” Here we go, she’s right back to lecturing.

“Screw you,” Rebel huffed at Keena. Now that, that made me chortle, seeing Keena’s perplexed expression turn to indignant disgust. I am best parent. Patting Rebel on the head, I reinforced these important values in him.

“Can we just get moving?” Keena whined. Yeah, it didn’t even take any weird music for us to dislike each other. It made me smile.

“Oh, are we going now?” The pink spritebot chirped, zipping ahead. The small squad of robots kept a tight perimeter around us, preparing to move out. Stay Strong turned to give me a look which was probably questioning, under that featureless helmet.

“If that thing’s here,” I muttered with a jab of my snout in PNK-3’s direction, “Steelgraft can’t be far off. She’ll know where he is.” The last thing I wanted tagging along was an old M.O.M. robot with personality quirks and her band of laughing robots announcing us to every threat in a ten mile radius. There was no other recourse, we needed her--and I hated it, but we did not have the luxury of time to squabble over choice company.

Despite clunking Standtall on the head multiple times with the rifle barrel, he refused to budge. “Come on, giddy up, Toaster-Ass!”

Heaving a sigh with some effort, the Ranger shook his head rustily, “The fog’s too thick to see. My map-system’s still down.” There was likely a jamming signal being emitted by one of the Gravelords, one that laughter alone couldn’t disperse. We didn’t have time to stand around waiting for his armor to reboot a tertiary system, but I did begrudgingly wait the fifteen or twenty seconds for his flood lights to flicker back on. The high intensity beam cleaved ahead far enough for us to see shadows of the great piles of scrap all around the clearing.

“Lead the way, rust ball,” I barked at PNK-3.

“You know,” PNk-3 chirped, moving ahead, “I do have a name!”

I rolled my eyes hard, giving a shallow grunt of ‘whatever’. Her name may have well been “Target Practice” because it didn’t take long before the spritebot lead us into a dead-end. It commented on her direction glibly, “Well, I thought it was this way.” We about faced and were soon lead down yet another winding path that ended with a collapsed pile of scrap blocking our way.

“Sour punch! This was the way Steelgraft went, but now the scrap’s collapsed in the way.” PNK-3 chimed, altogether too happily.

“Angus, blast it,” I decided.

“No kin dae, lass, tay mooooch shakin' an' we coods bury oorselves in rooosted scrap,” Angus rumbled, scratching under his chin as he appraised the size of the obstacle. The wall of toppled scrap was double his height over his horn tips and we had no idea how thick it could be.

Baha bayed in agreement--Or just to be noisy. I wasn’t sure which.

Keena reported from her vantage point that the fog was scraping the tops of the scrap piles, going far above where normal fog would dwell. She tried not to venture too far from the protective aura of the robotic canned laughter, even so, she returned with a haunted look in her eyes. “I have a terrible feeling, I do! Something bad’s going to happen.” She said to noone in particular.

“What, again?” I muttered. “At least yah didn’t say: ‘everythin’s gonna work out’.” I wasn’t exactly superstitious, but I wasn’t against not tempting Fate to pile it on.

“But everything’s going to be okiday! It isn’t so bad!” PNK-3 blurted. “And it could always be worse! I mean, it could rain! And nopony(or non-pony) brought an umbrella.”

“And now we’re doomed. Thanks for jinxing us, Bullet Magnet,” I said.

“That’s still not my name,” PNK-3 chimed.

In a matter of minutes my patience for the metal orb went from tolerance to wanting to blast it with the Compensator. It might actually be worth it, and I would have, if not for its previous work in dispelling the Suicide Symphony.

I wish our little herd would be with me on this, but I was the only one to groan at the robot. “Shut up!” I snapped. “Make yourself useful n’ uninstall yer gob!”

“Mom,” Rebel snorted, “Hardware doesn’t work dat way.”

“I know.” I grit my teeth, calming myself by slicking up my mohawk. “I. Know.”

We tried a way around the wreckage, but we ended up getting turned around, arriving at a familiar pile of dead raiders and a dwindling fire pit. “Wrong again,” PNK-3 squeaked, once again, we’d have to backtrack. “Maybe third time’s the charm!”

Another route led us around in a loop until: “Oh, I think I remember now!”

“Do you now?” I snarled in disbelief. “This place is a maze!”

“Labyrinth, actually. The suicide Symphony is moving the scrap piles around. We’re on the same(and only) path!” PNK-3 beeped a bit too cheerfully. That would have been nice to know five minutes ago! My lower eyelid twitched in agitation, the frequency of my muscle spasm increasing as the bauble closed the distance between us. I found it annoying, but my expression of sour taste and foul smell combined didn’t register at all for the robotic retard. Merrily, it invaded my space and pressed its cool metal dome against my cheek.

“How d’we get aroun’ the spell, Klunktard?” I groaned, trying to distance my face from the cold metal, but perspiration had adhered the consarned thing to my face with frost!

“I don’t know who this Klunktard is,” PNK-3 snickered, “But I do know they don’t know what I just remembered. Just now!”

I heaved a defeated sigh.

“How do we get around the spell’s effects, PNK-3?” Standtall requested.

“I am so glad you asked, Double S!” PNK-3 chortled, “Gangrene here’s talkin’ to someone named Klunktard!” It lowered its voice to whisper as if telling a deep, dark secret, “I think she’s going crazy.”

“You’re frozen to my face an’ I kin hear yah.” I reminded her.

“Wow, she has good hearing.” PNK-3 gasped.

“Oche, wee bauble lass, the Labyrinth?” Angus pushed.

“Oh! The only way to break it is with a minotaur and an Enchanted Ball of Twine™!” PNK-3 announced. “Fortunately for us, we have a minotaur in the party!”

“How does that even work?” Rebel Riot asked incredulously.

“Labyrinths need minotaurs! And something, something, string!” PNK-3 chirped. “Hey, I don’t make the rules, I just bend them.”

It sounded just like the mare that lead the Ministry of Morale, that stupid pink pony whose polka music would forever haunt the wasteland. The M.O.M. was by far one of the worst ministries, second only to the Ministry of Peace. For obvious reasons. My least favorite subject was history, and now a piece of history best left fragged was glued to my cheek!

Unable to dislodge the spritebot, I fired a sigh, tossing myself over my rifle stock, “Is that it, then? Where the buck’re we supposed to get enchante--”

“Go’ it!” Angus bellowed triumphantly as he victoriously pulled a ball of golden twine from his kilt purse thing. I didn’t know what it was called, it was like a backwards fanny pack and I’m an ignorant city mare. A cockpurse?

“How th’buck? You got an Enchanted Ball of Twine™? Seriously?” I said, astounded.

Angus looked insulted, “ ‘Course, wot kinda Manotaur ye think I be?”

“A prepared one,” ‘Standtall offered. Angus nodded in agreement. Baha bayed.

While the Minotaur unwinded a short length of the shimmer gold twin, he began to explain why he had it, and a bit about its purpose. “Uir haem in th' stoatin Macintosh Moontains, Belegost, is protected by a labyrinth sic' as thes.” He set the partially unraveled ball of twine down, the other end was tethered off to one of Baha’s short horns. “E’ry macitaur wort’ their black powder has a baa o' glittergauld,” Angus finished, now waiting expectantly.

Nothing happened.

“I’m sure I’m still forgetting something!” PNK-3 thought aloud.

This time, I was not the only one to groan.

“What now?!” I demanded, only occasionally pushing on PNK-3 in effort to dislodge her from my cheek at this point.

After a cursory inspection, Angus sighed, “Its enchantment main hae rin its coorse. It'll need a new a un.”

I had more expectant eyes on me than the freshest piece of meat in a raider pile.

“What?” I barked, “D’yah think I know how to enchant string?”

“You’re the only unicorn here.” Standtall pointed out casually.

“I’m a unicorn? Holy plop-balls, I didn’t know! thanks fer point’n that out, Sir Points-Out-The-Obvious, but that doesn’t mean I know the spell!” I blurted. “Maybe iffin’ I had the Spellbo--”

WHAM! Something heavy and book-like landed on top of my head.

“Whoops!” PNK-3 squeaked, “Sorry! Didn’t mean to materialize that there.”

Blinking the stars from my eyes, I levitated the old leatherbound tome off my head and nursed my new, throbbing goose egg. It was a simple, ordinary looking book, with an unusual heft to it, unmarked save for a circled glyph on the front with a set of stars set inside, 42 points in all. It was easy to tell what it was; a personal Grimoire, and judging by its thickness and weight, it had belonged to a notable and powerful unicorn. And judging by the cutie mark in the glyph mark, it was obvious who it had belonged to.

Twilight Sparkle.

“Where’d yah git this?” I asked, leafing through the pages. Each one was filled with spells far beyond my understanding, though the legible, clean notations along the side margins clued me in on their purpose. Most of the spells being researched, especially towards the end were focused on restoration magic, and, surprisingly enough, herbology and plant growth spells.

“I borrowed it,” PNK-3 chimed. “I doggy-eared the page you’re looking for.”

There, just like she’d said, the aforementioned folded corner with an object enchantment on the same page. What was written in the margin gave me pause; “Sometimes I wonder if these years have taken the best parts of me away, that my better half is lost. I cannot find you in this life, because you are gone, but maybe in the next I’ll find you. Sincerely, Your Maripony.” That note, in ink that was faded, clearly a century old, it spoke what haunted my dreams. It seems before everything went up in balefire, Twilight had found and lost love, and wrote a spell to find their better half.

Coincidence, it had to just be a coincidence. When my disbelieving blinks refused to make the notation in the margin cease to exist, I chose to ignore it and move onto the spell itself. It was a Recall Ally spell, specifically for finding lost friends or loved ones, most notably utilized in civilian search and rescues. I’d seen the spell used to track down Rangers that were missing in action. Usually, the search would end at a corpse stripped of its armor, or, in my case, an abandoned weapon and a cold trail. Yet this spell was different, it had changes to the glyph denoting ‘ally’ changing it’s meaning altogether.

It wasn’t a Recall Ally spell anymore, it was something more meaningful. Anyone that cast the spell would be lead to their hero--To the one pony that could save them from despair and darkness. But she was dead, and this spell would only lead me to her unmarked grave...Wouldn’t it?

“A civilian able to read advanced magical spells,” the aged, massive Steel Ranger broke my thoughts with the subtlety of a balefire bomb. “Perhaps you’re just good at acting.”

By the time I’d collected my mental fortitude to memorize the spell, my heart was still bottomed out in my guts. “You wanna exchange origin stories or put an end to this chapter of our lives?” I asked, slamming the book shut pointedly. The book evaporated, as if it had been deleted block by block, the fragments flying towards a small, sparkling diode that had extended from PNK-3’s chassis.

“Hey! I wasn’t done wit dat!” I barked at PNK-3. “I wanted tah read more later!”

“It’s not like you were gonna keep the book. It’s on La-o-ooo-oooan~” PNK-3 sing-songed.

“You just don’t quit,” Standtall observed, even his patience weathered. Maybe I should just start referring to him as S to the S? Or SS? No, let’s not get that casual with him. Staystrong or Standtall, he’d answer to either, anyway.

“I know, right? She’s an irritation!” I agreed, my new copacetic nature with the Ranger was alright as long as he disliked the bot as much as I did. This one time.

“I meant you,” he growled, “Try to be a little more patient.”

“What?!” I blurted, the eye-twitch returning with a pitted vengeance. “We don’t have time for patience! Steelgraft--”

“Kin hauld his ain, lass.”

“Um, I know you don’t care what I think,” Keena began, fluttering off a generous distance to my left, “But you should just cast the spell, you know, the whole rescuing the choir who can’t hold their own? And Steelgraft, I guess?” The young hippogriff wrung her talons together, beseeching me with round, pitiful eyes.

“Mom, they’re kinda right. Just cast the damn spell already.” Et tu, Rebel Riot?

“Hey,” PNK-3 spoke up, “Don’t gang up on her, she’s just in character!” Just what I needed, to be defended by that piece of junk. That probably pissed me off the most.

“Fine!” I agreed, if only to shut them all up. I went to cast my spell, a hazy green aura sleeving my horn, causing a headache to crawl from my temples to the front of my sinuses. The spell was a bit more complex, but it was well within my abilities. I hoped.

Slowly, the shadows of the junkyard swiveled and shifted as the illusion faded. Then the goat went flying off in a random direction, letting out an ecstatic, bewildered bleat as the freshly enchanted twine propelled him towards whatever the spell was supposed to lead us to.

A hero? My hero. Was that stitched up goody-two-hooves really my hero? I was so screwed.

“Oche, balder n’ Breemstone! Tied off th’ wron’ end!” Angus shouted as he barreled away after his companion. “Ol’ oan, Baha! I’mma comin’!”

Seven. I counted seven piles of junk in this large junkyard, all surrounding the central clearing we were in. It wasn’t a maze at all, but an innocuous collection of scrap. Unease peppered my mood with dread, if one of the Deadmare could turn a junkyard into a seemingly endless maze, then, what good would my magic be against them?

What good would any of us be against them?

“Follow that goat!” Squealed the spritebot, tearing itself away from my cheek to buzz around with jubilant joy-like movements. A happy, delightful target with a fetching patch of yellow fur frozen to its carapace. Reeling back, I slipped off my rifle, clasping my searing cheek.

Clunk.

