> Fallout Equestria: Foreigner
>  by Detective Chmilewsky
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

> Prologue: The First Day
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

	
Between the large swathes of land swallowed up by the untraversable Death Zone, the enigmatic and monolithic Wall, and the natural geographical features of the land itself,  the Grand Canyon Province has been in isolation from the outside world for over a century.

With the range of environments ranging from hospitable to hostile, from forests to scrublands, several generations have come to call the Province their home, each generation producing hardier people than the last. Thousands of people live throughout the Province, having either built upon the aged remnants of pre-existing infrastructure from a world before the Fall or moved on to create communities that didn’t rely upon the skeletal remains of a flawed civilization.

Nothing can smother the past, however. The specter of one particular mega-corporation still looms over the collective head of the Province. Technological and industrial infrastructures of a long-dead age lay scattered across the land, ranging from crippled office complexes to semi-functional power plants that strain themselves to provide power to the few locations that have even the barest of connections to a pillaged and gutted power grid.

Wherever a pre-existing community had once stood, the forlorn forms of squat structures had a good chance of being nearby, their octagonally shaped concrete exteriors suffering from the effects of both man and nature. Since long before any person could recall these structures had existed, their unassuming form causing them often to be overlooked by passersby, mistakenly assumed to just be another piece of detritus from a different time.

Those approaching one of these bunkers would be faced with a stairwell that lead down into the earth and stopped at a pair of steel doors, their latches dusty from disuse. For one expecting something incredible past those doors, they would be immediately disappointed as they found themselves at the entrance of a dusty hallway that split in two directions.

But not even underground was clear of the specter of a corporation that once owned the very canyon that thousands of people called their home, for on the wall before them they would see one word that was ever-present throughout the Province:

GlobalTech.


***  ***  ***


2156 A.D.

Zanesville, Grand Canyon Province

Like any other day of the week, Journeyman Jeremiah Tinkson was arms-deep in narrow, dark holes.

“Damnit,” the man muttered to himself, a rivulet of sweat trailing down the side of his face as he wormed his arm ever deeper into the confines of darkness, his fingers gently caressing the innards of the cavity as he sought what he so desired. The ebony-skinned man’s lips curled in pleasure as he found what he was looking for.

“Excellent.”

Gripping gently but firmly, the man slowly removed his arm from the confines of the rusted pipe, the lost light bulb in his hand safe and undamaged.

“Hard to find, even harder to make,” he grumbled, setting down the bulb onto a stack of empty oil drums that had long been drained of their contents.

The room that the man was in had metal grating and panels for a floor and steel-panelled walls, the ceiling having large portions of it lined with ventilation ducts and various pipes. One side of the room had a line of empty metal pods that were festooned with cables and other bits of machinery that filled the gaps between the pods. On either side of the line of pods was a wide staircase that lead up to the surface.

The other side of the room was a different matter altogether; the center part of the wall was concrete with a large, black sphere, possibly representing a planet, covered in a dense grid with bright points at each intersection. Beneath the logo was one word: “GlobalTech”.

On the floor just before the concrete wall was a raised dais that had a steel safety railing around most of it save for where a small metal stairway on either side of the circular platform connected to the floor. On the section closest to the wall was a semi-circular row of computer banks and terminals, the rows and panels of blinking lights occasionally interrupted by a blue screen that either showed the logo on the wall or other information that wouldn’t easily be readable to just anyone.

Often Jeremiah would think to himself about how one might interact with the system that seemed as though it may control everything within the bunker he was in; he knew that such a thing wasn’t impossible, as he had heard of people in other bunkers doing just that. LifeNet Technicians, they were called.

“Having any trouble, Journeyman?” A voice called from the stairway, announcing the return of Technician Johannson Hendricks from her lunchbreak.

The Journeyman in question turned around to see a middle-aged woman with short blond hair tied up in a bun behind her head. She wore a grey-blue jumpsuit that matched his own, with an almost-maroon patch of red sewn into the lower left-hand side of the torso. Also like him, she wore a large leather belt equipped with various tools, as well as a shoulder patch depicting three intersecting ovals set at 120-degree intervals: an incorrect simplification of what an atom looked like, but an easily recognizable symbol nonetheless.

“No ma’am, just spent the last ten or twenty minutes trying to fish a light bulb out from a pipe.” He jerked a thumb over his shoulder at the object he had spent so much time retrieving.

She let out a noise of distaste not directed at him. “Those things are always getting lost or getting broken. Damn things are so hard to make and so hard to keep unbroken that it's a wonder we even have any spares."

“I hear you,” Jeremiah said, nodding his head in agreement. He ran a dusty hand through his short, curly black hair and was reminded that he needed to take another sponge-bath sometime soon.

Johannson let out a deep sigh, taking a moment to remove a stray strand of blonde hair that had began to tickle her nose before wordlessly walking to the open toolbox that sat at the foot of the oil drums.

“Back to work then.” Jeremiah moved a hand to his belt to remove a voltage tester, his other hand moving to the small light bulb that he had retrieved earlier before screwing it into the back of the voltage tester.

“Yep.” Johannson stooped down to pick up several electrician tools before gesturing over to one of the cables that fed into one of the pods. “Orders are to see how much power is fed into those pods, and then see if we can re-route the cables to something more worthwhile. Catch.” She tossed a multimeter over to Jeremiah, who caught it easily.

“Orders by who?” he asked as he went over to one of the pods.

“Probably some Theoretician in the Congress of Science who thinks that we don’t already have our hands full with other stuff.” She began to lay down some of the tools that she had collected from the toolbox, lining them up at the edge of the pod.

Jeremiah leaned against one of the thick steel partitions that jutted out from between the pods. “Makes you wish that we Appliers had more say in things, what with us being the most common and all.”

Johannson raised her hand and pointed to the multimeter Jeremiah was holding, crooking her finger. 

“Gimme,” she said as the man passed her the device, where she then plugged it into a small port that was set into a large coiling metal cable that was the same thickness as her forearm. “I try not to think about politics. It probably didn’t do the old world any good and it certainly doesn’t appear to be doing any good now.”

“Yeah, I suppose not,” Jeremiah said, crossing his arms as he watched the middle-aged woman fiddled with the device.

Johannson soon finished setting up the device, and stood up to face the younger man, “Now that that’s done, we just have to wait until the next one comes through. Care for a quickie?”

The ebony-skinned man felt his cheeks flush and his eyebrows climb up toward his forehead. The question, to him, was a no brainer. “Don’t have to ask me twice, ma’am!”

She answered him with a grin and put her hands around his waist, working the belt buckle open and letting the toolbelt clatter to the floor noisily. As she was doing that, Jeremiah began working the zipper that sealed the front of the woman’s jumpsuit, his hands fumbling around for the small zipper that was hidden beneath a small fold of fabric.

The two electricians were so busy “working” on each other that they missed the materializing figure in the pod behind them until its limp form crashed onto Johannson. With a startled yelp she drew her face away from the man’s waist and spun around, letting out another yelp as she saw the collapsed figure laying down on the floor face down. The man took a moment longer to react, asking why she had stopped before his eyes met the same limp figure that his partner had been staring at.

“Fucking cockblock,” they both intoned.


***  ***  ***


The two technicians took a moment to “readjust” their jumpsuits before taking a good look at the limp form at their feet.

“Why hasn’t he woken up yet?” Jeremiah asked in puzzlement, looking over to Johannson.

“Clones are weird like that,” she said, wiping her mouth with the back of a hand. “See that collar on its neck there? That’s how you can tell them apart from the rest of us.”

He looked at where she was pointing. The figure that was being pointed at was wearing a dark blue jacket with a yellow-brown stripe running from the shoulders and down the sleeves. The pants that the figure was wearing were of the same dark blue material as the jacket, both articles of clothing appearing to consist of finely woven plastic threads that would undoubtedly chafe if not switched out for something of a less “constructed” nature.

As for the specific part of the limp figure being pointed at, there appeared to be a metal collar that wrapped around the base of his neck, the sides of said collar engraved with almost runic-like symbols of an unknown purpose. At the back of the collar was a large port that looked as though some sort of computer cable could be connected into it.

“Yeah I see it,” Jeremiah said quietly, perturbed at the fact that the recess looked deeper than the thickness of the actual collar itself.

Johannson glanced at the blinking display on the multimeter before looking back to him. “If he doesn’t wake up soon, we’re going to have to drag him to Baskins.”

Jeremiah looked at her with an air of confusion, “Who?” he asked, not having heard the name before.

“Sergeant Baskins. He’s the guy who takes the new clones and gives them a purpose, some starter jobs, and then sends them out into the wide, wide world.”

He looked to her and then to the limp figure that still lay unmoving on the floor, before looking back to her again. “What do we do if the clone doesn’t want to move?”

Johannson furrowed her brow a moment in thought before looking up to him from her crouched position on the floor. “Then we drag it.”

“Fucking clones.”


***  ***  ***


The sound of two pairs of boots working their way up the stairs brought Private Dickinson from out of his inattentive stupor and back into the persona of a competent guard. He glanced to the right, toward his compatriot. The man, like him, wore a tan BDU that was mostly obscured from view by the thick leather padding that covered his torso and upper thighs. In the other man’s hand was a semi-automatic carbine that was mostly comprised of wooden parts. Only the best for the new guys, he thought sarcastically.

“Here they come. They’re leaving early today, huh?” Dickinson said, pointing down toward the right-hand side of the hall they were guarding.

The other man opened his mouth to reply but quickly shut it as two Techs came around the corner with the limp form of someone draped around their shoulders. The man that they were dragging between them was fully clothed save for his bare feet, which were dragging along the hard concrete floor.

Dickinson waited a bit for them to get closer before speaking. “I take it you found another glitter-neck, huh?”

One of the Techs, the woman that he thought was named Johannson, rolled her brown eyes at him before retorting, “Look at his collar and ask that dumb question again.”

The other guard raked his fingers through the air while making a cat noise, “Mreowl, kitty got claws!”

The ebony-skinned man gave the other guard an odd look before turning to Dickinson. “We need to deliver this guy to Sergeant Baskins, can you let us through?”

“Only if you get us some lunch on your way back, we haven’t had ours yet. We’ll pay you back, right Bob?” The other guard nodded.

The woman, Johannson, seemed to consider this for a moment before nodding her head, “Yeah, we can do that. Any idea where Baskins may be at?”

“Should be by the firing range,” Bob said, rolling his shoulders. “We’ll let you through now.” With a nod to Dickinson, they both turned around and opened their respective door for the two Techs, letting them out from the confines of the bunker.


***  ***  ***


The town of Zanesville was set atop of several mesas that overlooked the Eastern Plateau region of the Grand Canyon Province. The mesa that the two Techs-turned-body-carriers were currently on housed most of the town’s defenders, all organized around a small radio tower and a nissen hut. Small prefabricated geo-domes were scattered around both of these structures, serving as living quarters for soldiers and their families. Along the outer rim of the mesa itself was a line of stacked rubble and debris that would be used as cover in the usual event of an attack.

As the two Techs dragged their charge out into the open air, they quickly wished that they were back in the air-conditioned confines of the bunker and not tasked with the menial labor of carrying a load of dead weight between them.

When they finally arrived at the firing range, most of the stalls there were empty or closed, save for the occasional off-duty guard or trainee seeking to improve their aim or relieve some stress. Sergeant Baskins was, much to the Techs’ consternation, nowhere to be found, and instead they were met with a bored-looking firearms instructor who was going over the basics with one of the aforementioned trainees.

Technician Johannson Hendricks motioned for Journeyman Jeremiah Tinkson to set down the body that they had been carrying onto the ground, something that Jeremiah was only happy to oblige. As they waited for the firearms instructor to finish, they both used the time to stretch and to help themselves to the contents of a water jug while they waited.

“You got the form mostly right, but you need to spread your feet a bit and keep your legs relaxed, not all stiff-like.” The instructor showed the trainee the proper stance, doing just as she told the man to do. After a few more tips and pointers the man replicated her posture more or less exactly.

“Good, now keep that position and hold it, I think the Technos have waited long enough.” The instructor backed up from the trainee, giving him some space as she turned to the two awaiting Techs.

The woman was wearing a BDU of the same color as the two guards just inside the bunker entrance, a pistol holster and some other personal items hanging from the large leather belt wrapped around her waist. On her right shoulder was a patch sewn into the fabric depicting  the black silhouette of a clenched fist against the center of a yellow and black rimmed circle; the symbol of the Enforcers.

Johannson was the first to speak, “We came here looking for Sergeant Baskins.” She gestured over to the splayed-out figure lying against a nearby wall, “Got another clone to deliver.”

“Seems like those bunkers keep spewing out more and more of these guys,” the instructor said, jerking her chin toward the collared man on the floor. “As for the Sergeant,” she shrugged, tilting her head to the side, “He’s busy.”

Jeremiah, who had previously been letting his superior do the talking, let out an annoyed huff. “Figures that when we actually need to find someone in charge they’re nowhere to be found.”

The instructor crossed her arms over her chest. “Sorry that I couldn’t be of any more help, but you know...” She gave them both a sly grin, her eyes twinkling with barely hidden amusement, “Since you’re here, you should get in some practice. Never know when Gully Dog raiders are going to come at us again.”

Both of the Techs shook their heads, profusely thanking the female instructor for her offer but claimed that they had other things that needed to be attended to first.

“It wasn’t an offer that you can really refuse.” The instructor’s smile grew into the toothy smile of a predator, “I know where the Sergeant is, and if you want to get back to your nice little bunker, you’ll comply with my demands.”

Both of the Techs stared at the instructor with various feelings like dismay, annoyance, and rage at having to be forced to do something that neither of them had any interest in. After a few moments of silence, they finally gave in to her demands.