Filled with seething fire, I took hold of my weapon and raised the barrel, training it on the flittering orb. A single flicker of my horn yielded a dry click, and soon after, a chuckle from the Ranger upon whom the weapon was mounted.

“Safety,” the Ranger cattily purred, “It will be disengaged when you find an appropriate target.”

Disarmed at his words, and literally by his actions, I could only lean against my rifle while our small, dysfunctional caravan chased the magically propelled goat into the ruins of the junkyard, winding a path around piles of long defunct robots and Robronco appliances.

It was a treasure trove of rusted scrap and tetanus. At a better time, Rebel Riot would be dashing about, vibrant with the spark of curiosity as he dissected every make and model the junkyard had to offer. Now he was shivering, clinging to my chest tightly and shutting out the world around him. I busied myself with comforting him, neglecting the idiot ball blathering incessantly about what she had been doing all day, up until we arrived to be included in the retelling.

“--And after I was done reprogramming the robots to not attack him on sight, he ran off to fight the bad guys!” PNK-3 finished, all without pause, in a matter of a minute she’d told us the entire story. Well, almost the entire story. “Oh! And then you guys showed up! Want me to tell you all about that?”

“NO!” I shouted.

“Ol’ oan lil buddy!” Angus mooed, panting as he doubled over. “Wot spell ye cast? He’s goin’ faster n’ th’ last pickled onion at a’ Moot.”

While I reassured Angus I’d cast a simple enough spell, just that, well, I had no idea how the enchantment would have reacted with the twine, Standtall decided to piss me off. “I’d love to hear more,” he rumbled to PNK-3. My eye twitched.

“You got it!” PNK-3 paused briefly. “Where was I?”

“You were at the part where I decide to shoot myself,” I snarked.

“But we already told that part of the story,” PNK-3 contemplated. “Oh, are we almost there?” I bruised my forehead with how hard I just face-hoofed.

“I’m not losing anymore slack, and I can see Baha up just ahead,” Keena chirped. She had swooped down and snatched up the other end of the twine ball, making sure we’d be able to follow the gleaming tether without stepping on it. How moderately useful.

Angus was already up ahead, assisting the stunned goat. He peeled Baha from his restful face-plant and set him on his haunches. Just as we caught up, another horror was thrust upon us. The Symphony’s faint, deadly music died off, the wind went still, and finally, just before it eroded my last nerve, the robots’ canned laughter drifted away too.

With sound dead in the air, the fog dissipated, rising off the coals of cold ground, curling into tattered rags. Climbing out from the mists was the oppressive structure of smokestacks and glowing windows, leering at us with bared, gated teeth. A roaring fire burned, licking out of the gaping windows, gilded with blazing heat. It was a factory, or had been a factory at one point. Now it was a hellish conflagration, filling the air with the scent of charred flesh and burning oil.

“The music stopped,” PNK-3 broke the silence.

“The children!” Screeched Keena, swooping in thoughtlessly. I was too late to snag her with my magic, but Angus had managed to seize the twine and reel her back in.

“Hauld oan, lassie, yoo'll only gie yerself kill’t!” Bellowed Angus, his grip slipping on sweat. Like a frantic kite caught in an updraft, Keena tugged the minotaur about, trying to unwind her talons from the glowing line.

“The music stopped,” PNK-3 reiterated while the rest of us got to more important business. Calming Keena down was a chore, and it took both Angus and Stay Strong to pin her down. No words would reach her, Keena’s eyes were filmed over with concern, fear, and hopelessness. The bitter mare in me wanted to laugh, to find joy that another creature hurt like I did, but the sensible creature I was tugged the corners of my lips into a neutral frown.

“I’m sorry, Keena, but if they’re in there, there ain’t nothin’ that can be done.” I said, watching the pyre with my own aching fear. Keena must have not heard me, not wanted to believe me, or a combination of the two, because she never stopped struggling. The screams we heard coming from inside the building only renewed her dedication to floundering.

Screams of agony overcame the crackling fire before they too were silenced by the flames.

“There are others still alive in there.” Standtall mumbled. “Not for long.”

“We hae tae dae somethin’.” Angus agreed, relinquishing his grip from Keena. Stay Strong had to apply more weight to keep the hippogriff from flying off, and the Ranger grunted in displeasure at Angus. “Aam gonnae in thaur,” the meat stack declared, shouldering his hammer. “Doobt tis hauter n’ tae Gran Ferge.”

“You won’t make it to the door,” Stay Strong argued. Reluctantly, I agreed with a curt nod, though most of my focus had gone to calming Keena down.

“Oh sweet, Merciful Luna...” Keena wouldn’t give it a rest. She was worthless in her condition.

Too stubborn to listen, the Minotaur ventured as far as he could before the heat drove him off, which was a considerable distance, less than a stone’s throw from the front door. When he returned to us, singed and coughing smoke, he mumbled about the doors and windows being melted to their frames.

“We’re not getting in through the front door, if we’re getting in at all.” Stay Strong said passively. “But I already knew that without you nearly causing a backdraft.” Those words alone made the minotaur’s frown deepen, the creases in his face hard as stone. He had a way of getting under the skin, and the Minotaur’s thick hide was no exception. Personally, I didn’t want to be riding the Steel Ranger when the six-hundred pound cowman decided to beat him to death with his own helmet.

“The music stopped,” PNK-3 reiterated for the third time.

“Shut up,” I snarled, “Who cares? I gots 99 worries and a beat ain’t one.”

“No, she’s right,” Standtall mumbled. “The music stopped.” He’d gone crazy, he must have gone crazy. I was riding on a crazy horse. “The Suicide Symphony was a deterrent meant to stop anyone that might interfere.” Okay, he wasn’t crazy, I just couldn’t comprehend the crazy pink robot like he could. Which might make him crazier than me.

“Interfere with what?” I asked, knowing the answer would be far south of good news.

“Their fight with Steelgraft,” PNK-3 said solemnly. “That’s the most likely reason why they’d stop maintaining the music.”

“Maybe he won?” Rebel interjected. His naivety was refreshing, and I rewarded his dose of sunshine with a pat to the head.

“Not even he could beat those odds, not without his friends to even them.” A robot sounding genuinely sad, that was the day when I thought pigs would fly. Scanning the horizon, I only saw smoke. “He should have never gone alone.”

“We ain’t friends,” I grunted, “We have an arrangement.” That dead buck owed me plenty, and I couldn’t collect if he was dead or broken, so it was in my best interests to save him. “Can’t speak for the others, they hardly know him.” Angus had wanted to escape chores, Keena had her reasons, and the Steel Ranger was enigmatic about his own. Made me a bit uneasy, the Ranger would be difficult to be rid of, but I could probably give him the slip.

PNK-3 remained silent for an intensely pregnant pause, finally turning to me to speak in a low, serious tone. “If you’re going to save your not-friend, you best hurry. Negative outcomes are multiplying by the second.” Unknowns were a worry, and this bot was giving me lotsa unknowns. Before I could even utter a single syllable, the robot and its flamboyant entourage of pastel junkbots laid claim to separate lop-sided junkpiles and began digging in.

“She won’t be any use,” I muttered, already turning my attention to the other problem child of our little herd, Keena. “And neither will you if you don’t pony up.” My condemning gaze was icy, and the hippogriff, having already ceased her struggling, merely cringed. I was abysmal at these uplifting pep-talks, it wasn’t my forte. My bedside manner was mentioned to be near-flawless, but that was for those ailing actual aches, not accounting for emotional loss. I ain’t a youth counselor. I ain’t a therapist. Fudge pack mules, what would Steelgraft say? He’s good at this. Real good at finding that silver lining or some way to keep trekkin’. Unable and unwilling to think too hard on it, I prepared a simple anesthesia spell and struck Keena with it.

Her cry was cut short as her muscles relaxed, her exhaustion played a factor in the potency of the spell. She instantaneously lost consciousness.

“Wae didja--”

Wanting to save on time, I spoke over any dissent. “Knock-out spell. She’ll jus’ get in the way. Leave her with the tea party.”

“And the foal?” Standtall mentioned.

I patted my lap. My now empty lap. Cuss n’ custard, he had a bad habit of slipping away on me! I’d have to get one of those harness leashes and tie him to my Mother of the Year award. Flicking my eyes about, I withheld my vitriol behind barred teeth. “Buck! Runt! Runt?!”

“Up here,” the colt called down to me. My head followed the voice with such speed I may have slipped a disk, the crack deafening the constant ringing I’d been hearing since Angus had blown up the eatery in town. All eyes on him, the powder blue ass-pain hung from the cockpit of a tall salvage crane. “I think it still works!”

“He’s quick,” Commented Standtall. That wasn’t a compliment, as soon, the aging Ranger added a firm, “To be a nuisance.”

CLUNK.

“What’s he dae’in up thaur?” Angus wondered.

“That’s what I’d like to know!” At wit’s end, I stood up, cupping my hooves over my snout. “Get down from there dis instant, you’re givin’ me a heart attack!” Rebel, as usual, took no time in ignoring my demands and instead did as he pleased. If I hadn’t knocked out our flier, I could have sent her up to snatch him! Cursing my short sightedness, I dropped from my mount and made for the crane. “I swear, if I gotta come up there and get you!”

The engine turned over, sputtered, and died. Rebel, seeming to have expected this, left the cockpit quickly, an oversized wrench clenched between his teeth. “You’re grounded!” I shrieked, “One week!” He continued on, undaunted. “Two weeks!” He broke the lock on the crane’s engine compartment and pried it open. “A year!” He cast me a spiteful look and scrambled inside.

Rebel’s banging echoed from the belly of the beast. After clanging around for a bit, he popped out, his face smeared with great streaks of grease. He spat out his spanner and made way for the cockpit once again, the engine turned over and stuttered to life.

By now, I’d begun scaling the salvage crane’s rickety ladder, concocting punishments with every painful rung I put beneath me. Make him stand outside with a bucket of water on his head? Classic. Spanking? Barbaric. Both at the same time? Perfect! An eerily disquieting moan of metal signaled an abrupt stop to my thoughts, replacing them with frantic fear as the rung I had rested a majority of my weight on gave way. The next one did not fare much better, and by the fourth, I felt a diet was in order. My warring thoughts with developing anorexia aside, I did manage to land without harm on my fat(Not really) ass. Pain struck like lightning up my backside, making me clench my teeth and eyes. Twitcha-Twitch!

Crap!

In the fraction of a second it took for me to wish I’d spent the last precious moment dodging, a flash of heat cut through the air over my barrier, shattering it, but also launching the mangled ladder a safe distance where it landed against a pile of scrap. I blinked a few times, rubbing my ears as the ringing bells squealed in my head--Angus’s rocket maul was louder than a Vertibuck in take-off and twice as fast. Fortunate for me, cuz he just saved my hide.

“So,” Standtall began, his tone bemused yet condescending, like a drill sergeant between elation and contempt at the shortcomings of a subordinate, “You knock out our only flier, then lose your child and nearly die all in the span of a minute.” He loomed over me again as he took a place next to Angus. “That aside, I think the kid’s onto something.”

Angus agreed with a firm ‘aye’ as his head tilted upwards.

Twitcha-Twitch. What was up with these damn spasms? They were getting more frequent.

Rebel Riot had managed to get the crane working again, and the hundreds of caps and hours playing arcade games in the Highscore Arcade had served him in figuring out the controls. It only took him half a minute to drop a corrugated steel cargo container too close for comfort.

“Watch it!” I barked.

“Sorry!” Rebel excused himself, “It’s kinda my first time--Now stop complainin’, get inside! Steelgraft’s cornered on the catwalk n’ he’s short on time!” Smart runt, got a vantage point and a solution at the same time!

“You heard ‘em!” I exclaimed, rising up to my hooves. “Angus, pop the container open! We’re gonna be a priority shipment!” The sound of the gears turning was audible, but it was the crane, not the space between Angus’s ears making the racket. Angus gave a grunt and moved to peel the metal doors open, a gust of foul, moldy air hissed out as the seal broke. I expected dead bodies, a bunch of junk, or something mundane to tumble out, instead there were, of all things, in the entirety of the cargo container, a single box of (long)discontinued novelty cereal and a single bottle cap balanced on the box top.

The brand? Buck-Blow, the most fiber intense cereal ever made. It was also good as fertilizer, the box also boasted. I was both underwhelmed and a bit amused.

“Oh,” I heard PNK-3 say as she appeared over my shoulder, “That must be because I’m in the party. The wasteland’s such a weird place sometimes.”

Hairs on the back of my neck stood on end and this overwhelming feeling of something coming could not be quelled. Whatever it was, it would be a doozy. I never used the word doozy, it’d never been part of my vocabulary until just recently. My life was plagued by the weird and the confusing, and I found myself briefly reflecting on how I’d gotten here. What a week.

The shipping container was barely tall enough to fit Standtall, and Angus would be forced to crouch down due to his horns--If he hadn’t already excused himself from coming along.

“Me an' heights arenae keen oan seein' each other anymair,” Angus slurred, tipping his head back as he quaffed from his flask. “Guid luck.”

“You gotta be kiddin’ me, a Macitaur afraida heights?” I questioned.

PNK-3 squealed with joy, “That means there’s room for me!”

“Reconsider!” I begged.

“There’s barely enough room for me to squeeze in there,” Standtall said. “You on my back is already pushing it, this is our part to play, Gangrene.”