“Great, great,” the instructor said, rubbing her palms together excitedly. “We’ll make Enforcers of you yet!”


***  ***  ***


By the time the two Techs were done at the firing range several more hours had passed, the clone that they had originally hoped to deliver to the proper authority was still unconscious and unmoving. The sun was significantly closer to the western horizon than it had been when the Techs first started and by the time they were finished with the semi-forced training and had received the location of Sergeant Baskins the sky was a fiery orange that reflected the day’s temperature.

Both Jeremiah and Johannson half-walked and half-stumbled out through the firing range’s walled-in entrance, almost tripping over the original reason for them being at the firing range to begin with.

“Son of a bitch!” Jeremiah cursed, angrily sending a vicious kick at the collared man’s leg.

Johannson set a hand on the frustrated man’s shoulder, “I’m as pissed as you are, but don’t take it out on the clone. As much as they are a pain to work with sometimes, they have their uses.”

Jeremiah looked as though he was about to retort with something unkind, but the stern gaze that the woman was giving him made him relent. “Yeah. Yeah I guess.” He pinched the bridge of his nose, squeezing his eyes shut, “I just don’t get why that bitch made us go through that pointless training.”

“I can still hear you, sweety,” called a voice from around the corner, followed by a chuckle.

The man’s ebony cheeks reddened slightly, embarrassed that his bad-mouthing had been heard by the person it was directed at.

Johannson let out an amused bark of laughter. “Better be careful what you say,” she said, poking the upset man in the ribs. His mumbled response only brought out another bark of laughter. “Come on, tough guy, let’s get this piece of meat delivered, and then maybe you can see about delivering some meat of your own.” Her eyes twinkled as she said this, a coy smile forming on her lips.

The response she got from him was just what she was expecting, and after a minute of hoisting the limp body between them — with the man carrying most of the weight on his side — they were off to find Sergeant Baskins once more.

“Lucky broad,” the instructor said to herself as she watched them leave. A single gunshot coming from down the range drew her attention to one of the trainees, an athletic-looking teenager with short blond hair. Perhaps the night was still young after all.


***  ***  ***


The two Techs didn’t have to travel far in order to find the Sergeant; there was a group of men sitting around a card table in front of a geo-dome, several of them still wearing the Pre-Fall era combat armor that was almost synonymous with the stereotypical image of the Enforcers. One of the men still wearing the bulky armor turned to face the two approaching Techs, the chevrons on the armor’s right spaulder denoting him as probably someone of importance, more specifically a higher probability that their search was nearing its end. The only part of the man’s body that wasn’t covered was his head, which was topped with a crew cut that seemed at odds with the man’s chubby face, although underneath whatever thin layer of fat there was obviously some muscle.

“What can I do for you two tonight?” the man asked in a gravelly voice that spoke of years of tobacco smoking. Both of the Techs immediately set down their cargo before one of them turned to look at the man in a manner best fitting as annoyed.

“We have been looking for you since lunch, and when we finally got to where we thought you were, we were forced to go over gun-safety and maintenance for several hours.” The woman walked over to the bewildered sergeant and drove a finger into the thick armor covering his chest. “What you can do is to take care of this clone, so that we can go back to our jobs!”

The sergeant stared at the woman — who was currently breathing heavily with almost unrestrained anger — for a moment before turning to the other soldiers around the card table. “Leave us,” he said, making a dismissive gesture with his left arm.

The soldiers wordlessly got up off of their stools and chairs, their postures and glances at the female Tech showing their disapproval of the early halt to their weekly card game that they played. The sergeant watched the retreating figures as they left, a deep frown on his face as the much-looked-forward-to event was ruined by an uppity Tech.

He moved a callused hand over to a small metal tin, opening it to withdraw a stubby looking cigarette. He could almost feel the woman’s burning gaze drilling into him, most likely feeling upset at being forced to wait even longer for him to light the rod of rolled-up tobacco. Sucking on the end of the cigarette, he lazily turned his head to gaze up at the woman and her fidgety companion.

“So.” He blew a cloud of grey smoke toward her, “You came here to interrupt me and my boys, and now they’re gone. What do you want now?” He gave a contemptuous tap of his cigarette in her direction, ash tumbling off the end of it.

The jumpsuited woman crossed her arms, starting to mirror the look of unease that her companion showed. “Look,” she said after a brief moment of silence, “I just want to go back and do my job, and maybe get some dinner before nothing’s left. I was given orders that whenever a new clone shows up, we were to escort them to you.” A sour looked appeared on her face, “So just take him, alright?”

The sergeant let out a ragged sigh, staring at her with half-lidded eyes before giving her a shrug and nodding his head in assent. “Yeah, yeah. You can go. Tell whoever’s working the mess hall to give you something extra. Tell them I said so.”

The woman’s face looked almost apologetic when she nodded her head. “Thanks. C’mon, Jeremiah, let’s hit the mess.” Almost.

Watching the duo finally leave him and his empty card table, he felt a small tinge of regret that he hadn’t gotten them to play a round of cards to make up for their ruining the weekly card game. He closed his eyes and leaned back slightly in his chair, the wood creaking as it was forced to shoulder the weight of his armor. After a few minutes of listening to the muted background chatter that seemed to almost permeate the air around him, he opened his eyes to the slack form on the ground.

“You can get up, they’re gone now,” he said, his tone taking on a slight lilt of amusement.

The sound of dirt was heard beneath the shifting form, a low and weary groan undulating from the prone man’s throat. The man slowly, almost hesitantly, rose from the ground, the setting sun at his back casting the sergeant in a human-shaped shadow.

“New clones don’t come out of the pod unconscious.” The sergeant stated matter-of-factly, taking a drawn out pull on his cigarette. “I don’t think so, anyway.”

The clone was stretching and twisting to relieve whatever kinks that had built up in his body over the course of the day. The man let out a few a more groans of relief and satisfaction, before opening his eyes to view the armored figure sitting before him.

“Don’t blame you for playing possum,” the sergeant said, letting some smoke billow from his nostrils, savoring the blend of tobacco, “If that woman was going to be the first thing I woke up to, I’d stay asleep too.” He let out a snort of amusement before continuing on, “That said though, you’ve inadvertently caused the disbanding of tonight’s card game, not to mention the extra work you’ve given me.”

The man simply stared at the sergeant with an almost animal lack of comprehension, before giving a soft shrug of his shoulders. The sergeant grumbled to himself as he rose out of his chair, standing up to his full height. It was hard to see the clone clearly with the dying sun at its back, but just by the silhouetted frame he could tell that the clone was almost a head shorter than himself, making the clone slightly below average height-wise.

Sizing the clone up for a few more moments, the sergeant waved over to the hexagonal doorway of the geo-dome, gesturing for the clone to enter. The clone gave him a strange look before taking a few hesitant steps toward the doorway, as if unsure of what speed to walk at, but eventually the clone confidently strode into the squat building. The sergeant removed another tube of tobacco from the metal tin, lighting one end of the new cigarette with the short stub of the old one. He took a brief drag from the new cigarette before tucking the metal tin into his pocket and walked inside after the clone, closing the hexagonal door behind him.


***  ***  ***


The walls of the room were made up of curved hexagonal plates that connected together to create an enclosed dome that easily kept out the elements and beasts of the Grand Canyon. On one edge of the single-room enclosure was a small cot, with the gap between the piece of furniture and the curving wall filled up with a specially crafted bedstand. No space could afford to be wasted in such an uneven structure. Containers and shelves either sat at the base of the walls or off the walls themselves, leaving a small circular table at the center of the dome beneath a battery-powered lamp that bathed the two caucasian men sitting at the table in a soft white glow.

Sergeant Baskins stared at the man sitting across from him, the other man doing the same. The collared man had pale, almost milky, skin that seemed to nearly glow in the lamp-light. The man had a semi-rounded face with a set of pale lips on a rather prominent jaw. With a straight nose and a pair of pale blue eyes, the man had a slightly unusual look that most clones seemed to share with one another, something that gave Baskins pause.

“So tell me,” Baskins said simply, leaning toward the other man and setting his palms onto the plastic tabletop that separated both men from one-another, “what’s your name?”

The collared man’s previously expressionless face worked itself into a look of concentration, as though unsure of the question asked of him. An uncomfortable silence followed as Baskins’ waited for the other man to answer the question. In truth, Baskins’ was pretty sure that he knew the answer to the question: that the clone didn’t know. That was the usual response that he had gotten in the past from other new clones.

“I don’t know.” The clone finally said, a look of shock plastered across his pale face.

Sergeant Baskins nodded his head, unsurprised by this revelation. He withdrew the cigarette from between his lips and tapped the smoldering ash against the edge of an ashtray, watching with minor interest as the debris tumbled into the bowl. He placed the now-shortened cigarette back between his lips, taking a long and drawn-out drag on the end of it before expelling twin streams of wispy smoke from his nostrils.

“So I take it that you have no memories before today.” It wasn’t a question.

The clone leaned forward closer to the table as he rested his elbows on its surface, running his hands through his flat-top styled hair. Baskins’ could hear the man muttering softly just below his own range of hearing.

Baskins rolled his eyes as the clone continued his muttering, taking a moment to tap the end of the cigarette against the ashtray. As much as he wished the clone would hurry up and stop rambling, he knew from previous experience that “new” clones could be at times unpredictable, ranging from crying in a corner or violently lashing out at the closest person.

It took a moment for him to realize that the incessant muttering had stopped during the time he had been staring at his cigarette. Tearing his gaze away from the slowly smoldering tube of wrapped tobacco he saw that the clone was calm once more, and was currently staring at him.

“You done now?” Baskins asked, a touch of annoyance leaking into his voice that caused the clone to cringe away from him slightly. Touchy one, this guy.

The collared man nodded his head, opening his mouth for a moment before shutting it.

The Enforcer saw this. “Speak your mind, I don’t bite.” He found that putting a fatherly tone into his voice was sometimes what was needed to encourage a clone to talk. Other times it got less than desirable results.

“I... I have pictures in my head.” The clone’s response elicited a raised eyebrow from Baskins. “Jumbled, but pictures. Of things I don’t remember; like white, wet stuff coming down on me or -or of other things.”

Well this is a bit different from usual, Baskins thought to himself, twisting the end of the cigarette into the ashtray before leaving it there. “Anything that actually is relevant to you, or are these just pictures or images in your head?” He asked, a bit curious about what the clone would say.

The man across from him pursed his lips slightly into a thin white line, his eyes seeming to search Baskins’ face. After a few moments of searching for whatever he was looking for, the clone leaned back in the chair and steepled his fingers together over the table, seeming to take an intense interest in them all of the sudden.

“I don’t think so,” he finally said, a flickering look of sadness crossing his features for a moment. “In one image I am holding a woman’s head under some water. In another I am looking down at the ground through a window, bright lights and buttons surrounding me as I move this thing,” the man made a show of holding something invisible on the table, moving it like a joystick, “and I press buttons and things. And in another-”

“Stop, just stop.” Baskins holds up a hand for the clone to stop, preventing the clone from describing any more of the “images” in his head. The look of hurt on the clone’s face sends a tinge of guilt coursing through Baskins, but only a little.

“Sorry about that,” Baskins apologized, setting his hand back down on the table. “I stopped you because a lot of other clones have jumbled memories like yours, and I don’t have the time to hear every one of them.”

“What is a clone?” The other man asked naively, like a child asking about something obvious.

“You are.” Baskins gestured with a hand to the clone’s collar, before going into more detail. “Clones are people, like you, who have metal collars around their neck - no, don’t try to remove it. Anyway, most of the time you guys seem to have no memories, or if you do you have no idea where you are. I’m assuming that you’re one of the former.” He paused for a moment, realizing that he was a bit thirsty. “Do you want something to drink?” The collared man gave a few emphatic nods of his head.

“Wait right there, then.”


***  ***  ***


The collared man watched the other man rise from the chair and go over to a squat-looking rectangular box, his pale blue eyes looking with interest as he saw the armored man work a rotating dial on the face of said box. He felt his eyes shoot up slightly as he heard a light clicking come from the box, and he wondered why it made a silly noise.

He let out an almost imperceptible sound of disappointment when all he saw was a jumbled mess within the box when it finally opened. He had expected something more, something amazing; what he got instead seemed like a let down. Still, after a moment of thinking about it, he realized that perhaps the point of the clicking dial was to prevent the box from being opened so easily.

His gaze was torn from the box as he saw the hulking form of the man he had dubbed in his mind as “Big” bring over a pair of open-topped cylindrical containers that were made out of the same material as the window in one of his “images”.

“Sorry if I don’t give you anything stronger, but I don’t think you need anything stronger,” Big said, pouring something from a green jug and into the translucent containers. Water, most likely, the clone reasoned to himself.

Big closed the jug before sliding over one of the cylinders over toward him, its contents sloshing against the sides as it made its way over. The collared man wrapped a pale hand around the bottom of the cylinder, noticing that when he looked through the liquid inside it seemed to distort everything and create funny and blurry shapes, drawing a chuckle from him. The armored man gave him a raised eyebrow, but otherwise said nothing as he sat back down in the chair across from him.

“What are you doing? I thought you said you were thirsty?” the blurry form of Big said, on the other side of the glass.

Smiling bashfully for a moment, the collared man quickly drank from the cylinder.


***  ***  ***


Must’ve been really thirsty, Sergeant Baskins thought, watching with slight amusement as the clone quickly drained the glass of its contents.

“Is there anything you think you’re good at?” Baskins asked when the clone had set the glass down, a few droplets of water dripping from his chin.

The collared man seemed to consider this for a few seconds before looking up and shaking his head. Baskins wasn’t really surprised; most if not all of the clones that he had talked to or questioned had given the same response.