“Some one's got tae babysit th' flier an' th' runt,” Angus added. “An’ close th’ container.”

“Besides, do you want to be in a tight, enclosed space with an eight foot tall, six hundred pound minotaur laden with ‘party favors’?” PNK-3 weighed in. I’d rather be in a footlocker with a small band of radroaches playing mariachi music than be in a steel crate with the irritating broken down pink robot with the plastic, unwavering smile. Of course, I kept this comment to myself, I already knew which side a majority of those around me would take, and I was more than willing to capitulate rather than fight another losing battle.

“We gonna sit here flappin’ our gums or git it over with?” I groused, already in the middle or scaling my way back up my big metal gun platform with legs. PNK-3 was already inside, laughing at the quips on the cereal box’s label.

“A bowl will move your bowels! Hee! Classic.”

“Please keep it down,” I groaned.

“Oki-Doki-Loki!” the robot chimed, reducing her laughter to barely contained snickering.

“I really hate--What day is it?”

“Wednesday!” PNK-3 squeaked. “I think. Or was it thursday? Oh, no, not yet--Steelgraft’s necklace is still on! Silly me, it must be Wednesday--Or did it just turn Thursday? Oh...That’s not good...”

“Auch, a guid dae tae die, Eitter un.” Angus heaved as he sealed us inside the container.

There were three bangs outside, each one made me jump, my heart hitting rock bottom when I felt the container rise. The centenarian metal crate creaked, groaned, and complained as its integrity was tested for the first time in who knows how long. A tense crackle of radio static echoed from PNK-3’s speakers, Rebel’s voice coming over tinnily. He still had his father’s old radio, and when I had a receiver for it, I’d always chat with him and the kids while I was out stalking marks.

“Here’s the plan; swing yah in, break the glass, ease off tha backdraft, stick yah in and yah take the rest.”

“Oh, are we doing the Pony Pokey?” PNK-3 asked, nearly running over Rebel with her words. “Are we gonna shake it all about?”

“No,” I said through gritted teeth, mostly from nerves, but a hint of annoyance tainted my words, “I pop whatever’s cornered the moron, hope it dies, an’ have Steelgraft jump in.” My jaw was hurting, not as much as the rest of me, but I had to clench them to keep the rattle out. To focus, to overcome my fear. It was this or nothing--This or another nightmare to lose sleep over. Curbstomp’s uneven smile, the trust he had in me, and how easily I’d let him go; how easy I’d put him in harm's way to save my own hide.

Cool dampness trickled down my cheek, and I wiped my brow only to curse. It wasn’t sweat. This was the stupidest thing I’d ever done, certainly the riskiest. I was so afraid. The present company wouldn’t notice, I hoped, the noisy container and mindfulness on task would deprive them of any peripheral vision.

“It’s perfectly natural to be afraid.” Standtall rumbled.

DAMNIT.

I stayed silent, hoping Standtall wouldn’t press on, but he just twisted it in the wound.

“This is pretty dangerous, you’d have to be pretty crazy to not be afraid.”

After a moment’s silence, when the container jolted to a stop, at the apex of its height, I found the strength to speak--Honestly--For the first time to the Ranger.

“That’s not why I’m scared,” I told him, “What if I miss?”

“You won’t,” Standtall said. There was a dull tug at the Compensator’s base as the safety disengaged and the trigger lock slide down. He said nothing else, but the weight of his words and the way he effortless threw them spoke volumes. The fool trusted me, he trusted me and he didn’t even know. He thought the enemy that’d taken yet another squad from him was going to be just beyond the door when it opened, but the one that’d put his squad there was with him.

The cargo container shifted backwards, away from the building. We’d need enough momentum to crash right through without getting stuck, Rebel had said as much through PNK-3’s speaker. He called for us to prepare ourselves for impact. I could hear the old engine of the crane stutter and growl, the motions of the crate were unstable and uneven. A century without maintenance had left it stiff and rusted.

“This gonna’ be rough n’ jaggy! The darn thing handles like a three legged rad-bug,” said Rebel Riot. I tensed, anticipating the swing and the impact that would follow.

“He made his choice,” I bargained with myself, keeping these thoughts to myself. “He made the choice to follow a mare that never existed.” Daisy Chain. A fake ranger, one concocted on the spur of a moment, one that only an idiot would believe. Why think about it now?! There were a million other things to concern myself with. I was in a steel box suspended two stories over the ground about to be slung into an inferno, and here I was, unable to think of anything else.

Standtall was no idiot, a hardass, but not an idiot--He’d dropped the act as soon as his squad had died, when he had nothing left to give. Nothing left to lose. I suspected he knew, but he silently played along to keep the peace between us. The old ranger was never around base, I’d never even heard whispers of Division 25’s Juggernaut. I did remember one thing, actually. One thing I heard about D Squad from my father as he was doling out punishment for insubordination--He’d used assignment to D Squad as a threat, called it “Where dreamers go to die.” I never thought about it too hard, not before, the closest I’d ever been to the checkpoint D Squad routined was several hundred yards with a sniper scope--It’d always been easier to take the scenic route around, that is, until time became so crucial as to try to slip by inconspicuously. They were never on base, never talked about, and apparently always active, deployed, and refilled from the rank and file as necessary. Likely with anypony my father wanted to be rid of. If I wasn’t his daughter, what were the chances I would have ended up in Squad D myself?

Nary a thought was given them, they were just an obstacle, something to be avoided. I hated them, what they represented, where they came from, but then Standtall ruined it. Those rangers died for ponies they were told were barely savages. Standtall and his unit made a sacrifice so others could live, however few.

The wasteland demanded its sacrifices. That was his. She was mine.

“Brace yourselves!” Rebel warned.

As the cargo container swung forward, I shouldered the rifle and took a deep breath. The pit in my stomach dropped away, along with the hate I held for Standtall. We all make sacrifices, every single day there’s a little less left to lose. Less reasons to love and laugh, more reasons to cry.

Star Racer was right. It’d likely bite me in the ass, but this was one battle I’d fight not just for survival, but to make it up to the rusted old nag. Never would I admit it, but I owed them all this much. I wanted to be that mare, the one Star Racer had fallen in love with.

Just this one time...

Let me be a hero.

Let me be a friend worth fighting for.

What’s this? Going soft on us, Gangrene? Is the wasteland too much? Tut-tut, Heel-face turns tend to lead to death in this genre. But you want that, don’t you? You want to see Star Racer. How blind you’ve been, unable to see what’s before you. Unable to see that nothing is coincidence.

Love really is blind.

Chapter 18: Captain and Crew

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"Captain and Crew"

So, that poem was actually leading up to something?

It is the wrong turn of phrase to say you woke up, it was more accurately a shift in mental awareness. Dynamic phases of sentient symbolism, relatable data against correlated perspective stimuli. *You* were aware. *You* had awoken. *You* knew this. But who were *You*

Sickened with fitful sleep, your numb body rose up with a drunken stagger. Dull throbs in your temples pounded an alien drum against your deepest abyss. You entreat the throbbing with a tender rub of your hoof, parting your bedraggled mane as you smacked your lips. The ever-persistent thump drowned out your thoughts, Thump-Thump-Thump.

Revelation! Your hoof stymied your groggy thoughts, a speedbump in mental routine.

A hoof. A normal, ordinary hoof. Why was the sight of your foreleg so intriguing? Feeling, tactile feeling. Your tongue rolled against the gate of ivory fangs, and curiously, you bit the inner of your cheek to discover the sting of pain and coppery taste of blood. Your hoof roamed a stern, masculine, equine jaw, gaunt cheeks, and finally, over the crest of your brow, an intact horn. You drew your hoof away, distancing it before your eyes to the floor. Thump-Thump-Thump.

“No stitches.” Your inner voice whispered that it was a crazy thought, why would you have stitches there?

Shaky like a newborn, you took a step. Then two. You stumbled, your eyes watering as a pressure grew in your chest, it felt like fire. You’d missed a crucial step, somewhere along the way, an important thing most living things did autonomously. Just when darkness filled your eyes, reflexively, instincts you’d forgotten drew breath into your lungs. You are now breathing manually.

“I have to breathe too?” You asked rhetorically. Of course you did, all living things needed air, why were you even asking that question? A more important question passed your lips once you banished its predecessor to the back of your mind. “Where am I?”

Wherever you were, it was wholly conservative, with no doors, windows, or furniture of any kind. The only decor in this painfully dull, white room was the presence of reflection, all in a different border or shape. Mirrors. Some were ornate, some were plain, and some were shattered with their shards littering the polished floor. Staring at any of the mirrors gave the sensation of being watched, as if the reflected eyes had a tendency for voyeuristic observation. Soft whispers echoed from every rippling surface, like a permeable boundary.

Your ears flicked, a growing irritation gnawing at your psyche. Unease surrounded you, coiling like a serpent poised to crush the life from your feeble, tired body. Something was not right, you would tell yourself, but it was merely a hunch, unsupported by anything concrete. Suspiciously, you examined several mirrors, backing away only when you felt yourself drawn to the reflection. You urged yourself to resist, but you wanted to slip into one of the mirrors, through the frame, just to absolve your loneliness. “Crazy,” you thought. Thump-Thump-Thump.

“Are these broken?” You recalled the enchanted hall of mirrors from the Summer Solstice Carnival in Canterlot. These, while similar, were not in whimsical nature, enchanted to enthrall and astound. No, these mirrors were arranged in a haphazard collection by an unorthodox, unwell mind.

“Certainly not!” answered one of the reflections. “You’re just unhinged, peasant!”

Being one to not argue with strange reflections, especially not ones that resembled Prince Blueblood (The pompous ass), you took his comment with a shaker of salt and dull, disinterested nod punctuated with a dismissive ‘uh-huh’. Granting the duke of douches a glimpse of your backside, you graced mirrors far less tawdry with your attention, noting each one held the reflection of a different ungulate (and a few non-ungulates, however those were rare.) You wandered the small room in circles, hunting for answers among the assemblage of beast-occupied mirrors.

In a rather somber, cerulean mirror surrounded by a black metal frame, was the spitting image of Doctor Steelgraft. (You must have left his nametag with your things, but you recall wearing it. As a keepsake, perhaps?) That was curious! In regards to one another you tilted your heads in a synchronized, silent greeting. It was almost like meeting an old friend, or even an aged, wise uncle. The old stallion peered at you over broken rims, before his flesh began to fall off his bones right before your terrified eyes. You were now faced with a ghoulish representation of the same stallion you may have known in some capacity, sly smile left intact, no matter how decrepit he became. Da-thump, Da-thump, Da-da-da-da-thump!

“My final task.” Doctor Steelgraft’s voice sounded gruff and rusty, as if he’d chain-smoked for a good forty years. The imitation in the mirror produced a package of Blue-Jokes, a brand popularized by the iconic blue Poison Joke, and drew heavily on the ignited twig. He sighed, drawing up a recorder, his horn glowing with a cerulean aura, ”I never thought I’d ever erase this, but my end grows near.” Every word came with a long curl of smoke from the doctor’s nose-holes, granting him the appearance of a dragon about to breathe fire. A rolling wave of smoke coalesced with his exhale and a throaty laugh, resulting in a stuttering plume. “Just once more, and then I finish him. He’ll make sure Headcase gets the message.” He sighed for the umpteenth time and clicked ‘play’.

“Happy birthday, Big Brother! I know how much you hate my post-it notes, so I got this recorder so you know what to buy while you’re out. It’s fancy, isn’t it? Just read the instructions in the package. Oh, before you delete this message, I need you to pick up some mushed yams. I don’t think Mish Mash cares for the carrots. He keeps crying for my milk, but my teats are getting sore since he’s teething. I really appreciate you taking such good care of us. Oh, and remember the yams!” The recording was of a light-hearted nature, the babble-talk of a child could be heard sporadically in the background, babbling and crooning. “Mish-Mash says hi!”

“How I miss those stupid post-it notes...” The beleaguered stallion muttered to himself, forlorn to have hated them. He sounded as though he’d give anything to see a single note from his sibling, even on a piece of sticky yellow paper.

You considered turning away, since it was a private moment from somepony’s life, yet you were transfixed on that recorder. It was familiar to you, because you’d found it--On Steelgraft’s corpse. A shiver ran up your spine, your eyes roaming over the mirror. In the room with the stallion was a gurney, upon that was a corpse covered in a white sheet with a knife protruding from it. That was the room where you’d found the doctor dearly departed!

“Get out!” You yelled, “Something horrible is about to happen!” He couldn’t hear you, even as you drummed your hooves on the glass so hard it should have shattered, but all it did was ripple. “Get out of there, doctor! Get out! You have to run! The body on the gurney isn’t dead!” Remember watching those horror movies with your wife? Of course you do, she’d always yell out to the characters portrayed on the screen, urging them to save themselves. It had always gotten on your nerves, but here, you were guilty of much the same.

By now, the doctor had finished deleting and recording a new message, but you hadn’t been paying attention to what he had said. Now, you could only watch in horror as the living corpse spasmed, dropping the recorder. He bellowed out a guttural groan, clutching his head. “No! Not now-- GrgAAAHHhrrrrgh...” His muscles went slack, as if his strings had been cut. The stallion was unresponsive for nearly a whole minute before your calls reached him. His head turned up at the sound of crunching glass.