“Well,” he said amicably, “we have a sort of... program, I guess you could call it, that we run new clones through to see if they’re good at anything.” Baskins rested an armored forearm onto the table, looking expectantly at the collared man. He sensed the clone’s building unease and hesitation, and decided to cut the clone a little break. “It’s all voluntary, of course.” Not that we could really stop you, anyway.

The collared man took a moment to think before immediately accepting the offer, no questions forthcoming about what he would be doing.

“Good,” Baskins said. “We have a spare place that you can sleep, but keep in mind that there has been...” He took a moment to find the right word before settling on one that seemed most appropriate, “...an influx, of clones. It may be a bit crowded.”

The pale man simply nodded his head, as if these were simply facts of life that were to be expected. Baskins got up from his chair and headed walked several steps to the door before gesturing to the still seated clone. “Come on, I’ll bring you to someone who can get you bedded for the night.”

The clone looked at him for a moment before wordlessly getting up from the chair and following the man into the night.
> Chapter 1: Rough Start
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

	
	2165 A.D.

Outskirts of New Flagstaff, Grand Canyon Province

It had been over nine years since the man had given himself a name.

Nine years of learning the skills necessary to be independent. Nine years of seeing the extent of human cruelty, and the height of human kindness, sometimes paradoxically in the same person.

Nine years of dying, again and again.

As the man let these thoughts roll through his head, he examined the pale flesh of his face, letting his gloved fingers trail their padded tips across his nose and cheekbones, the scars of his life's work conspicuous by their absence. Of the thousands of people living within the Grand Canyon Province and just a little bit beyond, several hundred of those souls had most likely become intimate with death in a way that the rest could never experience. Those several hundred, like himself, had died.

Died, and then come back.

The side-effects that each clone felt after respawning in a LifeNet pod tended to be different, and sometimes their equipment didn’t translate with them, forcing them to go back and get it before someone else did. A technological marvel before the Fall, most assuredly, but of those who LifeNet kept close to its cold, mechanical bosom, they could have no release from death.

For the man known as Kiako Lalene, that was perfectly fair. After all, an existence of pseudo-immortality was all he had ever known, and the thought of anything different was best not thought upon too much.

This was an ability that came with a small amount of baggage though. A person who could die but then come back, usually with their memories intact, made an excellent mercenary or worker, and the people of the Province had made the best efforts to exploit this unusual and relatively new addition to the populace.

If an explosive needed to be dealt with, a clone was sent to inspect it and try and dismantle it. For things that needed a rougher touch, a heavily armed and armored clone could be sent in to deal with whatever problem that came up, and eventually it would be solved: the clone had multiple tries, after all, to get it right. If there was something that needed to be dealt with that normal people couldn’t handle by themselves -or simply were loathe to do so- then all one had to do was wave down a passing clone and offer them a job. For this, clones were appreciated and a highly sought-after resource.

There was a drawback, though, when it came to fighting said clones: the same thing that made them excellent workers for dangerous situations also made them a foe to be reckoned with. Clones were just like any other human being, and had the same flaws that anyone else did.  A fight between a group of people could result with deaths on both sides, and the survivors would then pick up the pieces. But if a clone was thrown into the mix, then the survivors of said battle had to be careful, as revenge is a seemingly inevitable human-like trait. People who could die with almost no consequences tended to not take things as seriously as for those where death was the truly end.

For all the respect that clones had gained, they had also gained the animosity of others. This was something that clones such as Kiako had learned to take in stride, because railing against things that couldn’t be changed had throughout history proved to be a fruitless endeavor.

This was also one of many reasons why clones were known to drink. Heavily.


***  ***  ***


Kiako Lalene rested his elbows on the scratched countertop of Beauville’s Tavern, staring at the rows upon rows of alcoholic beverages that lined the shelves behind the bartender.

The bartender, seeing another customer, approached the staring man. “Anything in particular ya int’rested in, glitterneck?”

Kiako ignored the slur against him, and pointed a gloved hand at a green bottle sitting on one of the upper shelves. The bartender looked up, raising the tip of his stetson a bit so that it didn’t obstruct his sight. He gave a brief glance toward the bottle that had been chosen before looking back at the clone.

“Grain alcohol, aged two months in a plywood barrel. Expensive stuff. Got the chips for it?”

Several blue poker-chips clattered on the top of the countertop in response.

“Fair enough,” the bartender said, swiping the currency off the counter-surface and into a pocket. “I’ll get you a glass, or three.”

The clone nodded in response, thrumming his fingers happily against the countertop as he waited for his drinks. He took a moment to look around the tavern.

Sitting on either side of him were other patrons of the establishment, all of them wearing various forms of armor and weaponry that ranged from trenchcoats and shotguns to laminate armor and assault rifles. The more heavily armed ones had a more likely chance of being a clone, Kiako mused.

Behind him were several crowded pool tables, throngs of people excitedly cheering or booing the players every time the sound of billiard balls violently clacking against each other could be heard. The whole building was like that, with crowds of friends and family drinking and playing together that created a backdrop of overlapping conversations that made it difficult for one to eavesdrop on any specific one.

The sound of glass clinking against wood drew his attention back toward the bar, where two glasses of colorless liquid sat on the counter. Wrapping a hand around the first glass, he lifted it up towards the bartender - who was currently serving someone else - in a salute before downing it. He shook his head slightly as the harsh alcohol burned its way down his throat before settling in his stomach, and he immediately regretted not having something to eat earlier. Shaking his head for a moment, he set down the empty shot down before reaching for the second one.

Hunching his body forward over the counter, eyes closed, he brought the glass up to his lips and let the noxious fumes of the uncut alcohol burn their way into his noise. With a final wrinkle of his nose, he downed the harsh liquid.

And then he no longer felt the stool beneath him.


***  ***  ***


Ten Years After the Day of Sunshine and Rainbows

Outskirts of Haybale, Equestrian Wasteland

Even two hundred years after the violent conclusion of the Great War, life had managed to find a way of making do with what was left of the aftermath.

While it was true that the few cities actually hit by the megaspells and balefire bombs were heavily damaged if not outright destroyed, the actual destruction of the resulting magical energies being unleashed upon their targets was constrained in a certain radii, depending on the make of the weapon. That being said, until recently many areas of the Equestrian Wasteland were contaminated with the fallout from magically irradiated debris that had drifted back down from the atmosphere to settle upon large swathes of territory, creating areas that only the highly prepared or foolish would even dare enter.

Magical radiation wasn’t the only “natural” hazard that had blighted the landscape though; there was also the magical mutagen that had lovingly been dubbed “Taint” by the inhabitants of the Equestrian Wasteland. Combined with the mutagenic qualities of Taint, and the deadly magical radiation that blanketed the lands, there was no shortage of both sapient and non-sapient creatures that had been transformed into slavering monstrosities over the generations.

With the Day of Sunshine and Rainbows, such afflicted areas had been purged of their corrupting contaminants, making them almost as livable as they had been over two-centuries previous. Now, with the Equestrian Wasteland cleansed of magical radiation and Taint, new areas had been opened up that had previously been unreachable. Buildings that had once been too dangerous to enter had quickly been scavenged for everything of potential value, as Pre-War goods and supplies were still in heavy demand.

The scavengers that hoofed through the wreckage of the past were only too happy to supply the demand.


***  ***  ***


The mid-afternoon sun was doing its best to dissipate the unusual chill that had hung in the air since morning, its rays casting long, shadowy silhouettes of objects along the ground. A decade ago, the mere sight of the unfiltered sunlight would have been a moment of startling beauty to those who had lived on the surface all their lives. After having the sun no longer obscured by a pervasive cloud cover though, the sight had become commonplace and was no longer a rare treat. Just one of many changes that the Day of Sunshine and Rainbows had brought.

A lone earth-pony mare searched along the edge of a quarry, her body casting long, flickering shadows against the rusted iron fence that lined the lip of the long-abandoned dig site. Seeing nothing of interest, she moved on, trotting softly over to a small building that was elevated on a quartet of stilts that would have allowed one to oversee the area.

Thick leather padding covered the mare, starting at the base of her neck and trailing down to protect her chest, continuing from there to wrap around and envelop the trunk of her body, leaving only the beige coat of her hindquarters, head, and legs exposed. The only additional protection she wore were the leather bracers that ran from hock to fetlock on her hind legs.

The mare stopped at the edge of the ramp that lead up to the elevated single room building, her large, expressive pink eyes inspecting the weathered wood for any indication that it might not take her weight. The ramp looked to have once been solidly built, with large wooden supports hugging the sides of the inclined surface, keeping it above the rocky ground. Wooden slats ran along the center of the ramp, presumably once to provide traction in wet weather.

Letting out a small huff, she took several tentative steps up the ramp, the sound of her metal ponyshoes softly clunking against the wooden surface of the ramp raising a sense of unease within herself. She dipped her head, keeping her eyes on where she placed her hooves, the sudden and uncomfortable awareness that the ramp didn’t come equipped with railings being at the forefront of her mind. When the end of the ramp was in reach she quickly skittered up to the top as fast as she could, a light keening noise escaping from her mouth as she did so.

“Hate heights,” she muttered, shivering slightly as a chill that had nothing to do with temperature ran down her spine. “Brrr.”

Having ascended the ramp, she found herself at the entrance of the building. A dusty placard was nailed into the wall beside the door, and with a few wipes of her hoof she was able to read what it said. Apparently this had once been an office for whatever foremare had been in charge of the quarry during its operation. A quick glance from her elevated position and down into the quarry gave her a good view of numerous bits of machinery sitting around piles of rocky debris, the signs of disuse clearly evident by the layers of rust that had accumulated over the years.

Shaking off the chill that ran down her spine, she averted her eyes away from the quarry below her, doing her best to discourage the morbid thoughts of falling to a painful death. Turning to face the door, she tried the tarnished brass door lever with a hoof only to find that it wouldn’t budge. Muzzle wrinkling in irritation, she spun around so that she was facing away from the door and was looking down the length of the ramp instead. Instinctively lowering her center of gravity, she lowered her head closer to the wooden floor before quickly raising her hindquarters up in the air, the hooves of her hind legs slamming into the door with a terrific crack!

Letting her hooves fall back to the floor, she turned to inspect the damage she’d caused. She felt her mouth work itself into a cocky smile as she saw what she had wrought upon the door, which was currently dangling crookedly from its hinges but was no longer an obstacle blocking her path.

With a muted woop of victory, she dashed through the doorway to pillage whatever lay inside, quickly finding that perhaps she had been a little too enthusiastic about what she was expecting to find. Instead of the rows upon rows of gun lockers layered in jewels that the naive part of her fervently wished for, she found herself in a dusty little office that had only a desk and a few filing cabinets, the only layer of anything being a thick coat of dust that sat on every surface.

Her first few steps into the room kicked up a great amount of dust into the air, the silence of the room quickly broken by the sound of a series of whinnying sneezes that sent the mare’s body into a fit of violent spasms.

“I hate dust”, she muttered nasally after having recovered from the sneezing bout, her head drooping miserably as she walked toward the desk at the corner of the room.

A set of blinds covered the only window in the room, the staggered rays of light only serving to remind the mare of the allergens that drifted lazily above and around her. The scavenger began to pull open the various drawers that lined the sides of the desk, her muzzle scrunched up as she tried not to inhale any of the dust that she was displacing and sending into the air. She took a moment to shake her head in an effort to displace the dust that had settled on her shortly cut and auburn colored mane. As the dust was shaken free from her mane, she could feel it settling onto the fur of her muzzle. A tingling sensation in her nostrils warned her that another sneeze was due and, not wanting to blow more of that damnable dust in the air, she quickly brought up a foreleg to bury her nose into the coat over her knee before letting out a muted sneeze.

“Bleh.” She could feel the moistness of mucus on her knee, and in disgust she wiped the slime against the edge of the desk where it belonged.

Looking back at the drawers she started at the top drawer of the left side of the desk, rummaging around through the pencils and other office supplies that were within. Finding nothing useful, she hooked her hoof onto the drawer handle and proceeded to completely remove it from the desk, sending it to the floor in a clatter of pencils, pens, and notepads. The next few drawers were filled with more of the same: office supplies that were useful, but common enough that they wouldn’t bring in too much of a profit, considering the space that they would take up in the saddlebags hanging over her sides.

With several empty drawers and office debris scattered around her, she was faced with the one final drawer that had yet to be opened. Based on her experiences with the others, she wasn’t really expecting much when she drew the last drawer open. Her lip quirked as she stared at a dusty package laying at the bottom of the drawer, the small box’s brown parcel paper being as mottled with age to the same degree as all of the other pieces of paper she had found in the drawers.

Glancing around the room first, she hesitantly placed a hoof on the box before giving it a little shake. Her ears perked up as she heard the sound of a number of metal objects rattling noisily against each other, the sound akin to a bag full of bottle caps. Smiling at the mental image, she lifted the box clumsily from the drawer and set it on top of the desk before gripping a fold of paper between her teeth. Soon she was busy tearing away at the package, her front hooves set along the sides of the rectangular package to prevent it from sliding away as she sought to discover what lay inside.

With a final nip and tear, she tore off the last piece of paper, revealing a cardboard box that was missing its top. Paper fluttering down toward the floor as she spat it out, she set her front hooves on the edge of the table, bracing herself as she looked down into the box.

Numerous little rectangular tins sat at the bottom of the box, the paint of their orange and green lids starting to peel away in places. The writing on them was still plain to see though, to anypony who knew how to read:



Mint-als: Refresh your mind and your breath!



On top of the pile of tins was the folded shape of yellow paper. Curiosity piqued, she dipped her head into the box to retrieve the paper, setting it down onto the desk so that she could unfold it. After running a hoof across the paper to smooth out the creases, she saw that it was a note. She stared at it for a moment, her eyes narrowing as she read the messy writing:



Dear Pummice,

Here’s your weekly allowance of goodies for you to distribute amongst the staff. Make sure that you only give it to those who’re on our payroll. We don’t want another incident like last month now do we?

P.S. We changed the containers so that if anypony catches wind of what’s going on they’ll just think that these are the normal kind of Mint-als, not the usual PTMs we give out.



She felt a bad taste enter her mouth as she finished reading the unsigned note. Lips working themselves into a deep frown, she stared down at the pile of intentionally mislabelled containers. It left her saddened knowing that even before the Last Day, some ponies were thinking only of themselves.

Disheartened though she may have been, she knew that caps were the name of the game, and despite her misgivings about chems and the side-effects they had on ponies she knew deep down that if there was significant profit to be made, she would become a supplier.

Making her decision, she dropped back down onto all fours, just narrowly avoiding slamming her chin down against the edge of the desk. Moving a hoof over to one of the saddlebags hanging over her back, she worked at the clasp on her saddlebag before peeling away the leather flap and securing it to a piece of velcro that lined part of her barding. With the saddlebag open she moved her body against the edge of the desk and knocked the cardboard box onto its side, spilling its contents in a clatter of metal. With another sweep of her hoof, the metal tins were inside the awaiting saddlebag.

“Got that done, what else is there?” the mare asked once she had closed her saddlebag, the empty room giving no response.

Spotting the filing cabinets that she had overlooked earlier in favor of the desk she began opening the drawers, rifling through folders and papers with her hooftips noisily as the entire cabinet wobbled and groaned from the shaking the mare put it through.

Unlike the desk, the cabinets had nothing hidden away inside them, and instead only contained files of information that had long since become worthless, the papers themselves unusable even for drawing.

That being said, they made for great homemade confetti.


***  ***  ***


Mouth still tasting faintly of old paper, the scavenger mare relaxed amidst the carnage of the office. Dozens of torn-up sheets of paper lay scattered throughout the room, their multi-colored scraps creating a layer of autumnal colors that obscured most of the hardwood floor. A draft of air drifted in from where a filing cabinet had been kicked through the office’s only window, the breeze sending a flurry of multi-colored paper across the room and eliciting a giggle from the mare when a piece of paper occasionally brushed over the exposed portions of her coat.

Shaking off a piece of paper that had settled on the end of her muzzle, she stared across the devastation that she had wrought upon the confines of the office, a small smile touching the corners of her lips as she did so.

While she had enjoyed acting like a foal, she knew that such things didn’t last. She was an adult, and even if she sometimes let her inner filly run free she knew that such carefree feelings had to be reigned in. The Lightbringer may have saved the Wasteland, but she hadn’t made it safe. Letting out a low groan, she reluctantly got up onto all fours and shook her body of any remaining bits of paper that clung to her before moving through the door, leaving behind the mess for nature to deal with.

As she stepped out onto the wooden platform that the elevated office sat upon, she took a moment to take in air that wasn’t tainted with the scent of mildew and dust. Sitting down on her haunches, she looked down at the quarry that was spread out before her, admiring the patterns that layers of rock made on the quarry walls.

Getting back up onto her hooves, she tore her gaze away from the quarry and began to make her way down the ramp, the rattle of tin on tin accompanying her every step down the weathered incline. The silence of the area she was in gave the rattle of metal an almost hypnotic quality about it, so hypnotic in fact that it took her a few moments to realize that the relative tranquility of the dig site had been broken by the sound of sudden screaming.

Body tensing up at the sound, she snapped her head towards the source of the sound, her ears pricking forward. A chill ran down her spine as she stared wide-eyed at the sight of some sort of flailing thing plummet toward a mound of gravel. Her heart skipped a beat, and she gasped in shock as the incomprehensible jumble of long limbs crashed onto the top of the mound, its screams cut short in a ragged gasp. Before her mind could struggle to formulate just what she had witnessed, the creature began moving once more, its limp body sliding down in a cascade of flowing gravel.

Giving herself a violent shake, she got out of the stupor she had found herself in and quickly galloped for all that she was worth toward a nearby slope that led into the quarry, knowing that whatever that thing was, it needed her help.


***  ***  ***


The world was tumbling before Kiako Lalene’s eyes, both the sky and the ground seeming to revolve around him as his body failed to correct the spin it found itself in. Heart pounding frantically in his chest and his body stricken with terror, he let out out a piercing, wailing scream of fear as his view of the ground got closer each time he saw it.

His scream suddenly cut off in a wheezing gasp as the air was expelled from his lungs, his body coming to an abrupt halt as he slammed into something. The man was fortunate that his body had been spread-eagled when he made contact, the force of the impact spreading across his whole body rather than a specific area. Dazed and confused, his senses muddled and unreliable, he was unable to stop himself from sliding down the incline of whatever he had landed on, the only thing preventing him from tumbling down in an uncontrollable roll being that his backpack was in the way. The shifting debris beneath his body quickly delivered him to a flat surface, and he continued to slide for several meters before coming to a complete halt.

With a detached sort of awareness for his own well being, he had just enough time to watch as a cascade of displaced gravel flowed down toward him, quickly blocking the light of the sun as he was buried, trapped.


***  ***  ***


The lone mare’s hooves pounded into dirt, a cloud of dust forming behind her as she galloped down the path that hugged the wall of the quarry. Her saddlebags rattled with every pounding hoof-fall, her knotted auburn tail rising and falling whenever her hooves did.

The view of the quarry was different when one was actually within it and not looking at it from above, as it is much easier to solve a maze when one is looking at all of it, rather than being in it. While the quarry could never be referred to as a maze by any stretch of the imagination, the mounds of gravel, machines, and equipment certainly did provide plenty of obstacles.

Good place to play hide-and-go-peek, the mare thought distractedly, bringing up her forelegs as she leaped over a rusty wheelbarrow.

It wasn’t too difficult to find the right gravel mound; the one that the creature had crashed into was smack-dab right in the middle of the quarry, and all she had to do was occasionally glance up at the foremare’s office to get her bearings. In a short amount of time she made her way over to the mound that she had been looking for, her metal shod hooves creating shallow furrows in the dirt as she skidded to a halt in front of the spot where she assumed the creature had been buried.

Shoving her hooves into the loose material she began to dig, sending a steady stream of gravel through the space of her hind legs, the gradually accumulating pebbles forming a little mound of their own behind her. Her hooves soon came in contact with something less yielding than loose rock, and soon she was on top of the pile, scooping away at the top layer to free whatever had been buried beneath.

If she were any other type of pony, like a pegasus or a unicorn, she may have found herself breathing hard from all the frantic effort. Earth-pony constitution being what it was, she found herself breathing only a little bit harder. Covered from head to dock in a light dusting of grit and dirt, she stood at the edge of the hole she had dug.

Curled up in a ball with its forelegs wrapped protectively around its rear legs, the creature was a definite oddity for sure. Forcing her front hooves underneath the creature’s shoulders, she began to awkwardly half-hop and half-drag the creature out from the shallow pit that it was at the bottom of, the large saddlebag that it wore making the whole thing more difficult as it dragged against the lip of the pit.

With a grunt of exertion, she dug her hind hooves into the gravel and wrenched the balled up creature from out of the pit, causing her to stumble backwards and land painfully on her side, the sound of crunching that didn’t come from landing on gravel making her wince.

“I really hope that wasn’t anything important,” she muttered, turning her head to look at the saddlebag that she had landed on.

Not being able to tell what - if anything - had broken, she turned her gaze toward the creature lying the dirt before her, its body no longer curled up in a ball but now awkwardly splayed out on its side.

She turned her gaze back to the creature, she saw that it still hadn’t moved. She stared at its armored chest, her breath hitching in her throat as she saw that the rise and fall of its chest was absent.

It wasn’t breathing.

Gasping at the realization she dashed over to the creature, skidding to a halt before laying down on the ground beside it. Staring down at the creature, she found that the only part of its body left uncovered was its head and upper neck, which was devoid any fur or hair save for the flat-top mane cut that it sported atop its head, and a pair of eyebrows above its currently closed eyes. The flesh on its disturbingly flat face was unusually pallid, almost sickly looking even. She flinched when she saw that the creature’s pale lips were tinged with blue, and she knew immediately that she had to stop gawking at the alien or whatever it was. Bringing an ear close to the creature’s mouth, she listened.

She waited a long moment, the silence of the quarry around her making her feel slightly uneasy. The light, fine hairs that lined the inside of her ear felt the tickle of air blowing against them, resulting in her ear twitching in reaction. A quick smile lit up her muzzle, a bit of pressure lifted off of her withers. The smile was short lived, as even though the creature was still breathing something was still wrong.

Gulping nervously for a moment, she moved her head away from the creature’s face, taking one of her hooves and craning its head to the side to further reveal the pale flesh of its neck. Gently pushing her muzzle to it, she ignored the scent of stale sweat and the earthy smell of dirt, instead focused on feeling for a pulse through her nose. She kept her muzzle firmly pressed against the spot on its neck, waiting several seconds before moving on to another spot, repeating the process until she finally found the creature’s pulse.

Weak, but steady.

A deep sigh of relief escaped from her muzzle, and she let her body sag against the creature’s chest, thankful that she wouldn’t have to try anything that would be out of her limited medical expertise. Laying there in the middle of the quarry, on top of a creature she had never seen before, she wondered what other surprises the rapidly fading day would have in store for her.

Lifting her head from the creature’s armored shoulder, she craned her head to look at its face, examining the large, fleshy nose that sprouted from the middle of its face. She noted with interest that its nostrils were simply two little holes at the bottom of its nose and above its upper lip. As she continued examining its face, she noticed that the bridge of its nose continued upward until it stopped, flanked by two small and very pale blue eyes that seemed to take on an almost grey color in the fading sunlight.

Staring into its eyes, she felt as though she were forgetting something. As the bushy little eyebrows on the bony ridges above its eyes lowered into a glare, she realized that that “something” was that the creature was awake, and seemed none too pleased that she was on top of it.

“Uh-um hey,” she grinned sheepishly. “Name’s Finders Keepers, what’s you- URGK!”


***  ***  ***


Kiako Lalene shoved the animal off of him after he delivered a quick chop to its throat to deter whatever designs it had for him.  Lifting his head up off of the ground, he groaned as he felt the world’s worst headache apparently giving him a personal call. Along with the headache, he felt lightheaded and his vision was a bit dim. Was it him, or was it later in the day than he remembered?

Rolling onto his hands and knees was a bit of a chore for him in his current state, the unwelcome weight of his backpack shifting against him as he struggled to not fall right back onto the gravelly ground beneath him. Softly shaking his head in a futile effort to clear the floating motes of light from his vision, he slowly staggered up onto his feet, the sound of gravel crunching under his boots accompanying the sound of the hacking animal from earlier. Legs shaking slightly underneath him, he turned lazily in a circle as he examined his surroundings.

“Quarry... probably,” he muttered beneath his breath, looking at the piles of loose material and abandoned machinery around him, surrounded by rocky, granite walls. Running an armored glove through his dark brown hair, he closed his eyes and let out a low, soft moan of pain as he finally felt a throbbing pain slowly building up on his chest and thighs. He took a few steps forward before he couldn’t deal with the pressure of his breastplate on his chest.

Reaching up to the side of his ribs, he started to loosen up one of the leather straps that ran across his chest, letting out a low sigh as the breastplate was no longer tightened against him. His relief was short lived however, and by the time he finally noticed that the sounds of hacking and coughing conspicuously absent from the area he was face first in the dirt, slamming into the ground for the second time that day, the air in his lungs whooshing out of his mouth in a harsh wheeze as the weight of his backpack dropped down on him.

A flash of movement from the corner of his vision gave him just enough time to rear his head back, narrowly avoiding a metal-clad hoof crashing down into the dirt mere inches from his face. Now feeling a real sense of danger, his body’s fight-or-flight response kicked in, all other thoughts besides the preservation of his body temporarily insignificant. Unable to roll away from his animal aggressor due to his large backpack, fight was the only option he had.

His arm shot out to grab the offending limb the hoof belonged to and violently yanked downward, bringing the animal crashing down on top of him, resulting in a resounding thonk as two skulls collided together. With the animal suddenly on the ground with him he brought his knees to his chest and lashed out with his boots, not only eliciting another sound of pain from his bestial opponent but also giving him enough space to avoid those dangerous, flailing limbs.

Getting up off of the ground and rolling onto his knees, he slapped a hand against his thigh and whipped out a snub-nosed revolver from its holster, immediately squeezing the trigger.


***  ***  ***


Head pounding and her mouth tasting like dust, Finders Keepers took advantage of the creature’s retreat to get back onto all fours. While her steel ponyshoes were great for squashing radroaches and cracking peanuts open - though probably not in that order - there were times when some problems required a less personal touch.

Hanging off the barding covering her shoulder was the home of just such a problem-solver.

With a quick dip of her head she retrieved the jaw-gun from its holster, the pressure of her jaw bearing down on the wooden mouthpiece, disengaging the weapon’s safety and preparing it to fire. Looking forward, she saw that her opponent had a similar idea. Wasting no time, she tongued the trigger... and was met with the terrifying sound of metal striking on metal, the exact opposite of what she wanted to hear.

The sound of her gun landing in the gravelly dirt drifted up to her ears as she stared forward in wide-eyed shock, the cold feeling of fear welling up inside of her breast all the while. All around her, the world seemed to grow silent, as if waiting in bated breath for her end. The dread fear that had overtaken her was absolute, and deep down inside, she knew it was the end. In the back of her mind, as she watched the two-legged creature aim its gun at her, she could almost hear the sound of a clock winding down somewhere, as though the mechanical ticks and tocks of the gears of life had finally run their course.