“Nevermore, I found Doc, I think he’s hurt!” A mare filled the frame. Her name escaped you, but you recalled the mare being six months with foal and adorned in red ribbons the last you saw her.

“Zone, stay away from him, he is--” It was too late. The doctor charged, screeching like a banshee as it sought to kill the mare. His form slammed into the mirror’s surface as the mare leapt to safety.

“Roadapples!” You choke out, fleeing backwards, but you could retreat no further without running afoul another mirror just behind you. “This is crazy! This whole place is flipping crazy!”

“You’re the crazy one. You know these are memories and emotions, right?” Cracked the mirror right behind you, a familiar cocky showpony in uniform. “Do you mind getting your butt out of my face? Not that you don’t got a nice one, but I’d rather not see it.”

You scampered forward a short spell, careful not to intrude on the personal space of any decor. Spinning around, you came under the scrutinizing gaze of a prismatic mare with rose colored eyes donned in Equestrian military garb of pre-war era, her frame embossed with predictably flashy gold lightning bolts.

“Y-you!” You sputter, eyes wide. She was someone you’d known, you knew it! Pieces began to slam into place, eliciting a groan from you as you clasped a metal gauntlet--no hoof, no gauntlet. Your mind couldn’t decide what was supposed to be there, and right before your eyes, your body changed, back and forth until it settled on an ordinary hoof. You breathed a stale sigh of relief. “What’s going on, commander?” You say with confidence forced into your wavering voice. Thump-Thump-Thump!

It’d been so long since you’d last seen your commander, not that you could precisely recall the last time you’d seen her. You could scarcely remember how you made it into this cramped room filled with creepy mirrors.

“Figure it out on your own,” Dash said with a roll of her eyes. That sounded nothing like the Element of Loyalty.

“I’m gonna need a bit of help,” you tell her, looking around the room for alternatives. “You’re the only pony here I recognize that hasn’t gone psycho (yet) and I’m a bit confused.” You give her an entreating glance, folding your lower lip into your teeth.

She ground her hoof to her brow in only mild irritation. “There’s three-hundred other mirrors in here, but if you want it from me, I ain’t pulling punches.” You held your breath, steeling yourself with what mental fortitude you could muster in preparation for what she was about to say. “This is all your fault,” she dropped the bombshell without any cursory pause, flabbergasting you into a slack jawed, bewildered ‘bwuh’. The fragile bomb shelter of will you had erected imploded to Dash’s figurative guilt detonation. “And as usual, you’re too flipp...Er...” She rolled a hoof in the air, trying to find a word not commonly used in her repertoire.

“Flippant,” you finished for her, hoof braced against your chest. You felt as if somepony had bucked you in the gut, perhaps even Big Mac himself! “What’s my fault?”

“It’d be obvious to somepony with some common sense, but lemme spell it out for you--” She pressed her nose to the glass, twin jets of steam leaving either nostril. “Everything! Everyone is dead because of you! I’m dead, my friends are dead, everypony I ever cared about, you ever cared about.” She pointed a condemning hoof at you, “If you hadn’t died, things might have been different, but you weren’t there! For anyone! You’re the most disloyal soldier the Ministries has ever seen, no,” She corrected herself with a cruel sneer, “The worst Equestria had ever seen! You were never there for anyone but yourself! You should have killed that traitor, but instead you tried to capture him. He played us all and in the end he won.”

“You expected me to kill my best friend.” You countered, feeling hurt. “I thought the Element of Loyalty would have understood!”

“Do you even know who got pegged with your murder? Your crew! I had to watch as they were rounded up!” The figment grit her teeth hard, her rose-colored eyes burning with hatred. “They were executed as traitors, and they were my friends too! I hate you!” Her declaration came with blazing, tear-brimming eyes.

The wind left your lungs and a chill ravaged your spine. “All my fault?” She didn’t even spell it out with letters like she said she would! The chanting voices grew from all directions, the mirrors drew ever closer, a cacophony of damning dialect, all turning the same phrase.

“All your fault.”

The whispers, more insistent, became deafening, but the prismatic mare behind the glass retained your focus, her cold, rose colored eyes brimming with malice. “You should have never woken up!” said Commander Dash. “It. Is. All. Your. Fault.” Each word punctuated by a tap of her hoof against the glass felt more like a slap to the face, further draining your coherency.

“I don’t understand,” you sobbed as a shriek of memory shot through you, splintered recollections slamming together into a kaleidoscope. Cannon fire mixed with the giggling of children, the smell of cooking hay fries meshed with the taste of sweat and sweet lips. Overwhelming sensory overload hammered your heart to your ribs. The room spun like a haunted carousel, the nightmare flourished and grew titanic. Thump-Thump-Thump!

“Go away,” you begged, only to receive more arrows of adversity and guilt in the form of brittle memories. “Go away!” you shouted now, willing strength to your limbs enough to stand. “I said,” drawing in a deep breath, you were choked to silence by a bottle that appeared against your lips; sweet ambrosia, nectar to sooth the pain! Spontaneously and without thought, you were taking long draws on the upturned bottle. The sweet caramel taste of Berry Punch’s finest salted-caramel liqueur warmed you to the core. The chanting stopped, and you felt happy. Oh, so happy. The pain was gone. And then, that began to fade, replaced by intense emptiness.

“Daddy?” Squeaked a weak apparition. A small blue foal you would have recognized as your son, if he hadn’t been transparent, stood there, amongst the darkness and silent, empty mirrors. “Why do you want to forget us?” The mirrors began to fracture, and your memories with them.

Choking back your tears, the bottle left your lips and entered the telekinetic grasp of your horn. “N-no, not you, Rowdy! I don’t want to forget you! Or your mother!” What was her name, what was your wife’s name? Great blue skies, you couldn’t remember! The child faded, absconded away by shadow. He had been a figment, a memory, an omen, one to heed. You’d sworn to never drink again, who were you to break such a vow?

“Finish the bottle,” Cooed a soft voice. “It will make everything stop...” A siren’s song, offering respite from pain, but you knew better, somehow you knew, finishing that bottle would be your destruction.

A thoughtless force possessed your living form, upturning the bottle to release the licorice black fluid over the once-spotless marble floor. White was such an ugly color. It was a lie, nothing could ever be so pure. “No,” said a voice, acting through you. It felt strange, as if a part of you, now independent, had ceased to be a passive observer.

“No?” Questioned the distant, yet omnipotent voice. “You couldn’t make this easy on yourself, could you? I was having so much fun watching you torture yourself!” Several of the mirrors erupted into a shower of shards. Inebriated, you hardly felt an ounce of pain. “I’ll need to do this manually!”

You caught sight of it, whatever it was, out of the corner of your eye. A slim shadow darted from one mirror to another before the previous one exploded into a shower of razors. You raised a quick shield to defend yourself, then hurled the bottle at the lightning bolt embossed mirror the wicked shadow had taken residence. The glass shattered, joining the rest on the polished marble floor. A smear of indistinguishable shapes and colors filled the pieces, but slowly drained of color.

“Destroying your own memories to slow me down. How daring, Captain!” The shadow manifested, a tall, shadow-like beast of a minotaur with a small stallion resting demurely on its shoulder. “I must admit, the Morts did a great job putting you back together! All your memories in one little room. They didn’t have much space to work with, did they?”

“Who are you?” You demanded. Or was it him, the other you, the one in control now that spoke? Past and present ebbed and flowed from the world around you. Your heart ceased beating once as your body grew cold and unfeeling, then you felt warm and flush as your heart renewed its accustomed tempo.

“I do hate re-introductions, just call me Cradle Robber. Oh, and this is Tauros. We’re a package deal.” The towering shadow made the motion of an exaggerated bow. “You don’t remember, but I purged your short term memory. Your last couple weeks went the way of bell-bottom saddlebags.” The shadow emulated a full-body shudder of revulsion.

“Return my memories now!” said that voice, using you as a mouthpiece.

“I’ll be returning your proper memories once we return to Tartarus Tower. Necro-Net has you saved on primary data-space. Such an honor.” Taunted the malevolent shadow known to you as Cradle Robber (and Tauros. Package deal, no exchanges, no returns, no refunds.)

“I’m not going anywhere,” Stated you, the mouthpiece. Instinct was all you had to rely on here; and it spoke ill of the smoky creature with leering eyes.

“That’s where you’re wrong. There’s nowhere to run. Nowhere to go.” Glowing eyes scrutinized your every movement. “We’re in your mind, and soon there will be nothing between you and Necro-Net. A routine blanking will prime you for extraction. We usually reserve such things for the mass produced units to limit personality defects, but you’re especially defective.” He chuckled slyly, “We have a tendency to become what we kill.”

Another mirror hurled prismatic shards all over the floor, some rebounding up. You narrowly raised a shield in time. Looking about for an opening, you saw none, you were in a medium sized room with no windows or doors, the most you could do was run from to the furthest wall and back, which would put you within reach of the malicious spectre. You had to think, what did he erase, what could you not remember? Process of elimination wouldn’t help, you didn’t know what was and what wasn’t for cross reference. At a loss for action, you chose to wait.

“It was clever of the morts,” Cradle said between lazily flicking his hoof at mirrors, sending them careening on a collision course with your exhausted body, “Hades killed you and eradicated most of your soul. You should have remained in the tower until harvest.” Another pause sent another set of mirrors to impact the weakening shield you maintained with great effort. Each impact hurt, mentally, stirring the contents of your mind like a cement mixer. “The morts found a way to do the impossible, using memories from other ponies that knew you to force soul cohesion. Unorthodox their methods. It shouldn’t have worked, but here you stand. Figuratively.” He struck your brittle barrier with another projectile mirror.

There was something amiss with his actions, if he wanted to blank you, and the mirrors were your memories, couldn’t he throw all the mirrors at once? You hypothesized he was searching for something, since he paused to evaluate the contents of each mirror before hurling them. “He’s searching for a specific memory,” You thought. Things he said, some of it fell into place, eliciting synaptic relapse and memory recall. Cradle Robber and Tauros were aliases, their real names, they were on the tip of your tongue, the overbitten tip electric. Thump, Thump, Thump.

“Maybe I give you too little credit!” Cradle Robber chortled. Obviously, he could read your mind since he was inside it. “Hades wishes to see the origins of your sedition; we know when, but we know not how your programming was reverted. Of course, it’s no secret who put you back together after your failed mutiny; but you’ll make amends by breaching the Northern Blockade and slaying the collaborators!”

“I’ll die first,” You snarled, blood boiling. Anger was the appropriate response, for all you’ve learned, you knew this beast was your enemy. And you were dead. Apparently. Knitting your brow together, you weighed that information with healthy skepticism. A tickle was all you felt at the mention of the Northern Blockade; wasn’t that the sector of the city most untouched? Images of iron suits of barding marched in the twilight of your mind, banners strung from flank to flank; ‘Ministry of Wartime Technologies’ printed between twin insignias of an apple pierced by a sword with three inter-meshing gears. You shook your head, banishing the hallucination.

“Third, you mean? What a historical habit,” Cradle Robber sighed. “This is where your resistance has placed you. At the wrath of a God, and I, as his avatar, shall bring you to his light!”

Three more mirrors leveled you, shattering the aegis and planting you to the wall, peppering you with glass shrapnel. Groggily, you took an upright stance, swaying as blood cascaded from a thousand little cuts. Your horn ached, mind numbing itself of thought, as every coherent abscess of coordination burst over the craggy, barren rocks of your splintered memories. Still, you stood, even though you knew no reason why to stand, you stood. You were a nameless, friendless, purposeless creature, driven to act by a thousand threads all pulling in different directions. With a shallow pulse and weak breath, you knew death neared. Sputtering, black fluid trailed down your chin. Black blood? That seems...Normal? Tha-thump...

“Third time’s the...Charm.” Said the entity controlling your mouth.

The glowing green orbs of the shadow stallion’s eyes somehow conveyed surprise. “Are you going to carry on? You’ve lost.” More mirrors fell, tumbling to the floor in a wave. “Once this seditious material is gone, you’ll be renewed. We will cure you your mortal heart.”

“You’re the one that’s sick,” you say, “And I’m the cure.” Snappy one-liner while on the last dregs of strength, check, crazy last minute plan cooking urgently. Now to dispatch a cheshire smile of unabashed cockiness while doing something patently stupid. That was your formula, right?

“I know that look, you’re about to get clever!” Cradle Robber laughed, patting the shadow minotaur on the head. “Look, dearest, it’s that look he always used to do! We’re in for a treat!” Guffawing and clopping his hooves together, the apparition waited with baited glee for you to perform like some common street performer. He was in for a surprise. Any second now. Any second. Totally, it’s coming! You would make it come. Oh yeah, any second. Just not this one or the last ten.

Think, think! Nothing, nope. No plan. You expressed frustration, clasping a hoof to the side of your head while failing to concoct a daring action. Not particularly impressed, the shadow waved a hoof, hurling the remaining mirrors en masse. Great Galloping Gala, there was no way you could shield yourself from that! “This is how I end?” You thought, and madness took hold, “Then bring it on.” Fight with Honor! Fly with Dignity! Kill with Vengeance!