I just wish that ticking would stop, wherever it’s coming from, she thought morosely, before doing a mental double-take. Those are clicks, not ticks.

As that thought dawned on her, her eyes unconsciously drifted towards the creature’s weapon; a snub-nosed revolver with a black finish, clasped between two spindly paws. The only movement other than the subtle shaking of the creature’s paws was one of its toes periodically squeezing the revolver’s trigger, the sound of the percussion hammer on the back of the weapon striking down with a resounding click with each depression of the trigger.

Her eyes slowly drifted away from the somehow faulty revolver and back toward the creature’s face, where their eyes locked in mutual bewilderment and fear. She felt a bit lightheaded, and realized that she had been holding her breath the whole time. Reluctantly, she finally exhaled,  fearing as though that even such a minor action as breathing might ruin her unexpected stroke of good fortune of not being brutally murdered by an equicidal creature.

As the sound of metal striking metal continued, her terror gradually began to be replaced by something different, a feeling of something infinitely warmer than the cold fear that she had experienced: indignation. How could this creature - this thing - pull a gun on her! Her, who had rescued it from the death it would have surely soon gotten if she hadn’t come by when she did! As her body began to tremble in not only indignation, but outrage, she felt her hooves move as though on their own, her body advanced on the slowly backpedaling two-legged creature. As the creature’s backpedaling increased in pace, so too did her own hooves.

She wasn’t about to die with her tail between her legs, not today! She was going to give that thing a piece of her mind!


***  ***  ***


Kiako Lalene’s anger at his somehow malfunctioning weapon had been replaced by a steadily increasing nervousness at the slowly advancing animal. Tearing his gaze away from the horse-like animal before him, he worked the cylinder release latch on the grip of his weapon, backpedaling all the while.

The man felt his heart sink at the sight of what exactly he had put into the cylinder. While it was true that the weapon had indeed been loaded, the rounds that had been loaded were themselves incomplete; all rounds were missing a primer cap for the revolver’s hammer to strike, making the projectiles completely useless.

Kiako’s lips twisted into a grimace of disgust not only at his current predicament, but also at himself for such a careless mistake. The weapon was useless as it was, and he didn’t have any additional rounds that were easily accessible.

Dropping the weapon to the ground he stopped backpedaling, positioning himself in a fighting stance of no particular kind, spreading his feet in the dirt and balancing on the balls of his feet as he withdrew a knife from his belt, ready to defend himself from his attacker. Which, oddly enough, was dressed far more than most animals he had encountered.

Indeed, the animal before him was dressed much more practically than many actual people. The sight before him gave him pause, and he couldn’t help but be impressed with the practicality of clothing that was worn by what was obviously an animal. His curiosity soon began to rise above his previous nervousness, and he found himself examining the animal with a more detailed eye. From the equine’s neck down was what appeared to be leather padding that ran over its chest and around the main trunk of its body, leaving the rest of its beige furred body exposed, save for a few bits of leather on its hind legs.

A hoarse bark startled him from his examinations, and his attention was quickly brought to the animal’s head. When he had previously been fighting against the animal, he hadn’t the time to appreciate the creature’s short-cut auburn mane,  or its startling, forward-facing pink eyes. Now that he was actually staring at it, he could see that there was more that made this animal different from ponies or horses than mere pigmentation. The creature’s head seemed oddly disproportionate with the rest of its body, and instead of the longer and more angular muzzle that most equines tended to feature this one had a much shorter and slightly more rounded snout. Add in the fact that its eyes were positively huge and that it had a very expressive face, and it could be said that this was definitely a strange kind of animal.

It also appeared to be yelling at him in an oddly lyrical but still thoroughly incomprehensible jumble of sounds that may or may not have been a language. None that he would have understood, at any rate. Doing his level best to keep his shock from rising to the surface, he kept it in check behind a sullen expression that had faithfully served him throughout the years as a facade to hide his true feelings behind.  Crossing his arms across his chest, he stared down at the apparently indignant equine, noticing that its shoulders weren’t as broad as a normal horse, or even a pony.

The shock of seeing the creature before him had faded away rather quickly, as it was by no means the strangest thing he had seen or experienced. Discussing philosophy with uplifted gorillas and fighting an irradiated chupacabra were still on top of that list.

A poke to his knee-pad made it clear that the equinoid in front of him didn’t think he was paying attention enough.

“I don’t know what you are saying, nor do I know Español, so you’re out of luck,” he finally said, a touch of harshness in his voice.

The quadruped immediately drew back from him at the sound of his voice, its ears pinning back slightly as it stared at him in what appeared to be wide eyed surprise. Very expressive faces, he noted to himself, watching the equine-like creature before him quickly recover and send him a not-so withering glare.

“I take it you’re angry about me kicking your ass, then?” he asked conversationally, a dollop of false sweetness added in for good measure.


***  ***  ***


Finders Keepers didn’t like the way this creature spoke to her. It spoke with an air of indifference mixed with the smug superiority of those who thought they were better than others. That, along with the fact that she couldn’t understand a single word of its guttural gibberish only made it so that she was beginning to dislike this tall, two-legged creature more and more.

Although she and it were no longer wailing on each other, that didn’t mean that it wouldn’t happen again, and now that the creature was standing still she could more easily see what she may have to deal if - or when - that time came again.

Standing at about twice her height on a pair of long, slender legs, the creature made an imposing sight, especially so in the late-afternoon sun, where everything cast long shadows.

As she began to inspect it more closely, she saw that it was wearing some sort of armor that covered most of its body, with cables and wires snaking over portions of it. Its upper chest was covered by a breastplate made up of two large overlapping plates that were aligned side-by-side, with a series of small overlapping plates running from its upper chest down over its flat belly and to its waist.

The biped’s broad shoulders were topped with a pair of shoulder pads that connected partially to the creature’s breastplate. Its arms appeared to be armored as well, although not quite as much as the trunk of its body seemed to be: elbow pads, vambraces, and armored gloves that covered its paws.

Although not armored to the same extent as the trunk of its body, the creature's legs were far better protected than its arms, though not as much as its torso Hanging from its waist and between its legs was a piece of groin armor that served to protect whatever... genitals it had. On its thighs were large plates that seemed to be attached via leather straps, which also seemed to be connected to kneepads. Most of its lower leg seemed to be taken up by a pair of black, roughly L-shaped boots that seemed to sport a variety of straps, presumably to tighten them.

All in all, the creature’s penchant for the color blue was all too apparent by the dark blue tint that had been applied to many portions of its armor. In the areas where there wasn’t any armor was what Finders Keepers assumed to be a one-piece grey jumpsuit showing, predominantly in areas where freedom of movement was more important than protection.

Her ears registered a cough coming from above her before she herself did, and it took another cough to bring her out of her examination.

“Huh?” She looked up at the owner of the noise, which was currently making no efforts to hide its annoyance. At least she thought it was annoyance that it was showing. Who could tell with a flattish face like that?

“Hey,” she started, giving it a glare of her own, “It isn’t my fault that you chose to dress the way you are. Maybe next time you should think about what you wear before getting angry at ponies staring at you?”

If the bipedal creature understood anything of what she was saying, it made no sign of it, and instead chose to continue staring at her.

Sitting down on her haunches, she clumsily began to work her hooves on the leather straps that wound around her barrel. If she was going to be having a staring contest with some sort of foreigner, she’d be damned if she was going to suffer it while being weighed down.


***  ***  ***


As Kiako Lalene idly watched the animal fumbling with the straps secured to its underside, he quickly - and uncomfortably - became aware as to what gender it was. Averting his eyes from the sitting equine, he took the moment to better examine his surroundings.

He already knew that he was in a quarry of some sort, based on all the piles of rocks and the few still-recognizable hulks of metal that had once probably been digging equipment. Beyond that though, he wasn’t aware of where he was, and despite knowing of a few quarry locations in the Province, he was getting a little bit nervous.

As far as he was concerned, he had been minding his own business and taking a few shots before somehow slamming into a pile of gravel and getting smothered. There were many strange things that could happen to a person in the Province, but spontaneous transportation wasn’t really one of them, as far as he knew.

Perhaps I had more than a few shots, he mused to himself, although it occurred to him that if his drunken body had been tossed into a quarry, he would have most likely been stripped down first. Waste not, want not.

The sound of something falling to the ground brought his attention back to the present, and more specifically to the furry creature before him, who apparently had successfully shed the weight of its saddlebags. In truth, he found himself steadily growing more and more uncomfortable at the fact that this... equinoid, seemed to display many of the same emotions that he would normally attribute to something more sapient, like a human being, or gorilla.

That said, he couldn’t deny that the creature before him was of considerable intelligence, at least compared to the horses he had seen and ridden during his earlier years. Grudgingly, he began to slowly accept the fact that, perhaps, this creature was intelligent to the same degree as he was.

The fact that it had spoken to him earlier, albeit in a language he didn’t understand, precluded him from denying that it was sapient. Knowing what he did now, he was already starting to regret the first impression he had made on the creature that had saved his life: one to the neck.

Feeling the onset of the first twinges of guilt begin to set in, he brought a hand to one of the nylon straps that ran over his chest - its purpose being to prevent the backpack from easily being shrugged off - and unbuckled it, letting shoulder straps slide off his shoulders and down his arms so that it could be set down onto the ground. Like the equinoid, his belongings were now on the ground as well.

Turning his back on the equinoid, he got onto his knees and began to dig through the external framed backpack, looking for a way to perhaps gain a little trust with his unusual rescuer.

Really starting to wish I had bothered to keep one of those Rosetta Stone BDs, he mused to himself, the image of those dusty packages depicting a blue rock with two horizontal white streaks annoyingly at the forefront of his mind at the moment.

He shot a glance over his shoulder. “Don’t have any carrots, but how about an apple instead?”


***  ***  ***


Finders Keepers took a moment to arch her back as the biped turned away from her, the relief of getting free from the saddlebags and their constricting straps, even for a moment, being a welcome distraction.

Letting a soft sigh escape from her muzzle as she rolled her shoulders, she took notice of the creature’s exposed back. It seemed to have the same amount of armoring that the front of its body had, except instead of a series of overlapping plates there was a segmented, spinelike protrusion running down the center of its back down toward where its presumably missing tail would have been. Several pieces of what looked to be metal framework originated from its segmented spine, wrapping around the creature’s ribs and apparently connecting to the front of its armor.

Unlike the front, the back of the creature’s head was entirely covered in the short brown hair that made up its mane. The back of the creature’s strangely shaped and immobile ears could be seen peeking out from the sides of its head, the pale cartilage forming a structure that she hadn’t seen among any other of the Wasteland’s inhabitants.

Finders Keepers nearly jerked back as the kneeling biped partially turned to face her, showing off only one half of its face as it seemed to ask her a question in its guttural way of speaking. Unlike before however, its tone seemed softer and had lost the smugness that had been permeated it.

“Um.” She still had no idea what it was saying, and decided to go with the most-used answer for when somepony wanted to keep the peace. “Sure?”

The creature stared at her for a moment longer before turning back around to rummage in its saddlebag, leaving her to wonder what she had just agreed to. She didn’t long to wait, as the creature pivoted on its knees to face her, a yellow-skinned apple sitting in one of its paws.

Setting its other paw on the fruit, it pinched the stem between a pair of digits and removed it before jamming the shorter digit of one paw into the location the stem had previously been. It continued to mess with the apple a bit more, gripping it in boths paws, until the entire fruit split with a loud crack that sent her ears perking up in startlement.

Finders Keepers let out an impressed whistle as she saw that in each of the creature’s paws was half an apple, perfectly split down the middle. The mild, wet smell that apples of all kinds shared with one another became more apparent as the biped offered her a half. She raised a hoof up toward the creature, the bottom of it facing the sky as she let the creature place the apple half onto it. Bringing it up to her face she took a moment to examine it, more out of suspicion than of any curiosity: an apple was an apple, wherever anypony went.

The sound of a wet crunch temporarily took her attention off of the apple-half in front of her muzzle, and her eyes glanced over to see that the biped had already started in on its half, its attention focused more on the fruit than her.

What the hell, she thought. Who ever heard of a poisoned apple, anyway?

With that thought out of the way, she dug in.


***  ***  ***


Several apples later and a mutual understanding that both appreciated the labors of orchard growers everywhere, Finders Keepers felt that she and the biped had come to view each other more favorably than when they had first met.

Running a tongue over her lips to remove some of the stickiness that had built up from eating multiple apples in one sitting, she began to reacquaint her saddlebags with her back, grumbling softly under her breath as she worked to get the straps secured underneath her body. Sometimes she felt that she had gotten the short end of the stick in life, rather than the carrot. Being born to pair of unicorns, it was difficult to not be envious of their abilities when it came to doing things that should’ve been simple.

Fortunately for her, even if she was missing the one thing they both had in common, they still loved her for who she was, something she was infinitely grateful for. So many fillies and colts had grown up without knowing who their real parents were, and she was glad to have gotten an opportunity that so many hadn’t.

With a final snap of plastic she got her saddlebags squared away, her attention brought back to the present. Turning around to the sitting biped, she waved a hoof.

“Thanks for sharing the apples,” she said. “I know you probably can’t understand me, and I know we started out a bit rough, but I’d just like to say that this has been interesting.” She shot up a quick glance at the darkening sky.

“Its getting to be that time again, and I shouldn’t be out after dark. Neither should you.” With that, she began to walk away, scooping up her discarded pistol as she headed toward the quarry exit.