With no other course of action other than charge, you did just that; you ran straight into certain doom. It just felt natural to you; the wind tossing your crimson mane, your eyes stinging as you could scarcely keep them open, and the jubilation at facing unbeatable odds. This was you. A mad, screaming force of nature, frothing at the mouth and twice mad as a hatter (you were missing a certain hat-like accessory, too, weren’t you, Captain?)

To a fault indivisible, you were a soldier of the Equestrian Military. (Far from the best.)

“Jump into my mirror, you fool!” Shouted Blueblood. With nothing to lose, you figured it was worth a shot. Honing in on the mirror housing the royal pain, you vaulted over several mirrors, stepping over them like pathstones. Like a portal, the mirror welcomed you and spat you out the other side, fortunately for Blueblood, you had the forethought to grab the mirror before it joined the others in the pile. “Thank heavens! I can’t believe that actually worked,” Blueblood laughed in relief.

Piercing pain filled you, memories came and gone, and with the last ounce of your strength, you set Blueblood's mirror on the wall before collapsing into the pile of glass shards. Unable to defend yourself, you could only watch as the apparition loomed over you, judging with sharp, glowing slits.

“So that’s where they hid your core functions, in a memory of Goldenblood’s father, how deliciously poetic,” Cradle mocked. “Thank you so much for doing that for me. That saved me some precious time...”

“Core functions? I don’t understand.” You strained to even think, every nerve was alight with anguish. You felt a pressure on your horn, as if it was being driven into your skull. The blood pounding in your temples dampened all sounds save for your shallow breathing and that monster’s laughter.

“Oh, you will,” Cradle Robber promised, his eyes leering cattily. He lifted your chin with an icy, ethereal hoof and drank a deep gaze from your eyes. Sharing his gaze was an unpleasant experience, as if looking into the eyes of a convicted killer. “You’re not a real pony, you’re a weapon. Like me. We’re all weapons, made by the very nation that failed us.” The apparition caressed your cheek gently, almost as a lover would. “Your crew, your friends, your family; all made into weapons by shortsighted worms.”

Your face was dropped into the glass, “And you weren’t there to protect them.”

“You just want a scapegoat,” you claimed, unsure now whether it was the presence in your mind controlling your mouth, or you were just fed up with him yourself. “You’re a monster. A killer. I remember...” You shuddered, gritting your teeth. “You killed all those ponies! You slaughtered whole settlements!” Without all those extra voices clouding your thoughts, everything became clear; bits and fragments of your true memories reared their heads and bayed terror.

Taken aback, the shadow searched for words among the glass shards on the floor. “You’re remembering?” His loss for words ended with a rolling laughter, “You’ve got a selective memory. WE removed threats to Equestria’s future. Additive: you.” The minotaurs forefinger traced from between your eyes to the very tip of your horn, giving it a harsh flick. “Your previous programming is all sealed within this final mirror. Within it is all that you ever were once upon a time.” Thick furred, calloused hands seized at your throat, the meaty palms of the thumbs smothering your face. Your back slammed into Blue Blood’s Reliquary, and despite the royal’s expostulations, the entity continued to crush you.

“This is the last thing you’ll ever remember, Captain! You’ll remember the monster you are and the treason you enacted upon your own crew!” Fissures appeared along the glass, zoning Blueblood out of the frame, but his incessant badgering and screams persisted. “This is order; consequences for actions dealt! You believe in order, don’t you? Or do you prefer the chaos those writhing worms wreak upon the world?” Respite was granted as he sawed you back only to impact the brittle mirror with your limp form once again. “I will show you everything!”

You fell into the darkness, yet the presence of the meaty palms on your throat persisted. You groaned, numbness filling you until every inch went cold; with a final beat, your heart died. It would have been mercy had that been the end of your tale; but what was to come would be wholly unpleasant. Before your eyes your flesh cracked and twisted, starting with your forehooves. Sharp-taloned fingers popped through the frogs of your hooves, metal plated riveting into your flesh. A thick barrel passed each leg and your eye spiraled into its own socket into a glowing camera lense. Convulsing, the changes tore through you internally as entire organ systems were altered or disposed of through your mouth. Black ink danced with red ribbons, with you as both brush and canvas.

Briefly, a mural entered your mind, granting you solace from the horror, an elderly blind ghoul with smokey glasses was painting it, large mausoleums with beautiful architecture, tombstones, and shanties melded together. A place where the dead and the living co-existed. Below the mural were the words; “Tombtown Lives”. -- Along with that memory came sudden flashes of those same buildings on fire, of blood stained walls and plumes of smoke. The smell of roasting dead tickled your nose with its savory spice and pleasure tingled with the pain, old bedmates they.

Extracting all other memories had uncovered true ones isolated from your core systems. You were monsters, weapons designed to fight long after death. The Eternal Conflict where the MADness must be put to an end. There was one end to the Mutually Assured Destruction; the tower. The tower must rise to touch the heavens and embrace the shadow of the sun.

Hoofshaking with Server
Core System Version 1.2.35
Resetting Factory Settings? Y/N
N...
Access BlackBox Storage? Y/N
Y...
Error; External Data Device Not Found

A blinding abyss of code stretched out before you, dousing out any other sensory input. It took all your cogniscience to gaze into eternity, and it took all your will not to break when it stared back. A swirling eye blazing with great power locked you in its sights; you knew this creature. He had many names and titles, but you called him by only one monicker; Hades. Being in the presence of a deity-like figure was pretty common in Old Equestria, with the royal family line being near-immortal and the God of Chaos residing in a quaint town, but Hades lay on his own plateau; at least while in his own element. What was his element? He claimed to be the God of Life.

“Stolen Data ferried into an EDD; Device not found. Data to be Extrapolated from memory fragments.” Hades’ vast voice conveyed meaning in depth that you could not express; the being tapping into your mind uttered those words merely for your benefit. “This experience may be unpleasant. Not that you will retain the ability to remember such once you are reconditioned. Old friend.” There was a pause. “Hmmmm.”

“What?” You found your voice, down on the floor next to your jaw. “What’s the ‘hmmm’ about?”

“This is not the victory I expected.” Hades spoke dryly.

“That’s because you haven’t won.” There’s that voice again, speaking through your mouth. It was happy to try to get you smitten by a god.

“I wish you luck, then.” Spoke the god-presence. “PP-012. PP-011. Finish the procedure. Submit all recovered data to me at my earliest convenience.”

“What of Pandora’s Pithos?” Quierried the voice of the malevolent shadow-ungulate.

“Irrelevant. The Morts pose little threat without a means to access the contents. We’ll reverse engineer pertinent data from PP-013 to locate the missing keys.” Hades answered. Your head swam with answerless questions, but any you posed hung silent in the void.

“And the Captain?” Cradle Robber spoke as if you were absent.

“Need I repeat myself, unit PP-012? Extract data then complete the Blanking Process.”

“Yes, my liege. He shall know his transgressions and be purified!” You didn’t like the sound of that, for obvious reasons. Also, his voice was a bit nasally, droning on and on and on...

Server connection terminated
Local Directory Accessed...
Collecting Data Fragments...
Enabling Cerebral Recollection...
3...
2...
1...

“Your designation number is PP-013; Penance. You are the progenitor of Project Second Wind, created for the soul purpose to preserve life, and with it, ensure a standard of living for your fellow ungulate. This is the purpose for all those who have fallen; it is your second chance to live and serve the greater good. It is our hope that by the collaboration of the Six Ministries in correspondence with the OIA that you serve as guardians to the next generation. You represent the next step towards peace--” The words of a mare long since passed played every time a pod opened, welcoming another fallen soldier to their new life. Twilight Sparkle intended her hoof in the project to maintain a set of ethics for the research, by the sound of her mellow voice, it was unlikely she discovered the dubious, dark turn the project had taken.

“Uhm, d-do I talk now? Oh, sorry! It was on? Hi there, you probably have a lot of questions, you might be scared. There’s no need to be afraid.” A second recording triggered after the first, rousing you gently from your deep slumber. Your mind strained to recognize the voice until an image popped up on your HUD depicting the pink-maned head of the Ministry of Peace. “I’m sure your loved ones will be so happy to see you. It may take some time adjusting to the changes you’ve gone through, but deep down, you still have the warm, loving, beating heart. Uhm, unless that had to be replaced, that is. Sorry.” Her voice trailed off to become indecipherable from the static, and if you focused long enough, you could almost hear her voice break.

None of it made any sense to you then, and likely it made little sense to you now. Akin to being born, you were just an infant; albeit one with highly tuned reflexes and the skills of the pony you once were. Sunrise to your life, this was your earliest memory from your Second Wind.

More recordings played, but the heed you paid them was none, the tubes and wires popping from your ports made an immediate grab for your faculties as you were delivered to the floor.

The rest of your rebirth is nebulous, the recollector clipping to the next immediate fragment in order to facilitate the process. There’s a dull panic inside you, subdued by the new knowledge of your nature. Your true purpose. Who you were was of enough significance to be compensated an extra life; morosely, that second presence in your mind went on about how many puppies you must have glued to the wheels of flaming wagons destined to crash into orphanages to deserve such a fate. “At least ten.”

Irony would have it that being the guardians of the next generation would have you slaughtering a lot of the current generation. Safety was the absence of threats, and there were many threats to remove. Every target eliminated was processed, assessed for value, and utilized to continue the necessary work required to assure a future for Equestria. For your kind, the war never ended, it merely became an Eternal War to end all war.

Hades, the coordinator of Necronet oversaw and weighed all souls entered into the system for storage, utilization, and distillation, was fervent about maintaining the status quo. After countless hours of surveillance, calculations, and discussion, it was determined that the current generation would yield a declining gene-pool of social, economical, and ecological standings. To preserve a standard of living, the herd required culling. This systematic extermination of settlements, especially those dangerously close to the facilities your kind resided, did not sit well with the population.

One such settlement, still spoken about to this day (And occasionally ventured to by the most brave or reckless) was the Anvil of Detrot, Tomb Town. Everything of value passed through Tomb Town at some point, due to its proximity to high value facilities. The town also supplied enemies to your kind, ferrying valuable materials from the Industrial Park in the south to the heavily fortified bunker in the North occupied by a division of Steel Rangers. Elder Clear Comms and his puny, ironically named pupil Standtall Stillquil had declared all out war on all raiders, monsters, mutants, and undesirable undead. Necronet had to pre-empt a defense, as the Rangers had the resources to challenge its existence.

Of course, the Rangers contended with escalating conflicts with Zebra Remnants in the East while Hades was forced to allocate resources across all four of Detrot’s districts. Efforts had to be concise and exact; Hades coordinated efforts with precision, keeping several trots ahead of his purely organic opponents.

It was no coincidence the cataclysm that toppled Tomb Town came so unexpectedly. Patience paid off, a lull in aggressive actions on part of your faction fostered halcyon patrols as the Steel Rangers sent more rangers to defend the East. After a few months, the Steel Rangers remaining at the trade hub was merely a contingency. With the resistance divided, Hades would claim victory for Necronet and secure a victory for Equestria, only requiring the cleanup of the remaining Steel Rangers not caught between occupied settlements and the northern blockade.

It was more difficult than predicted, the resistance had burrowed in deep; The thick gates and sturdy mausoleums embodied one of the greatest threats to Necronet. After testing the resolve and defenses of the high profile settlement, Hades deployed the Gravelords; reputed to be the most dangerous and cunning of their ilk.

You were PP-013 (Penance), eldest and last of the discontinued Sweeper model. Being the eldest of the first line developed, you bore outdated hardware and weapon systems, but compared to the fifty-year old war surplus, it was a boastable load-out. If one of those feeble, lab-coat wearing science junkies were to compare your specs with another of your newer siblings, they’d declare you obsolete, and rightfully so. And then you’d shoot them for accessing forbidden Necro-Net files without proper authorization. Obsolete or not, every unit was more than a match for (most) any adversary; this point riding on the tangled coat-tails of your spotless deployment record. Ignoring the bloodstains, that is.

The Thirteen Gravelords had penetrated the defenses in under a minute, the train had even arrived on schedule! Your group had struck punctually, crashing the Trojan train the settlers had mistaken for a vital supply shipment right through the opened gates! Half the work was accomplished by the time the defense rallied around the catastrophe. With the gate breached and dead everywhere, the drop pods hidden on the train activated and intercepted the first responders.

PP-009 (Nyn) had not liked your plan. Actually, none of them had liked your “improvement” to the original plan (which had been to lay in wait on the train until nightfall), but Nyn had been the only one to verbally object. Had you warned them first of your intention, you would not be ignoring a hundred messages of vitriol from your squad-mates.

The mission came first, as it always did, and each of you split after your objectives; your mission was the elimination of all high priority targets. With everything in chaos, you projected a quick finale. Those projections could not have been more incorrect.

Barren Bluff, Mayoriff (A combination of Mayor and Sheriff he made up himself) of Tomb Town, was as gifted at fighting as he had been with gardening. His cutie-mark of a fresh sapling sprouting from the ground belied that fact, he may have had four green hooves, but he was just as good at planting flora as he was at burying his enemies. He alone dispatched all the standard Deadmare units assigned you; Wearing no armored barding and wielding nothing but a six iron and a gardening trowel. To top it off, he had even caused you some trouble. Statistically, Barren was far above the average of organic combat competency, and given the odds, had he been properly armed and not tending his garden at the time of your attack, victory would have not been assured.

The aged Bay Roan now lay dead, the scowl on his unshaven face frozen, gaping wounds irrigating his parched flowerbed. Aside him, the pride of the settlement, the old iron train, lay a twisted wreck through a hundred graves. A majority of the remains were ordinary ungulates of all creeds, but a surprising number were of the Diamond Dogs that perished in the labor of constructing the vast underground tunnel system under Detrot. Every corpse, old and new would be gathered. Your ranks would swell with every heart that ceased its drumming. The crackling fires and screams of the condemned rose through the air, a dirge to all Barren had failed to protect. PP-010 (Organ Grinder) was at the chapel, using his song to drive the weak willed to suicide. Pop. Pop. Pop. Offerings to Hades, all.

A heartbroken wail rose over the crescendo, “Why?! Why?! Papa!” A tiny purple bespectacled earth-filly, barely weaned off her mother’s teat, scrambled from hiding. At her heels was an older mare, an earth pony with a sable pelt, thick horn-rimmed glasses and a messy grey mane adorned in a tattered satin gown. Over gravestones and bodies, boldly past feeding Striders and twitching remains, the intrepid little foal bolted like living lightning.

“Sugar Pane, come back here!” The mare stopped in her tracks, in fear of you, while her daughter made it to her fallen father. You recognized these two targets as the reason for Barren’s daring last stand; they were his family. They were to leave for the Northern District when the train departed this night, but you had personally put an end to that. Without hesitation, you raised a clawed gauntlet and rose to your hind hooves, taking aim for the nearest target; the child. One down, two to go...

“Papa? Why!?” The small filly urged him to move, shaking his unresponsive body with her little hooves. She looked up at you, cheeks stained with sadness. “Why?!” Her entire vocabulary subsisted of Papa and Why, oblivious to the many dead by your action displayed all around her.

You cycled a normal round into the barrel extending from your gauntlet and triggered the on-board Spell-Assisted-Targeting-System. Right between her eyes, compensating minutely for her spectacles sitting askew on her dainty little muzzle. Your shot was clear, but you took no immediate action. Targets say many things, sometimes begging, sometimes cursing, and sometimes just giving in. Not this foal, her eyes stared straight, not a tremble in her body. She was not afraid of you, of death, of anything.

She just wants an answer. “Why.” One word, so many possible answers. None you can deliver save for a single metal sting. Your barrel dips a micrometer. Fractions of a second are all it takes for a machine, or in this case, a cyberghoul like you, to think, aided by Necronet’s processing capabilities. Reviewing your briefing, you conclude that no survivors are permitted, and the child before you is one of your target primes; her death is a necessity. Barren’s bloodline must end to ensure that future generations are not poisoned by his philosophies. “All things have a right to grow?” Hades had scoffed in briefing. “I shall decide what has that right!” Barren couldn’t appreciate the irony that your kind were the gardeners, pruning the weeds for Equestria’s future. He had been a weed, and weeds produce weeds. That is logical.

An ally pings, noting that there are combatants near you and offers assistance. It was PP-012 (Cradle Robber) He had been tasked with clearing out the residential and nursery areas, and by all accounts, you could only agree he was most efficient. His task was not done; he still had yet to melt through the heavy steel door to the panic room where the feeble and young were kept. Your response was a civil negative.

“No!” Came a desperate wail, immediately to your left.

Your delay had given the mother ample time to rush you, forcing the shot to go wide and miss the filly by an inch. Her strength wasn’t sufficient to knock you over, but the precise balance required for standing upright was compromised. Missing twice in a row was unheard of for your kind, but it occurred, your counter attack skipping over her withers. Ignoring the pain, the sable mare ducked down, spun, and reared up, delivering a buck to your abdomen potent enough to knock you prone. Wasting no time, you rose back up, drawing a single gauntlet to end the little red blip on your EFS.

Your weapon wasn’t readied before Bluff leveled her husband’s six iron against your left eye. Unblinking, you froze, and the bullet sung a lullaby through your vulnerable noggin’. You clutched at your oozing wound, soundlessly reeling. Flashes of sporadic memory screamed into the echo chamber of your mind, a thousand images of past experiences interspersed with cryptic static. The memories ceased, cut off by the regulating system. More important processes needed the room to operate, your thoughts were tertiary to the function of your body.

iSeeU--Analyzing...
Warning: Critical Damage
Integrity: 56%
Assessment: Ocular Implant Disabled//Core Damaged
Distress beacon activated.

Baroness Bluff took full advantage of her good fortune, saying farewell with her remaining ammo. Her goodbye knocked you back into a wooden storage container, a remnant of the train’s true cargo, painting the aged wood with thick black smears. You feebly tried to follow your directives, but the damage to your core prevented any action, allowing Baroness Bluff to snatch up her filly and flee.

Failure. You were not used to its taste. By now you were getting many concerned pings of comrades, all the numbers demanding to know your status. You gave them an update as best you could, explaining what had occurred and the severity of your damage.

<“Why did you hesitate?”> Queried PP-008 (Triage). He was the group’s medic, equipped with advanced surgical tools, a Pink-Cloud Respirator, ample blood ampoules, and replacement parts ripped from fallen units. If anypony could fix you, it was him, but he did not seem pleased with your answer.

You did not know, that got the other numbers chittering. <“There’s no logic to that decision.”> Stated PP-008. <“PP-013, verify. Are you sound?”>

You didn’t answer, instead you sent a message containing your preliminary damage assessment scans. <“Evaluating. We will apprehend escaped targets and proceed with clean-up. Your injuries are not threatening, wait for pick up.”>

<PP-013 received damage and PP-012 refused to enter combat.> Necronet kept tabs on every unit, making note of all actions to update files on mental stability. Increased memory and emotional suppression may result for failed mandated performance checks. <Consider PP-012--Codenamed Tauros for reconditioning.>

<“Don’t be rash, that’s unnecessary! This is his first deployment. He’s not used to his body yet. You don’t want him causing collateral damage to our ranks, do you?”> Argued PP-011 (Cradle Robber). It was unwise to argue with Necronet, as it contained the knowledge of the greatest minds Equestria had ever known on both sides of the Eternal Conflict.

<PP-011 shows commitment to be paired unit PP-012. Hades shall be notified.>

<“Oh, shut up. Captain, I’m coming for you after I finish up in the nursery.”> Cradle Robber showed some concern for your well-being. It was completely unnecessary, yet you somehow appreciated it. Though it was hard to express, seeing as you were the most repressed of the Gravelords. Necronet deemed it a security necessity. Sometimes you wondered why the other numbers called you Captain, yet anytime such thought arose, that avenue of thought would be swiftly pruned.

Closing outwards and incoming comms, you slumped against the wooden container. You were to wait here until extraction, due to damage sustained. Sitting there, in the near silence allowed your mind to wander, but not too far, under the ever watchful gaze of Necronet. Over the crackling embers of burning fire and rising smoke, over the sparking and clicking of half-functioning Deadmare, you could hear her. That little purple filly; you replayed it a thousand times in your mind, over and over.

“Why?” Again. “Why?” Again. “Why?”

You had no answer, you did not know the scope of your objective, only its breadth. You were to eliminate threats to Necronet and by extension Equestria, that was your purpose. “Why?” What threat did a foal pose to Necronet? “Why?” Your single eye honed in on Barren’s body. That stallion knew why he fought and died, his objective, his purpose. He faced it, and his failure, but he had answers. This was the longest you’d ever been able to think freely, likely the damage to your core had disrupted Necronet’s ability to delegate proper thought patterns.

Why? You wanted to say it, but your lips could not move. You knew secrets that Hades never wanted spoken, thus the suppression. Thus the silence. Closing your eye, you rested your head back against the container. Figuratively and literally, your mouth was sealed, bound by mental conditioning and metal staples binding your lips.

On cue to interrupt your thoughts, the container fell open, fragile timber tumbling down about you. You shook out your mane and brushed your crimson locks back into their fastener, picking scraps of wood from your leather barding. The contents of the cabinet were a curiosity, but such things are lost on your kind. Especially ones with a minor case of severe head trauma. Somepony had hauled a vending unit onto the train, and regarding it with a blank stare as you tried to hoist yourself up, you ascertained it was a fortune telling machine; Officially Ministry Mare Madame Pinkie Model! It even had the official seal of the Ministry of Morale upon it, a pollyannaish pink mare giggling at a smiley-faced balloon.

The battle that had been waged around it had left it mysteriously unmarred, your damaged sensors stated it was in perfect condition, as well as detecting a strong meta-magical presence. It was a suitable distraction, enough so that when it had come to life, you found yourself mesmerized.

“Yooooou~ My great powers are drawing me to you, yes!” The pink pony adorned with a massive, feathered turban and hoop earrings swooned. The automaton gave great exaggerated and jerky movements, gesturing you to come hither. “A great turmoil boils inside you, Madam Pinkie can see it! She sees all! Get your fortune, the very fate of the world hangs in the balance!” She giggled bubbly, “Oh, I’ve always wanted to say that!” That laugh made you cringe.

Like a moth to a flame, you were drawn in, already within proximity, the effects of the booth’s magic took effect. This device resonated on a frequency that disrupted your connection with Necronet, allowing it to tamper with you.

M.o.M. Override; Pop Rocks
New Objective: Receive Fortune
Current Objective: Wait for Extraction (On Hold)
Secondary Objective: Eradicate Squatters (On hold)

Under normal circumstances, such tampering would red flag, causing a system reboot to factory settings, with priority number one being to destroy the malevolent system interfacing with your unit. You could not complete this function.

The pink pony torso was anything but at rest in the glass case, waving her arms around her crystal ball and rolling her radiant crystalline blue eyes, a rather small detail, but there was a three worked in around her eye, inlaid. Perhaps that was just her model number, you supposed, wondering why you cared. There was no coin-slot, but the dispenser for the fortune cards was perfectly intact. Music played, a rather unfitting tune, the Pinkie Polka. That irritating tune was played by many of the half-broken spritebots wandering the city, each one was eliminated with cruel prejudice. The urge to eliminate this distraction filled your servos with a whine of power, placing your sharp-clawed prosthesis against the glass. Primed, the gun barrel slotted in your forearm loaded an armor-pen round; once you’d received your fortune, fulfilling your newest objective, you’d fulfill your secondary objective starting with this machine.

“You have many questions, don’t you, Operative Penance. Or do you prefer being called Captain?” The fortune telling robot gave you an all-knowing smile. You raised a brow and tilted your head, then you shook out a negative response.

“What? I figured you’d have lotsa questions. Or at least wonder how I knew that! Come on, be surprised!” She stared at you and then took note of your stitched lips. “Oh, that’s ah… Ow. Good thing you can’t feel that, but that makes this kinda one-sided.”

By now, you’ve realized, in the portion of your mind that can think, that this machine is unlike any you’ve encountered. She is unique, almost as if she’s alive. Her mannerisms remind you of somepony dear to you, but you can scarcely remember. All you want to know is one thing, but you cannot articulate your question.

“Why?” You think, urging your lips to move. You clench and unclench your jaw, eliciting a garbled, muffled sound. Eventually, you surrender yourself to the silence again as apathy seizes at you.

“Well, since you can’t ask, then I’ll just show.” Madame Pinkie rubbed her crystal ball, stroking the stage prop with her hooves. “Look deep into my crystal ball, deep--DEEP! What do you see? That’s a rhetorical question because you can’t talk.” She made loud, exaggerated syllables, drawing out a sentence for dramatic purpose. You were unsure how to feel.

However you felt, you could not deny her order, and any resistance left you as you complied. You gazed deep into the crystal ball and saw...Nothing. You were staring at a stage prop. What did you think would happen, some sort of epiphany which would grant clarity?

“Deeper.” You moved closer. “Deeper!” Closer still. “DEEPER!” Your face was against the glass, fogging it up with needless breath. The machine whirred softly as an item was deposited into the fortune tray. “Okiday, all done.” The glass squeaked plaintiffly as you slid down to the ground, leaving a streak of black ooze. “Ew, you’re getting brain-juice all over my case!”

That entire performance was superfluous, a stage-act to sell fortune scraps to carnival-goers and arcade enthusiasts. Maybe this crate had been destined for the arcade in the Southern District? Shame it would never get there, the curious little cabinet would never be delivered.

“Are you taking a nap or something? Your fortune is in the cubby! Along with an eyepatch. I have those in case of eye related emergencies! Or to pretend to be a pirate.” The pink robot pointed down with a hoof, stretching herself in such a way that made it obvious that she was bolted down at the waist. “Come on, don’t you see the line? You’re holding it up!” You looked back for this line and saw none, then back to her blankly. “You scared them off?” She made no effort to mask her little fib, but giggled nonetheless. “Don’t you want to know why?”

There it was, that one word; it reeled you in. “Why” was all there was, the enigma of your everything. The capacity for free thought was yours, and you wouldn’t squander an iota of these precious moments. You would find this answer and cherish it, even under Necronet’s supervision; it would be your eternal secret, your one truth never uttered in words.

“Tell me why,” was your first free thought as your digits crossed the threshold of the swinging door. You grasped for substance and came back with an ordinary playing card with a notch in the upper corner and an eye patch with the insignia of the Shadowbolts. You felt driven to put the eyepatch on, and you did, equipping it before turning your attention to the mysterious playing card. “What is this?” You examined the card closely. You’d seen gambler’s dens and assorted gaming devices, among them cards, but what was the significance of this card?