That was interesting, she mused to herself as she steered herself around a large mass of machinery. In truth, she sort of wished that she could linger a bit longer with the strange being, but the fact that she couldn’t understand a thing it said made sticking around with it more trouble than it worth.

Still, at least she had done her good deed for the day. She didn’t even have to shoot anypony in the process! Her muzzle formed into a soft smile at the thought at the minimal amount of violence that had occurred during the day, as opposed to the usual avoidance of traps and snipers. With the soft beat of her hooves against the dirt to keep her company, she continued forward.

A short, piercing whistle brought her to a halt, her ears perking up at the noise. Looking behind her for the source of the noise she saw the tall form of the biped fast approaching, the straps of its saddlebag hitched over its shoulders once again.

She waited for it to catch up, her lips curling into a frown as she noticed that the creature’s thigh holster was no longer empty. Admittedly, she realized that the entire fight that had happened earlier had probably been a mistake, but the fact of the matter was that seeing the weapon that could have ended her life once more in hoof’s reach was upsetting. Nervously tearing her gaze away from the sidearm, her large eyes met with the two-legged creature’s much smaller eyes.

“Sorry pal, but I don’t understand a word you’re saying. That may make things a tad hard, if you know what I mean,” she said bluntly.

The bipedal being probably didn’t understand a word of what she said, but it seemed to have figured out what she was meaning. It made a motion of looking around the quarry, and then scratching its head before giving a dramatic shrug.

“No idea where you are, huh?” She began to feel a sense of dread beginning to build up inside of her at what she was about to say. “Well... I guess you can tag along, at least until you find your bearings.”

The creature’s brow furrowed as she said that, as though trying to figure out what she had meant. She had hoped by its seeming understanding of what she had said earlier that this would have been easier, but instead the opposite appeared to be true instead. Lifting a hoof to her head to soothe the headache that was beginning to set in, she let out an annoyed sigh, her knotted auburn tail swishing back and forth behind her in agitation. She was going to have to be really direct when it came to communicating with this thing, wasn’t she?

Removing the hoof from her head, she lifted it up and made a beckoning motion for the being to follow her. It seemed to have understood that, something for which she was eternally thankful for. With a single, jerking nod it sidled up beside her, making it suddenly more apparent at the size difference between the two of them; she only came up to its waist.

Lifting its arm forward in a ‘lead on’ gesture toward the dirt slope that made up the quarry exit, it waited for her to move ahead so that it could follow.

Raising her eyes toward clouds stained pink by the sunset, Finders Keepers let out a silent prayer for whoever would listen to her to make things easier from there on out. Dropping her gaze back down to earth she began trotting ahead, gesturing for the biped to follow.

Just what have I gotten myself into...
> Chapter 2: Bringing the House Down
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

With a low groan, Kiako opened up his pale blue eyes, brought a naked hand to his face and rubbed out the grit that had accumulated at the corners of his eyes during the night. His side ached from where he had lain on his side, the dusty tiles of the floor no substitute for soft bedding. Body still stiff from the night, he peeled the thin wool blanket off of himself, letting it fall in a crumpled heap beside him.

The man got onto his hands and knees after rolling onto his stomach, slowly getting up off of the floor with as much care as he could. As he stood up, he could feel the uncomfortable dampness of sweat around his neckline, the cloth of his jumpsuit adhering to his skin. With a muted groan he wiggled a finger to peel away the thick mesoprene fabric that, while very helpful for protection, was not the best when it came to leisure wear.

Minor discomfort out of the way, at least for the moment, he began to work out the kinks that had built up in his muscles. The soft rattle of armor could be heard as he twisted and stretched, the result of him loosening the straps of the various bits and pieces of armor that covered his body.

A few minutes later, after a thorough morning stretch, he felt that this was as good as he was going to get. After switching out his socks for a fresher pair from his backpack, he began to tighten his boots that he had left on while he had slept, in the not-improbable event that something were to go bump in the night. He worked his way up from the boots, tightening and buckling down whatever pieces of armor that needed adjustments.  As he tightened the last strap over his breastplate, he took a moment to actually look around the room.

The area he was in was one large, rectangular area that sported a long window that faced out into a street, the window only being interrupted by a pair of glass doors that allowed entrance from said street. Both the windows and the doors had long since lost their glass, and only a few jagged shards remained in their frames.

In front of him was a waist-high counter, its battered wooden surface marred with crude graffiti and illegible writing, the content of the former more often than not depicting scenes that he found to be wholly inappropriate. Good thing no kids were around, although in this day and age they had most likely seen worse, or even experienced it.

Other than the counter however, the room was very bare, and the only other bits of furniture that he could see had long been smashed into fragments onto the checkerboard tiled floor. The only other entryways in the room were a pair of doors on one side of the room, and were most likely restrooms.

Behind him was a wall that sported several doorways leading off to areas he couldn’t see from where he was standing, but he imagined that they led to employee areas, which were most likely as trashed as the rest of the place. Time, and people, had not been kind to this place, although the fact that the doors and the counter were smaller than they should have been was a strange matter indeed.

He looked over toward his strange companion, who was currently nestled in a corner on the opposite side of the room from him where the counter and wall connected, the soft rise and fall of its furry hide showing that it was still asleep. Truthfully, he was having a bit of difficulty accepting the creature as a she, due to the fact that while it may have been able to communicate, there was a language barrier that significantly hindered the transfer of ideas and feelings that occurred everyday between two people.

As the equine-like creature shuffled in its sleep, a splash of color made itself known and the man found his eyes drawn to the quadruped’s well-toned flank. With the detachment of a person studying a picture, Kiako found himself musing over the image that adorned the creature’s hide. Whether it was paint or some sort of dye he did not know, but the image was very clear in the gradually brightening morning light; sections of the equinoid’s coat had been colored to show a cluster of multi-colored polygons forming a small mound that was topped with a shovel or a spade.

With a shuddering and very feminine sounding yawn, the object of his attentions began to wake up, slowly stretching out its limbs in a dog-like fashion. Whatever the image on the equinoid’s flank meant, he would find out later. For now the man averted his prying eyes from his slowly awakening companion. Nobody liked being stared at while they were asleep, and sharing the same courtesy with his companion was only polite.


***  ***  ***


Letting out a shuddering yawn, Finders Keepers found herself glad that summer still had a few weeks to go before the seasons changed. With no blanket to get in the way she was free to bask in the morning light of the sun for as long as she wanted. Determined to make the most of the pleasant feeling against her coat, she lazily stretched her limbs in opposite directions, a dumb grin settling on her muzzle as she felt the stiffness in her legs give way to a series of soft pops and cracks that made her grin even wider.

“This is nice,” she whinnied softly to herself . “Free to wake up whenever I damn well please and with no old nags to wake yell at me to get up... mmmm.”

As she slowly began to open her eyes to the slightly mesmerizing sight of dust motes floating in rays of morning light, she felt something tugging at the back of her mind, as if there was something she had forgotten. Taking a few moment to rid her eyes of the morning bleariness that clouded them, she lazily slid her head along the dusty floor to get her bearings. The nagging sensation soon made itself clear: she wasn’t alone.

Sitting against a teller counter toward the opposite end of the large room was the semi-familiar figure belonging to the creature she had met the previous evening, its body still covered in the frankly uncomfortable-looking barding and armor. The creature in question was currently drinking from the rim of a metal can, the ribbed metal showing between the multi-jointed digits of its pale paws. Finders Keepers couldn’t help but shudder at the sight of the spindly digits, as they reminded her vaguely of the limbs on a spider. Spiders crawling through one’s mane was enough to put them off creepy-crawlies forever.

Letting out another shudder, she sought to take her mind off of the creature by looking around the place that they had both bedded down for the night at. Truth be told, she didn’t exactly know where she was, she had just picked the most intact looking building she could find in the waning light. Now that it was morning and she could see better, she saw that it looked like they were both inside one of the many banks that dotted the Equestrian Wasteland before it had become a wasteland.

Getting unsteadily up onto her hooves, she stretched her forelegs out before her, arching her back for a bit until she felt some of the tension draining away. She had used to think that morning stretches were only for old nags and those with joint problems. Ironically, it had taken a leg cramp while running from a swarm of radroaches to disabuse her of that foalish notion, and now she started off every morning with a good stretch before breakfast. Speaking of which... 

Ignoring the rumbling coming from her belly, she took a final moment to stretch her hind legs out behind her before running a hoof through her auburn mane to rid it of any dust that had collected in it, only then turning toward her saddlebags that sat in a clump against the counter. She bent her head down to the leather bags to work the metal clasp open with her teeth before nosing open the flap of the saddlebag that, in her mind, had been dubbed as “the feedbag” due to the fact that she always kept food and other consumables within it. Hoofing through her belongings, she eventually decided that strange days called for light breakfasts, which in this case consisted of a daisy sandwich wrapped in wax paper.

The tearing sound of paper wasn't heard long after.


***  ***  ***


Hunger abated for the moment, Finders Keepers set her hooves onto the teller counter, watching the still streets through the window, her ears pinned back in mild annoyance. Eyeing a small pile of bricks on the steps of a building across the street, she found herself mulling over some of the problems that had cropped up recently.

One of these problems was the most obvious one: the creature. While she would be the first to admit that she was no saint, she still felt uncomfortable leaving her strange new companion alone. Not only was it - she had trouble thinking of it as a he or him, even though she was confident as to what its gender was - strange looking, but it also didn’t seem to understand a single word she said. Ultimately she may not have been a saint but, when it came to keeping a watchful eye on the creature, there were certainly worse options out there.

Her second problem was of a more practical and immediate nature: she was essentially unarmed, as her main way of defending herself was, for whatever reason, unavailable. It was fortunate for her that, at the time when it mattered most, the biped's weapon also proved inoperable. Unfortunately, now that the brief moment of being at each other’s throats was over, neither of them appeared to have a working gun available.

She let her forehooves back down on the floor, a snort of mild annoyance coming from her nostrils as she knelt down to draw the jawgun from her barding’s holster, before setting it atop the counter for her inspection. The magazine fed, semi-automatic pistol had originally been a gift from her father back when she had first showed interest in exploring the world beyond her home.

That was over five years ago. Since then the weapon had become worn with use; small, thin scabs of rust had started to appear along the main body, and the wood of the mouth-grip showed where her teeth had created grooves from biting down into the surface. Still, up until now the weapon had been absolutely stellar when it came to doing what it was designed to, being able to hold nine .38 caliber rounds in the magazine plus an extra round in the chamber. It just had to be said: when Ironshod Firearms made guns, they made them to last.

“‘How do you like them apples?’” she muttered quietly, quoting the motto of the long defunct company that had produced so many of Equestria’s weapons, before the end came. Still, as rugged as her IF-14 was, something was undoubtedly wrong with it and not even nostalgia would stop her from replacing it if she had to.

Her ears perked up at the sound of boots walking away from her, and she turned her head to see that her companion was approaching the opposite corner of the room in relation to her before placing the tin can it had been eating out of onto the floor. What came next, after a few moments of fumbling with its barding, was the sight of pale stream of fluid flowing into the metal can.

“Ugh... males,” she muttered with a roll of her eyes. At least it had the decency to turn its back.


***  ***  ***


The sun had risen higher in the morning sky by the time the duo came through the steel door frames and out onto the street, the sound of glass cracking beneath hooves and boots sending the pair cringing as a soft echo was heard. From then on they were more careful where they stepped, taking a few extra moments to be sure that they wouldn’t attract undue attention to themselves. Several dilapidated passenger carriages sat on the cobblestone street that ran through the area, their steel bodies covered in thick scabs of rust that had weakened the surface enough for rays of light to shine through in certain spots.

Finders Keepers, now once more weighed down by her belongings, paid the rusted hulks of the past no mind as she began to trot down the street, the soft clip-clop of her hooves making her ears twitch with every step. The buildings opposite of the bank that she had just exited were a mixture of squat, two-story buildings that looked as though they may have been apartments.

Well, maybe once, she thought to herself as her eyes noticed the numerous shapes of loose brick and rotted, sagging rooves that capped the buildings. If she recalled correctly, the shit-hole town she was standing in the middle of had been called Haybale, due to its main export. Stopping for a moment to look around, she figured that not a lot of farming had been done here for a long while. Certainly no signs of long term habitation, save for the litter and trash that had collected in the streets and sidewalks, most likely the doings of scavengers like herself.

A small smile lit up her muzzle as she thought about the things that others had most likely overlooked. It never ceased to amaze her when she combed areas that had been looted and ransacked many times over, and yet still managed to find a few things that had been missed. Finders keepers, losers weepers, she mentally intoned, snorting in amusement at the fact that her birth name had something to do with her cutie-mark.

She glanced over her withers to see how her companion was doing, and saw it crouched in front of one of the rusty carriages, seemingly deep in examination. With a roll of her eyes she turned her body around and trotted back over.

“What’s so interesting about a broken carriage?” she asked, aware that what she said would probably not be understood anyway. The crouching biped ignored her a moment before turning over to her, its face a textbook example of solemness.

Its pale lips parted as it softly spoke a few words, all of it gibberish to her ears. It stared at her for a moment before repeating what it had said, this time in a slower, more patronizing tone that caused her ears to lay back flat in anger.

“Look here asshole!” she neighed, causing the biped to draw back slightly in surprise. “You don’t have to come with me if you’re gonna be prick, and if you’re gonna treat me like a foal then get a new babysitter because I’m really not in the mood to be talked down to by some... some... thing!” She emphasized the final word by poking the creature in the stomach, drawing another look of surprise.

The biped was quick to raise its arms in a placating gesture, the flat of its paws facing her as it made short series of guttural sounds to show its submission to her. She stared at it for a moment longer, ears still laid back in anger, before turning away from him.

If it still wants to follow me, than it better behave from now on, she thought, her jaw clenched as she trotted down the street.


***  ***  ***


Kiako Lalene blinked for a moment, the oddity of what had just happened still at the forefront of his mind. That equinoid had neighed at him, a very equine-like trait that he hadn’t seen before in the extremely short time he had known said creature. Even more upsetting was the fact that he had given in so easily! He had stared down far more intimidating things than this uppity, waist high carrot chomper! Chupacabras and creepers could easily make a meal out of something so tiny!

Teeth grinding in frustration at himself for giving in so easily, he set a hand against the rusty carriage that he had been examining -currently forgotten- to steady himself as he took a few deep breaths to calm himself. Breathe in... breathe out... breathe in... He continued the mantra, closing his eyes as his trembling of anger slowly receded from his body. After another minute of this, he finally felt himself stable enough to continue travelling without anger clouding his judgement. When he finally opened his eyes he saw that the pony had continued walking and had left him behind.

“Shit,” he murmured, taking his gloved hand off of the rusty carriage. Whatever it was that had bothered him, it was forgotten in the rush to catch up.


***  ***  ***


Finders Keepers’ ears twitched as they registered the sound of approaching footsteps behind her. She decided to let her “companion” catch up, her metal shod hooves stopping in place as she waited. While the biped may have had half as many legs as she did, its legs were longer.

“You gonna behave yourself?” she asked, craning her head up to look at the biped. Instead of replying like a polite pony would do, the tall creature instead made a simple gesture with its paw. “Move on” seemed to be what it was getting at. She let out a snort of annoyance at that. “Whatever. Let’s go loot that building over there.”

“That building over there” in question was an exact -although worn- copy of the buildings flanking it: a dirty,  two-story cube made up of brick and mortar with no adorning features. The few windows that she could see were small, barely large enough for a full-grown pony to fit through; in truth they were more like firing slits than true windows. The roof wasn’t much better either, with its rotten asphalt shingles, and the upper levels of the building were most likely a breeding ground for mold and other disgusting things.

Looking at the direction of her pointing hoof, her companion seemed to agree with her sentiment, its guttural mutterings taking on a contemptuous tone that were thankfully not directed at her. Without a word she began trotting up to the building entryway, the pitch of her hoof-falls changing subtly as the ground changed from cobblestone to cracked cement sidewalk. She entered the building easily, the door not being a problem at all due to its conspicuous absence. Despite the lack of windows, the morning sun at her back was low enough in the sky to shine enough light through the open doorway and into the entry hall, although the shadowy silhouette her body cast was a bit creepy.

The hallway, like everything else it seemed, was not doing so well when it came to home decoration, what with all the trash and graffiti that littered the area. On the right side of the hallway there was a staircase that lead up to the second floor, the long railing of the bannister leaning precariously over the floor. The left side of the hall continued deeper into the building, numbered doors set into the walls at certain intervals.

Another shadow sidled up alongside her own, announcing the presence of her tall, two-legged companion. Gesturing with a hoof towards the nearest doorway, she indicated that she was going to head inside. Before she had taken two steps the biped had already passed her, the snub-nosed revolver it held in its paw pointed safely toward the ceiling as it glanced through the doorframe. After a moment it turned to face her, dipping its head in a nod.

“Show off,” she groused, trotting over to the doorway. “So what if you fixed your gun or whatever?” She wasn’t sure if the biped had actually fixed whatever was wrong with its weapon, but she didn’t see why it would bother, especially since her own pistol was still broken.

Stepping from out of the hallway and into the apartment, the first thing Finders Keepers noticed was the unmistakable tickling sensation within her nostrils. Looking about the room, she could see why: dust was everywhere! From the cheap hardwood flooring to the mildew-covered upholstery, dust had forged an empire that had ruthlessly smothered any available surface. The era of Equestria had long since ended, and from its debris a new one would arise.

With a loud and sudden sneeze, all of her melodramatic thoughts left her mind, along with some mucus that sprayed across the room. Sniffling noisily as she wiped her muzzle with the back of her hoof, she blinked several times to clear her vision. With the self-caused panic gone from her mind, she realized that the room wasn’t as dusty as she had first thought in her irrational panic.

While the room had certainly deteriorated over the many years it had probably been much nicer than in the crowded space that she had grown up in, although the fact that this room had only one tiny window to let light in was a big detractor. Still, the room had basic furnishings such as several bookcases that lined the wall beneath the window, though their shelves were beginning to sag beneath heavily damaged books. Besides the bookcases, the room had a pair of flower-patterned couches facing each other from across a relatively intact coffee table. In the left-hoof corner of the room was a sturdy looking worktable, its wooden frame supporting the bulky, box-like shape of a defunct terminal, its monitor a spider-web of cracks.

As for the rest of the room, everything else was either smashed or simply not there, probably taken by scavengers like herself. Finders Keepers didn’t see much that she could salvage from the room, save for possibly breaking the terminal open for parts or looking under the couch cushions for bits. She most likely wouldn’t have to resort to those options, as there were several doorways leading to rooms that she had yet to explore.

Leaving her companion to do... whatever it did, she circled around one of the couches, giving the bookcases only a passing glance as she made her way to the opposite side of the room, where she found a small kitchen on the other side of a doorway. Taking a step inside to look around, her hoof slid suddenly slipped out from under her in a terrifying loss of control and it was only due to the furious scrabbling of her hooves to find purchase on the floor that she avoided an embarrassing fall.

Pulse still pounding, her cheeks flushed with embarrassment, she tilted one ear back to listen for any laughter and was thankful when she heard none. A quick glance behind her and she was glad to see the tall biped seemingly deep in thought while it stood over the broken terminal. Thank the Princesses for small favors, she thought, raising her eyes toward the water-damaged ceiling.

Taking another moment to compose herself and taking a deep breath, she looked down to the floor to see what had caused her near-fall, noticing an obvious streak from where her hoof had slipped through a thin film of dust that seemed to be prevalent wherever she went.

“I swear,” she muttered, raising her head up to the ceiling, "dust is gonna be the end of me, one way or another.” With a resigned sigh escaping her muzzle, she took another step forward, this time much more carefully.

Getting a better look at the kitchen she saw that, like most long abandoned areas, it had been ransacked repeatedly. Over the years, the faded cardboard boxes of Sugar Apple Bombs and other food packaging littered the floor in front of a rust streaked refrigerator, though why somepony would keep cereal in there was beyond her. Crossing the refrigerator off as a no-go in her list of spots to scavenge, she looked over to the counter that lined the wall under the kitchen's only window, which was the same as the one in the previous room.

Trotting up to the counter, she reared up onto her hind legs and set her forehooves atop the counter, taking a moment to stretch her neck in order to see out of the broken window. The view was less than spectacular, with the only sight being the brick wall of another apartment complex across from her, the alley that ran between the two buildings cluttered with trash and debris. Taking her gaze away from the sight outside, she looked along the line of cupboards that hung above the counter, the rusted shapes of pots and pans hanging from the wall.

Starting to think I should write off this entire town, she brooded, annoyed at the lack of good salvage. Taking her hooves off the counter and dropping back onto all fours, she started rummaging through the drawers, idly wondering to herself why anypony would want to take only the spoons. 

It only took her a few minutes to exhaust the amount of things she could pull open and look inside of, and by that time the floor was strewn with various pieces of useless silverware and the other odds and ends that were kept in kitchen drawers. The only place that she had yet to check were the cupboards themselves.

Bracing herself up against the counter, she systematically began to go through each cupboard in hopes of finding something useful, such as a fine tea set that would probably break in her saddlebags, or possibly a can of ground coffee. Though she knew that the chance of finding anything of high value in a kitchen cupboard was hardly likely, stranger things had happened, among them being the sudden occurrence of drinking water that was no longer contaminated by magical radiation, or the fact that one of the Ministry Mares was somehow alive and now leading an ironically named group called the Followers of the Apocalypse.

Despite the name, the Followers were good ponies who espoused the virtue of their leader. Wondering how the meeting for deciding upon a group name went about, she let out a small chuckle, only for it to die in her throat as she opened the last cupboard door.

Partially hidden behind a stack of plates was the macabre sight of a tiny skeleton, its empty sockets staring right into her as its skull was set into a permanent, leering grin, as though it were playing a sick game of hide-and-go-peek and had just been found. Atop its head was a raised nub where a spiralled horn should have been.

At the sight of the long-deceased foal, she couldn’t help but let out a weary, drawn out sigh. Things like this were nothing new to her; she supposed that, perhaps, she had become accustomed to such morbid sights. Still, when those same morbid sights happened to include fillies and colts, she couldn’t help but feel that they were somehow different from the same sights that included deceased stallions or mares.

Finders Keepers couldn’t help but feel her heart sink as her mind conjured up the image of a lone filly trudging down the street, emaciated body protected by a layer of fur matted down from a constant downpour of rain that battered mercilessly against her. Perhaps, seeking shelter in an alleyway, she had noticed a broken window leading into a drier area and, deciding that being inside was far more preferable to being outside, had crawled inside only to find a kitchen that was as empty as her stomach. With life beating the poor filly down once more, Finders Keepers couldn’t help but imagine the filly giving off a final sigh of resignation before crawling into the dry confines of a cupboard to close her eyes one final time.

Finders Keepers had to take her eyes away from the cupboard, the water forming at the corner of her eyes having already dampened her cheeks. Once again she was reminded of one of the differences between herself and other scavengers: she didn’t share that complete detachment that was prevalent amongst those who made their livelihood combing the ruins of the past. The reasoning for that detachment, as she’d found out the hard way, was simple: a pony’s mind, when seeing something unpleasant but not knowing the story behind, will try to create one, often times creating an exaggerated and often darker tale of what may have happened.

She took a moment to recompose herself, fighting the urge to wipe away the tears with a - probably - dusty hoof and instead blinking the moisture away until the world around her was no longer a blur.

Turning her head back to the cupboard, she reached forward with a hoof, clearing away some of the plates that obscured the skeletal body of the foal. As the stack of plates slid away to reveal the fully exposed skeleton, her eyes immediately locked onto the tan colored disk hidden within the rib cage. Seconds later, her ears perked up to the noise of a sudden beeping that sounded in time with the flickering orange light located on the disk.

With a savage shove she launched her body away from the counter edge, the sound of metal ponyshoes crashing to the floor. With a single pent-up breath, she screamed.

“Boobytrap!”


***  ***  ***


Kiako Lalene felt his eyebrows go straight up as he bore witness to one of the greatest sneezes he had ever seen, his eyes picking up the dampness of mucus against the far brick wall. Great, he thought to himself, not only does my companion just so happen to have four legs, it also has some of the worst allergies anyone has ever heard of. He couldn’t help but shake his head at the strangeness of his situation.

Letting the equinoid take a moment to recover, he glanced around the frankly boring looking room, the only things besides furniture being several dust-covered paintings or pictures hanging from some of the walls. Peeking his head around the corner, one thing did catch his attention: some odd-looking computer equipment in the left-hand side of the room, sitting by itself in the corner. By then the equinoid had recovered enough to start walking into the room, an air of caution seemingly about it. That was fine, he knew where he was going.

Ducking his head beneath the doorframe, he made a note to piss on the grave of whoever the building’s architect might have been. Revolver still in hand, he made his way over to the improperly sized worktable, finding himself staring down at what rested atop its surface.

The dust-covered computer - if it could be called that - consisted of a simple keyboard interface and a cracked monitor, the latter of which had a plastic frame along the top and sides, most likely for privacy. A quick inspection behind the computer showed no evidence of cables leading to a wall socket, for there wasn’t one.

No other bits of hardware, Kiako observed, absent-mindedly running a finger across the top of the computer hood. Might explain why this thing looks like it could cause an earthquake if it fell off the table; all the hardware in a single unit.

Returning back to the front of the computer, he set down his revolver on the corner of the table, making sure it was within arm’s reach while he began dusting off the computer, his hands running over its surfaces. A few moments later fanning the resulting cloud of dust way, and the computer was more or less viewable again. What was uncovered was... different, to say the least.

Rather than the usual smooth black or white casings that he was familiar with, the plastic of the computer in front of him was a sandy tan color, its plastic surface having a slight texture to it. The screen was different as well, though not because it was cracked; most computer monitors had some form of damage done to them. No, what was different was that rather than the deep black of an LCD screen, the monitor in front of him was a slightly curved pane of glass, its monochrome surface a dull grey.

Like everything else, the keyboard was different as well, but this time in a more worrying manner. Made up of the same sandy tan plastic as the rest of the computer, the keys of the keyboard seemed far larger than necessary, and were more tightly packed together with not a single centimeter of wasted space. The characters on the surface of the keyboard were also a mystery to him, not being either English, Spanish, or any other language he was vaguely familiar with. In fact, the “letters” on the keyboard struck a sudden chord, and his eyes widened with the jarring realization that some of the characters on the keyboard looked exactly like the ones that he had seen in graffiti at the bank.

Taking several hesitant steps back from the computer, he brought his hands up to his face as he let out a soft moan of both frustration and confusion at the correlation his mind had created. The mysteries kept piling on and on, with the first being his sudden appearance in the quarry, the second being the strange equine-like animal that he grudgingly followed in the slowly fading hope of making it back to someplace familiar. With this latest mystery tacked onto the other two, he was beginning to feel as he did when he first started out on his own, after learning all he could from the people of Zanesville: isolated, ignorant, and surprisingly... a bit fearful.