“Toughluck, Jack. To the winner goes the spoils!” A flash of memory; this was your card, your one-eyed Jack of Spades. How many coins and baubles had you won and lost over decades of swindling and dealing through a thousand taverns on voyages lengthy and vast? After all this time, your old life had found you, here of all places.

“That’s your lucky card,” Madame Pinkie divulged. “It never helped you win anything, but that’s not why it’s lucky.” Her expression was surprisingly stoic, her hooves lightly stroking the crystal ball. “Look around you, now that your eyes---erm eye, is your own. (We will get that fixed, promise).” She added the last bit on her exhale, tersely.

*You* turned to face the world. Up until this very moment, it had been regarded through the foggy lense of apathy, every snuffed candle a seed waiting to sprout in service to your purpose. Now you saw a graveyard overburdened. Ignorant no longer were you to their plight, in this small dome of influence, you saw through Mortish eyes. Were you not like them before this? With new perspective, the way the Morts had made this oversized graveyard memorial livable was quaint. They’d even put up advertisements at the general store to products they’d be hard pressed to find, like for hoof polish or a new toaster. The additions(Roughly assembled hovels) were trussed up with enough consideration that they did not disturb the existing infrastructure.

The dead had not been displaced, except in the case of the Mausoleums, the dead there had been interred to rest in newly marked graves. The citizens of Tombtown made the past as much a part of their life as their future. Every grave had been tended, cleaned, and given fresh flowers; It was why, you concluded, that the Baron tended his garden so zealously. Until you happened.

“Why?” You asked yourself, but still there was no answer. The little filly’s word echoed your own. Now that the veil was removed from you, now that you could think, feel, and remember, you could only ask one question. “Where do I go from here?”

“All of Equestria will become like this,” Madame Pinkie told you. “The tower will grow, but never enough. Even fully powered, the end of its journey would leave a scar across multiple worlds. You’re the only one that can stop Hades from reshuffling the deck.”

She wanted you, the thoughtless, to do the unthinkable. Already you’d done one thing statistically stacked against you; you’d slipped the yoke of Necronet. Pings and warnings of your programming be damned, you had the choice to ignore your directives, you had a choice, and those other paths lay out before you, branching off from the straight line you’d trekked for countless years.

<“Captain, do you read me?”> PP-011’s inquiry ping bypassed your filter on the emergency line, rousing you from your contemplated mutiny. <“I’ve intercepted your targets. These two aren’t going anywhere now. Why don’t you come over here and deal with them?”>

Static pulsed around you, the world shifting in motion and weight. The rest of the memories were cut-off here, the ecstatic squeak of Madame Pinkie begging you to wait for her dying in the air. You must have set course to rendezvous with your ally, PP-011 (Cradle Robber), because once the inky shadows became distinguishable, you stood aside the stitched zebra.

Your targets plus one lay prone, bellies to the floor, under the cold gaze of the gravelord. Just shy of the gates, where the the hazards of the wastes awaited them. None of them would live much longer, not if your orders were followed. A second patrol of the area was in order, given that this third pony had been discovered, a blind old ghoul busker accessorized with smokey glasses and rattling cap can.

“Oh, this ain’t good. Nope. None good. Nothing good coming, is it?” The ghoul was the first to speak, drawing his can close to his chest. “Jus’ gimme a moment tah pray. Please. N’ don’t make it hurt none. For any of us...” The other two, Sugar Pane and Baroness Bluff, stared at you coldly. Bluff drew her daughter close to her, an otiose exercise to protect her. Pane was motionless, her condemning gaze solely upon you.

“Silence, worm. You will end how Captain sees fit.” PP-011 spoke tersely, tilting his head up at your approach. “There you are. I’d hate for you to get a bad performance review, so I took the liberty of assisting. I was discreet.” At every deployment, PP-011 had always gone great lengths to assist you, even against procedure and orders. Relations among the numbers beyond a professional level was nearly unheard of, the romantic relationship between PP-011 and PP-012 being the rare exception (Also being a secret to everypony). Friendships and camaraderie were not expressly forbidden, but strictly monitored.

You could consider PP-011 your friend, however, up until now you could do little to appreciate it. One of the few numbers that had gone out of their way for you was granting you retribution on a platter, plus an extra statistic for your body count. It was everything necessary for a successful mission, notoriety among the numbers, perhaps even re-evaluation or promotion. Mind swimming with orders, proper procedure, indoctrinated protocols, and whispers of a new conscience, you raised your foreleg slowly, priming an explosive round in preparation for the final act that would define you.

PP-011’s abdominal cavity ruptured, his body torn in twain by your betrayal. Shock flashed into your friend’s eyes as he collapsed, his means of ambulation and combat pooling about him in fizzing, ruined tatters. “Why?” Came that query, this time from one of your own.

<Unit PP-013 has engaged Unit PP-011. Warning; Unit PP-013 has been tampered with. Unable to reform connection. PP-013 is now marked hostile; Neutralize and capture.> Necronet caught onto you fast, hardly surprising, given the speed of the network. All nearby units converged on your position, the first reinforcements arriving just seconds after the notification. After slaying two bladed Striders, you caught fire from an advancing Deadeye unit levitating a small collection of commandeered small-arms.

Placing yourself between the Deadeye and your three charges, a majority of rounds fired glanced off your hardened flesh. None of them had bothered moving, petrified prone. The blind busker had a valid excuse, being blind, he knew not what had transpired to grace him with the last five seconds of life he’d squandered. As for the other two? Any reason posed by them arbitrary. Likely fear.

“What’s going on? We still alive?” The ghoul intoned with a mixture of relief and confusion. You’d answer him if you could speak, if only to tell him how stupid his second question was. No, quite unfortunate that you were pandering as target to former allies, that you could not encourage a sound exodus. Projected outcomes and survival rates diminished with every passing nano-second, with every urgent ping and request hurled at you.

Explosive rounds would be useless against a Deadeye, the AEGIS system was designed to withstand intense impacts over short durations. What you needed was something with a mass and density to overpower that shield and eliminate your target in tandem. One of the toppled tombstones, epitaph of a fallen soldier, became the vehicle of your wrath, your servos straining under the several hundred pound block of marble to give it flight.

Three red dots down, each soon replaced by a half dozen each. A Coupe De Grace was minded to the Deadeye, made necessary by your less-than optimal targeting. Lifting the tombstone, you peeled it off the smashed torso of the trembling, twitching ungulate and brought it down thrice in succession, leaving a puddle of congealed ink.

You would be overrun soon, the odds of a successful escape diminished to near absolute zero. There was more likely a chance that one of the brittle skeletons lazing about would spontaneously do a jig than there was of getting anypony, let alone three, out intact. Perhaps if you slew enough of the smaller units, you could trigger the retreat protocol; that required a reduction of forces below the 50% threshold. Projections of that were at a chance of absolute zero.

“What are you waiting for? A singing invitation?” Came the bouncy, sprightly voice of Madame Pinkie, sans most of her body. Between laying down suppressive fire and digging a Strider blade out of your chest, you were able to regard the odd, floating pony head with a blank stare. “I didn’t have any music prepared for a running for our lives party, so...PANIC! EEEEE!” She zipped away, directing the three morts to the heavy gates. “That means you too, Mister P’! Oh, not the panicking, but the leaving!”

Making a tactical retreat to regroup with the others, you came before the massive reinforced gate, and since fate hadn’t had enough fun with you yet, it was locked tight. The Western gate would have been the best choice for escape, where the Iron Baron had crashed, but the Deadmare forces were saturated in that area and actively funnelled you towards the East, the gate there was still barred.

There you were, bearing the disbelieving stares of a mother and her foal, a disembodied robot head was squealing out bouts of ‘woo-hoo’ and ‘Eeeee’ while a sea of red dots were but a minute away from your position. At least the blind ghoul was blissfully unaware that their savior had come from the other side of the conflict, not that the addition of one more creature’s ire upon the momentous amount directed at you would be the final straw.

“This is so exciting! And it’s only Monday!” Squealed the disembodied head of Pinkie Pie.

You decided you particularly disliked Mondays and the robot head’s definition of “exciting”. Mondays and excitement...Two for the list. Wait, why would you make a list? Were you THAT neurotic? What absurd idiot would waste precious mental capacity to make note of personal preferences?

“What’s goin’ on, fellas? We gettin’ goin’ or gettin’--” The blind pony felt around, discovering the gate with his bent white cane. “Oh, we be gettin’ it.” The old blind ghoul grunted sallowly.

“No,” Baroness Bluff said admonishingly, “We’re not getting it, we’re getting out.” She had tossed her battle-saddle aside, the empty weapons now useless, and went for the saddlebags she had on underneath. She produced a large skeleton key and slammed it into the lock, giving it a rough twist with both forehooves. The olde tyme rustic lock clanked as the tumblers turned, but something in the mechanism caught, at this, Bluff cursed under her breath, her hoof slamming at the empty key-hole on the gate’s twin door. “The second key!” Rustling around in her saddlebags yielded nothing but panic in the eyes of the mare, she looked to you. “The other key--It was on my husband.” Yes, the one you killed. There was pain in her eyes, the depth of which you could not fathom. “I don’t know why you’re helping us now, and I can never forgive you, but please, you have to get to Baron. We’re not getting out without that key.”

Numbly, you nodded, turning from the gate and proceeding in the direction those red dots were streaming in from. If you were lucky, you’d be able to get half-way to your goal before encountering reinforcements. You left the others behind to retrieve the second half of the key, ignoring the hail of warnings from your on-board computer. The odds of survival were astronomically low, and as a Deadmare, such odds would determine definite retreat; But as a pony, your sentiment towards such odds rendered them negligible. Odds with or against, nothing short of a second death would stop you.

“Hey, wait up for me!” The robotic head reminiscent of Pinkie Pie had elected to follow you, her unwavering smile flashing at you every step of the way. Even when ignored, that smile did not fade, no, she went into a one-sided conversation. The worst part? She was answering herself.

“Okay, so I’m gonna imagine what you want to ask and then answer. Is that okay?” And then in her best impersonation of you, which made little sense since you had never spoken and could not talk, she said gruffly, “Why sure, Bestest Friend Pinkie Pie! I’d love to have some questions answered!” She then went back to her voice, giggling, “Oh, of course, Mister P! What’s your first question?” Then to her gruff approximation of what she believed you would sound like, “Well, actually, Best Friend Pinkie Pie, we should play 20 Questions later. Right now we should concentrate on saving those innocent ponies.”

Skidding to a stop, your head whipped to give her a blank stare, your single good eye piercing her. The floating head offered a comically wide smile, “I know you pretty well,” she claimed. “Even if you don’t remember me yet, we’re always going to be friends.”

Alien sensations grew, the muscles of your face tried to move, but your lips were locked up. Was this happiness? That warmth in the cold pit where your heart once was. The cold numbness clawed that feeling away, replacing it with the normative apathy that plagued you. Dismissing it, the road ahead was blazed with hooves and metal. How surprising, you made it much further than anticipated; and with good reason, the wide open area of the crash site offered vantages for assault, and likely, your original origin before tampering was of interest to the other Gravelords, whom were gathered around the almost-empty arcade cabinet that once housed Madame Pinkie’s head. The goal, Baron’s body, was just beyond.

The recollector’s reading of this section was muddled and you could not properly distinguish many of the forms from one another adequately. The world pulsed and tapered off into the darkness, breaking your immersion. This wasn’t happening now, it had happened, and you survived it. The busker ghoul, Miss Bluff, and little Pane had survived as well. It was all a question of how.

First contact was moments away. You could hear your brothers and sisters, their cries could curdle milk; You could smell them, their stench could choke a meadow; You could see them, their visage could shatter resolve. Heading the pack was a hulking brute of a minotaur, sickly purple, with the number PP-012 Emblazoned upon his heavy brow. It was Tauros, and the broken body of his beloved hung over his shoulder. The hurt and anger in those piercing yellow eyes, he had every right to hate you. They all did. There was a line, and among the faces gathered was a majority of the Gravelords, Numbers one through three were thankfully absent, Hades had decided to deploy their abilities elsewhere, generously leaving the odds at Nine against One, not accounting for the slew of Striders, Deadeye, two Roamers, a single overburdened Collector-Hoarder, and a very out-of-place reanimated white cat held in the hooves of a fretting Nyn.

Hades, in all his wisdom, once decided to reanimate a simple white house-cat and set it on the battlefield, perhaps because he was bored and required entertainment. So far, to your knowledge, the cat had never successfully killed anything but small birds and vermin, but PP-009 (Nyn) had become fond of ‘Mr. Bitey’, so Hades had decided to keep the amusing thing around. And deploy it. Constantly. Much to the delight of Nyn and the chagrin of everyone else.

Necro-Net ranked the Numbers by strength and specialty, lowest to highest. You were the highest number, making you the weakest by Necro Net’s scale. The other Numbers knew this and likely expected an easy encounter. The pink robot head, however, was the wildcard. Sure, she couldn’t predict the future (maybe she could) but she had reprogrammed you, perhaps there was something she could do to help.

“You don’t have to beat them,” Madame Pinky told you, “I’ve already taken care of everything.” Oh good, you were starting to worry. Sarcasm, you could do sarcasm. Brilliant.

<SURRENDER AT ONCE.> That was the ultimatum. Surrender. <”We don’t want to fight you, Penance, what the Morts did isn’t your fault. We can fix you.”> The Numbers were divided, and their messages mixed. It was with great regret that you could not return to them, your family was now beyond you. There was a line between your worlds, and that’s where you had to stand now, between the dead and those that now lived.

Mutely, you rose up and let your weapons answer for you. The conversation was likely to be a short one, but even before you let one bullet fly, an explosion erupted from the center of the gathered horde and your cybernetic systems were hit hard with a pulse of magical energy. The world spun and came at you fast, laying you out cold against the freshly churned earth.

“Whoops! I guess we were standing a teensy bit close,” Madame Pinkie apologized. “There was a surprise in the Fortune Teller’s Cabinet. A Magical Matrix Disruption Pulse! They’re all out like a light, but not you--Once I reboot your systems fully, that is...Sorry!”

Just as the world came back lethargically, it began to swirl together. The last images you could make out were walking among the deactivated Deadmare to retrieve the second key, and after that, it was just darkness and distorted static. The replay was at its end.

“I think we’ve seen enough,” Cradle Robber cooed as you came hurtling back to a different reality. It took you a few moments to adjust, the brightness of the room was blaring. Everything was pristine white, interrupted by a black window set in the opposite wall. You were fettered to the wall by steel straps, bound and helpless.

Pacing before the window was a golden striped Zebra with a white mane and tail in loose braids. His attire was like that of those in servitude to a rich family, a modest black vest and black bow-tie. The whole look was tied together with well-shined hooves and shaved fetlocks.

“We all know the outcome of your betrayal. You escaped, but not without...Assistance.” The zebra stopped and hung his head, letting a few loose strands fall over his vibrant blue eyes, “I had forgiven you for my wrongful death, your betrayal, however, can not be so easily forgotten. Why did you do it? What did you see? What was the significance of that old playing card?”

“It was lucky,” You answered stoically, refusing or unable to account for anything else.

“That’s rich coming from you,” The zebra scoffed, facing you with a deep frown, “You’re the unluckiest stallion I’ve ever known.” There was a pregnant pause, as if he expected you to say something, but seeing as you did not answer in the time it took him to fiddle with the heart-rate monitor in the wall, he spoke. “Do you recognize this room?”

It was a tax on your mind to remember. White, what a horrid color, it was so deceitful. The muted buzz of static and the mellow mechanical voice began to play, “What is your name?” There it was, intervals of fifteen seconds repeating that phrase. Any answer died on your lips as they parted, divulging nothing but half-formed syllables.

You thought about Sparkle Cola and its carroty aftertaste...

“It has already started,” The Zebra chimed, triumph ringing in his voice. “You’re just an echo, hoofprints on the beach as the tides change.”

“What is your name?”

“It’s still a mystery, how you woke up in the first place.” The zebra chimed, taking a place on the floor just before you, his eyes rolling over your tortured, twisted body. “Headcase failed to achieve soul cohesion. Doctor Steelgraft passed before he finished you and you were damaged by...” He stopped, tutting himself, “No, that’d be telling. Not that you’d remember.”

“What is your name?”

Staring at the zebra too long made you sick and sad, so you avoided his gaze, but the walls were too glaring, so you avoided them as well, leaving only the blackened window to fill your vision. The urge to answer the voice asking your name grew and grew, but you had no name. You strained to stay awake as exhaustion became overwhelming, your eyelids heavy as lead curtains. Your vision dipped as the thoughts churning in your mind hardened and fell.

“What could have tied you to this broken body?” The zebra mused, picking up one of the assorted surgical tools from the tray nearby. He traced the blade along the wires of the EKG machine to your chest and deliberately sunk the tool into you with a vicious twist. Black and red ichor sputtered from the wound as you grunted reflexively, nerves screaming. “None of this is real,” he explained even as he began brutalizing you with more sharp stabs. “But you think it is, and that’s enough! How does it feel, Captain? Had you forgotten its sting?”

He continued to torture you, his creativity and cruelty only limited by the small amount of appliances at his disposal. By the end of the vivisection, you were panting, gnashing your teeth, and at one point or another, you’d torn your legs apart trying to writhe away from the intense pain. Simulation or not, this was agony. Yet, it was a drop in the bucket compared to the anguish the Zebra believed they endured by your actions.

“My own parents wanted me gone!” Cradle Robber neighed, driving another scalpel deep into your abdomen, cutting away a fold of meat. “The elders had me prepared to die!” Without any blades left, he began driving the implements in deeper with his hooves. “Then you came along and...” He hung his head, “Took me away from it, yet never pitied me.” The abuse paused, with the albino zebra too overwhelmed with emotion. “You stood up for me, defended me! Welcomed me to your family! You taught me how to be strong so I could stand up for myself...” He lashed out furiously now, striking so hard and wild that his own hooves were subject to careless injury. His blood ran black, mingling with the satin red of your own. “I would have followed you anywhere, and I did! Straight to the end and back! How was I repaid?!” The room fell silent, save for the labored, panting breaths of the zebra and the sch-licking sounds of metal penetrating flesh.

“What is your name?”

“But it’s alright, all will be forgiven,” The zebra consoled you as he brandished the final remaining tool from the surgical tray, a skin stapler. Shushing you sweetly, he lifted your head by the jaw and set the tool to your lips, “It’s time to be as you were.”

“What is your name?”

Warm brown eyes sought your own from the blackened glass on the far wall, adorned upon a yellow pony with a ragged, oil-soaked mane. “Shhhh... it’s going to be alright, just let me take a look at you.” You remembered something, being somepony else, not so long ago. “Now, tell me where it hurts.” That’s where it all started, isn’t it? With a single act of mercy--A kindness upon somepony that had met this mare. While this pony, a pegasus mare, was gone, her very essence had ended up here, buried deep into your psyche quite enigmatically.

Sporadic flashes of insight called forth implicit knowledge of this fallen pony, she had been from a world above the clouds exclusive to her kind alone. Quite the adventure she had, alongside a ghoulified black pegasus--Her appearance in your mind’s eye displaced you to the deck of a ship beneath an ever-blue sky, evaporating just as quickly as it came. “Once upon a time, there was a Captain and with him, his Crew--”

A long chain of unfortunate events bound by hopeless struggle stretched out into the infinity of a mobius strip, ending only in the untimely end of anyone who crossed paths with the black pegasus, including the end of this particular pony. Death is final. It parts all unions, but it seems the bond of friendship had no qualms traversing the plutonian shore.

“Yah don’t have ta go!” The greasy-maned yellow unicorn shouted, moved to tears. Nothing unsettled you more than seeing those warm eyes bittered by tears. “Can’t just bug out n’ leave me like sum house-wife!” It had been their last conversation. Their chance meeting, that shred of mercy, had blossomed into a burgeoning romance, yet it withered in the icy chill of their parting words. So many things left unsaid, so many regrets. All of them left for you to carry.

“What is your name?”

Damn your name, silence was upon your lips, and soon, you’d be unable to speak again. Her name, that unicorn, her name--What was her name? How could you forget? She was your friend! Your friend. Chocolate milk; it had always been chocolate milk. Creamy, rich, a tad bitter, but chocolate milk none-the-less. There was no such thing as coincidence, there was only fate and the fools who make their own!

“Gangrene,” you remembered.

There was the spark.

There was the fire.

Little had changed for Cradle Robber, his languid tapping with the skin stapler traversing from the corner of your lip to the center. Each suture was a twin-headed nail driven into a coffin, the final strike drawing near. Just as the handle began to depress one last time...

Ba-Beep-Tum-Tum.

The small monitor linked to you sprung to life, blaring out a sharp bleat to the tune of a heartbeat. The zebra stopped, his head snapping to the monitor in disbelief. “What?” The heart-rate monitor beeped once again, one tone then a second, atomizing what disbelief had stalled your tormentor. The skin stapler to your lips trembled, clattering to the floor as Cradle Robber ripped the contacts from your chest frantically.

“This can’t be!” He exclaimed.

The beeping continued, growing faster and louder. Even after the monitor was desiccated by feverish strikes, it sounded off faster and faster. Fear eclipsed the smug satisfaction that Cradle Robber once expressed. An attempt to snatch up the skin stapler to finish his work resulted in searing pain, the zebra clutching his smoking hoof. The metal of the tool sizzled with blistering white light, moments later pooling on the floor and evaporating.

“No,” He grunted between clenched teeth. “How are you resisting?” He spouted similar cliche, a sense of Deja-Vu washing over you--As if you’d been in such a situation before many times. Your friends always bailed you out, didn’t they? Every-time you got yourself in over your horn, they would come. Who were they? The flashes of eidetic memory came with clues, changing the scenario around the both of you. Red balloons in bundles of three rose like specters from the floor and butted off the ceiling and the white floor tiles beneath Cradle Robber’s hooves, much to his horror, was replaced with the likeness of your lucky playing card, The Jack of Spades.

The lights flickered then died, the whole room quaking as it adopted a tilt, tossing the zebra into the empty surgical tray. Finally, braced against the cot, the zebra took notice of the black mirror, tracing your unwavering gaze to it. The blackened window had grown a frame of gilded bronze, segmented like sections of armor.

“Another reliquary? There shouldn’t be anything buried this deep!” Cradle Robber growled, shooting you an accusatory glare. “How can you remember that incidental mare? She’s nothing, a footnote, a lowly worm! How do you know that name?!”

How silly of the zebra--Thinking you, with your mouth sealed shut, could manage more than the occasional grunt or groan of pain. Once the quaking ceased, the reflection of the mirror had shifted. Another room, adjacent to this one, bearing only a single pony mannequin adorned with a simple black tophat with crimson trim. The Captain’s hat. Your hat--

“What is your name?” The mechanical voice intoned once again, and this time, you felt the answer caress the tip of your tongue. Your jaws creaked as you struggled to speak.

“No!” Cradle Robber lunged, slamming a hoof over your muzzle, smothering your half-stuttered syllables. “You can’t remember! I won’t let you! I wo--” His eyes widened, his words cut short as black flecks of blood dribbled down his lips, a lithe blade piercing through his throat from behind. Choking on his fluids, he feebly tried to keep you restrained until a decisive twist ended his motions.

Cradle Robber’s body exploded as if it’d been hit by cannon fire, his last gurgling words in your realm a curse at your “companions” interference. Behind where he had been, the black pegasus that so haunted your memories stood. She wiped off the hoof-blade off against one of the few remaining white patches on your coat and sheathed her blade. “Where would the Captain be without his crew?” She said with a neutral expression, neither pleased nor unhappy, but droll.

You were unable to answer her, and she seemed amused by such. “While this could be seen as an improvement,” she turned, adjusting her cloak to her trim body, “It pains me to say that the world must endure you a while longer.”

Perspectives shifted with suddenness, delivering you to the other side of the mirror in an instant. The bindings remained, however, keeping you restrained. The other room was as you saw earlier, with the single dummy wearing the aforementioned hat. A key difference, however, was the presence of the dour pegasus. With poignant purpose, she retrieved the hat and returned to you, holding it aloft as if in reverence to it.

“What is your name?” The ceaseless request had easily gotten on the black mare’s nerves, her grimace deep. Her glare was directed at you, as if you had done her some great annoyance on its part.

"I do believe that this is yours, Captain. Try to keep better track of it. You know that I hate having to find things that you have forgotten." She said, her cold eyes burrowed into you, dissecting you. Her very demeanor was unnerving, or it would be to a stallion wise enough to fear her. Perhaps you were not as wise. “Where we were describes us. Where we go defines us. The only question you need to answer now..." She drops the hat on your brow, both reverently and flippantly. "Is who you are going to become, if who is inside is what we fought for."

There must have been some magic in that old hat she found, for when she placed it upon your head, mad visions danced around. You were no stranger to them, but this roller-coaster was by far the most dynamic and winding. A pulse of icy air tore through the stagnant dorms of your mind, drawing together the fractured pieces of mirrors and arranging them into a borderless mosaic.

“What is your name?”

And you knew your name--What they called you now. You could hear her calling for you across a sea of fire. “Steelgraft!” A soot-streaked face of a pale yellow unicorn besought you with warm brown eyes brimming with tears. She held out her hoof, offering a bond, a place by her side.

All you had to do was take a leap of faith.

...You were a horrible monster, weren’t you? A murderer, a villain, a killer! Do you even deserve her friendship? Her forgiveness? Does she deserve the burden of your baggage? Regardless, you’ve reached level 10. You’re officially a tier 1 Badass.

Fallout Equestria: Second Wind

by TinkerChromewire

Preface--Unplugged

Chapter 1: What Is Your Name?

Chapter 2: Fast-Friendship

Chapter 3: Feeling Welcome

Chapter 4: Burden

Chapter 5: Shop and Drop

Chapter 6: Metal Heads

Chapter 7: One Step Forward

Chapter 7.5: War and Peace

Chapter 8: Harvest

Chapter 9: Immaculate Deception

Chapter 10: Home Movies

Chapter 10.5: You Monster

Chapter 10.75: Boot, Meet Head

Chapter 11: Cost of Living

Chapter 12: Touch of Pink

Chapter 13: Rehearsal

Chapter 14: Spilled Milk

Chapter 15: Holiday Road

Chapter 16: Mist Directions

Chapter 17: What's Left To Lose

Chapter 18: Captain and Crew