Kiako sent one of the worktable drawers flying across the room, a string of dust trailing behind it as it knocked down a painting, leaving a large scuff mark against the aged brick of the wall. Before he could grab the broken computer and vent his frustration even further, the feminine shout of his companion met his ears, and by the time it ended he was already halfway across the room, hopping over one of the couches as he came to his companion’s aid.

He barely had time for his boots to hit the wooden flooring when his companion slid into view, its hooves sliding through the dust-layered floor of what looked like a kitchen. Before he could get a good look at what was even going on, he was bowled over by the surprising strength of the equinoid, sending him tumbling into the kitchen in a heap.

Laying on his back in a daze, his head pointed toward the living room through the doorway, he caught glimpse of an auburn tail disappearing behind a couch... and in turn giving an unobscured view of the worktable, where he could see the end of his pistol's oaken handle, protruding off of the edge.

He didn’t even have time to curse before the room was consumed in a deafening roar of fire and debris.


***  ***  ***


With a low, drawn-out groan, Finders Keepers awoke to an uncomfortable, slightly painful throbbing throughout her body. As she tried to move, she could feel something hard and jagged digging into her ribs through her leather barding, every movement being a struggle. There was something pinning her down to the floor, and when she finally opened her eyes, they met only darkness.

Panic beginning to set in, she started to thrash against whatever pinned her down and hindered her movements. With every shallow breath she took, she could taste more and more dust entering her mouth, and her frantic efforts reached a crescendo when a sudden stab of agony shot up her left foreleg, eliciting a muffled scream from her muzzle, and all she wanted was to be free.

As if in answer to her prayers, a blinding stream of light hit her face as some of the rubble that sat atop of her shifted, just enough to let her screams be carry out farther than they could before. Her anguished wails did stop, however, and eventually quieted down into a muted whimpering as the pain in her foreleg lost its sudden novelty. Dust-covered lips trembling in pain, she blinked her eyes to adjust to the light.

She was in the living room from earlier, though the term would probably no longer apply. The room was beyond wrecked, with masonry and debris scattered across the area, with the few pieces of furniture that were in the room in the first place being either destroyed in the blast, or rendered unusable. Amazingly, several of the picture frames were still hanging from the walls. Her ears twitched toward the telltale clattering of bricks smashing against the sidewalk outside, and although she couldn’t move her head due to being pinned, she could still move her eyes enough to see that that was exactly what was happened. In fact, thanks to the blast, she now had a nice view of the street -and the ugly apartment buildings on the other side of it- so it could be said that the blast wasn’t all bad.

Her snort of laughter quickly turned into a harsh cough, as her body spasmed painfully beneath the rubble, which seemed to bear down onto her more and more with every movement she made, no matter how small. She couldn’t even move her legs now, not that she would dare do so anyway, what with the state one of them was already in.

Eyeballs straining in their sockets, she tried to see what position the sun was in, but was unable to see outside far enough to get a good look at the sky. By her guess, it may have been noon, perhaps a bit earlier. Unfortunately, she had no way to tell, and she had never gotten into the habit of wearing a watch, not that she would have been able to see it, anyway.

Giving her eyes a moment of rest, she closed her lids and let her ears strain a bit instead, letting them twist and turn in multiple directions as she listened hard for any sign of life, such as her bipedal companion, or a group of handsome stallions to rescue her from peril. After listening for a few minutes, her ears did in fact pick up a sound besides the occasional sound of a dropping brick, or the sound of her own beating heart. As she her ears focused toward the sound, she could hear the muted voice of several ponies talking over the backdrop of hooves hitting stone. Whoever they were, they were getting closer.

Licking her dry lips, and by extension the dust that covered them, she readied herself to cry out for help, but the only thing that came out of her throat was a ragged croak that would make even a toad jealous. Coughing on some of the dust in the air that had yet to fully settle, she tried again, this time succeeding in a still ragged, but passable, cry for help. “He-hey! Help!”

Her ears registered the sudden stop of hooves clacking against stone, and she could hear the muted voices take on a sudden intensity of conversation before it quickly died down, and a few moments later the sound of hoofsteps picked up again, this time sounding much more rapid, as though whoever the they belonged to were hurrying to her aid.

“Thank you,” she murmured, offering up a silent prayer up to the Princesses that watched over Equestria. The pain in her foreleg still throbbing, she waited patiently for her rescuers to come to her aid, hoping that they would have a doctor with them. She didn’t have long to wait, fortunately, as she heard their hoofsteps get closer and closer.

“Well lookie he'a!  We got ou’selves ah new fuck toy und’uh this pile!” a heavily accented, feminine voice screeched from behind her, causing her heart to skip a beat as her body instinctively tried to jerk from beneath the rubble.

“Wh-what?!” Finders Keepers asked, her voice tinged with fear and confusion. Stuck under a pile and unable to move or escape, she fervently hoped that she had misunderstood what she had thought to have heard.

That hope of a misunderstanding died the moment the owners of the approaching hoofbeats made themselves visible; a variety of dirty and disheveled ponies, all sporting grotesque trophies from their barding. As one, the group of earth-ponies and unicorns let out whoops and cheer as they saw her.

Finders Keepers’ eyes widened in terror, and they began to frantically search the room she was in before moving to massive hole that had once been a tiny window, and through there the street for any sign of help. Oh goddesses, oh goddesses, no! she mentally screamed as she soon came to the realization that, besides herself and the other ponies, there was nopony else around to hear save her from what she had once thought to be rescuers.

She felt the rubble on her shift slightly as it took more weight, and before she could let out a sound of protest she felt something solid connect to the back of her head, pushing her chin painfully into the floor. A pair of forelegs appeared in front of her, and after a moment she was muzzle to muzzle with the owner of those legs, who was currently looking between them at her with an upside-down grin. Inches from Finders Keepers’ eye was a boney protrusion.

“Yuh an Ah are ‘bout t’ get t’ know eachotha’ reeeal well,” the unicorn mare said in the same jeering voice, the thick, ropey scars lining her face seeming to match her coat color. Finders Keepers could only stare in horror at the implications she was being met with, and she felt her body grow colder as the lime-green unicorn called out to her cohorts. “Get in line, we ‘bout t’ have some ent’ainment!”

“Please! Don’t!” Finders Keepers pleaded, her eyes welling up with moisture as five ponies entered the room through the large hole in the wall, beginning to form a line in front of her while the rest hung back. A cobalt stallion that was loaded down with jewelry seemed to give her a sympathetic look, before trundling off to join those who were in the process of looting the already ravaged room. Her panicked attempts to struggle free were only met with cackling laughter and jeers

“Got us’elves a lively one here!”

“What does she think she is, an inchworm?”

“Quit yuh gabbin’! I got an itch tha’ needs scratchin’ an’ yuh bonzos are ruinin’ th’ moment!” cried out the disgusting unicorn mare, putting a stop to the laugher of the group. The mare looked back to her victim, “Now, whea’ were we?”

The unicorn mare positioned herself so that her entire body was in Finders Keepers view, revealing the slightly emaciated and filthy form of her tormentor. The mare leaned in, close enough for Finders Keepers to gag at the smell of the mare’s foetid breath, which seemed to elicit a laugh from said mare.

“Aww, po’ filly don’ like mah breath?” the mare cackled, running a sickly grey tongue along her lips. “Gonna get whole lot worse by tha’ th’ time thi... huh?”

Finders Keepers was too busy cringing at the thinly veiled promise that had been given, her ears pointed rigidly in fear. The terrible mare in front of her seemed to have heard something that Finders Keepers hadn’t, and began to look about the room in confusion. The other ponies in the room picked up on this, and they too began to look about the room, the soft sound of muted and cautious conversation starting to crop up among the unicorn mare’s followers. While Finders Keepers may have been unable to move her head, she could still see ponies entering and leaving her cone of vision as they began sifting through piles of rubble.

After a few more moments of looking about the room, the unicorn magically levitated a rusty revolver out of nearby stallion’s holster, encompassing it in a glow that matched her yellowed eyes. As an almost singular entity the other ponies levitated or drew their weapons, which mostly consisted of battered pistols and several shotguns.

“We ain’ alone he’ah,” the unicorn ring-leader stated plainly to her followers, and swung the revolver in her telekinetic grip over to Finders Keepers’ forehead. “Who else is wi’ yuh?” Finders Keepers’ eyes widened in renewed fear, and she began to stammer out a stream of nonsensical words before the hard metal of the revolver smacked across her muzzle painfully.

Spots swimming before her vision and the sensation of blood pooling in her nostrils, Finders Keepers’ unfocused eyes picked up the matte black finish of an object slowly making its way across the floor, until it slid out of her view. A flash of yellow flashed across her vision as the revolver once more connected with her already bruised muzzle, and she couldn’t help but let out a pained whinny.

“Ans’uh me!” the unicorn commanded, spittle flying from her mouth and cross Finders Keepers’ face. When no immediate answer besides a whimper, the glowing revolver lifted in the air once more for another pass at the downed mare, only for the blow to never arrive as the sound of crashing glass pierced the air.

“Knock it off yuh moron, that was jus’ uh pictua’ frame fallin’!” a male voice chastised somepony else, although Finders Keepers’ couldn’t be sure who due to waiting for the third blow, a blow that would never come. As though a pegasus had bucked a storm cloud, the air was pierced with the sound of a single, deafening crack, followed by the sound of something heavy hitting the floor. Before Finders Keepers’ ears could pin themselves down to the sides of her head the room was engulfed in a cacophony of thunder and violence that was soon joined with screams of pain.

Finders Keepers kept her eyes shut, the noise in the room fading into a piercing ringing as her sensitive ears couldn’t take the decibel onslaught. Everything in the past several minutes lay forgotten in her mind as she fervently prayed for somepony to make everything stop, and stop it did as darkness gradually clouded over her mind.
> Chapter 3: Beak and Claw
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

Mercenaries have always held their place within armed conflicts, ever since the first sapient beings marched against one-another to wage war. While many soldiers may be motivated to fight for a cause due to patriotism or for their loved ones, the mercenary has always been in it for more... profitable reasons.

The Great War, which eventually led to the destruction of both the Zebrican and Equestrian homelands, was no different when it came to those who sought fortune in the battles between the two global superpowers. Griffons, the hybridization of eagle and lion, saw opportunities in this conflict. With the aid of their predatory instincts, natural weapons, and keen sight were natural-born fighters, and fight they did. Serving both Equestria and the Zebra Empire in their war over resources, griffon mercenaries took to the skies and sliced, shot, and stabbed their way to fortune.

Unfortunately, those that survived long enough to cash in would not have as long to spend it as they would have likely wished. As the conflict between Equestria and the Zebra Empire intensified, so too did the violence, with new weapons and magic being field-tested regularly. From there it would only escalate further, with the advent of the megaspell adding a new layer of depth to the conflict. It wasn’t long before weapons capable of incinerating entire cities were developed, and the prospect of mutual annihilation was no longer looked at with a blind eye. When that fateful day came - the Last Day - it wasn’t just the ponies and zebras who suffered the consequences of the deployment of those feared megaspells, but their auxiliaries as well. Not only did these megaspells and balefire bombs ravage every area they detonated, but once their destructive activation was complete they soaked the resulting area in a magical radiation that would last for centuries.

Life finds a way though, and after the first few decades towns and trade-routes had appeared amongst the wreckage that their ancestors had created. With traders needing protection for the long trips between settlements and towns, mercenaries once again became a popular profession. 

While not all griffons were born mercenaries, or in fact became them, many did pick up a gun and a contract and set out to make their fortunes out in the Equestrian Wasteland. Mercenary bands were formed during the years, and some of the most successful bands were those either consisting of or lead by griffons. Many griffons were the descendents of mercenaries fighting either against or for the ponies, and with the Great War long since over it mattered not which side their ancestors had fought on, all that mattered was putting food on the table.


***  ***  ***


The soft, dulcet tones of a mare’s voice played through a set of tinny speakers, the only sound accompanying it being a backdrop of gentle music. The room was otherwise silent, save for the occasional flitter of cards being shuffled or brushed against one another. Indeed, the room was as dim as it was quiet, with only a ceiling-mounted lamp emitting a pool of harsh light onto a trio of card players sitting at a circular table.

One particular member of the group, a mahogany-coated and steel-grey feathered griffon, was gripping his cards tightly in his birdlike claws, staring at them with a blank expression as he planned his next move. Running a claw over the top of his skull to smooth out the crest feathers, he could sense the tension radiating off of the other two card players like heat from a stove. Knowing that he had few options, he was forced to come to a decision.

“Do you have any eights, Rosewing?” he asked seriously, finally looking up from his cards and toward one of the - a female - griffons opposite of him.

The female griffon’s coat was a slightly lighter shade of brown than his, the fur well taken care of in comparison to his own. Even when he looked to the new card he had picked up, the griffon’s rose-hued feathers caught his eye even from the periphery. 

“Go fish, Razor-Quill. Looks like you’re losing your edge,” she said half-mockingly, her voice taking on a sensuous tone that threatened to distract him from the matter at claw.You win some, you lose some, he thought moodily, disappointed that he had not received a matching card. 

“Yes, yes, I get it. I’m old. It’s a good thing all that jewelry you wear doesn’t weigh down that ego of yours.” His beak curled into a tight smile as he saw Rosewing turn her beak up at him, putting a protective claw over one of her most recent... acquisitions.  “If you keep looking up you’re going to go blind. May I suggest you hurry up? Some of us actually want to win something, you know.”

Rosewing looked down from the ceiling and right at the older griffon, beak twisting into a smile, mischief in her hazel eyes. “And I was told that the older generations knew something about patience.”

Razor-Quill rolled his eyes, resisting the urge to reply with a witty retort and thus stalling the game even more. 

“Just go!” Razor-Quill said dejectedly, gesturing with his a claw for her to hurry up, eager for the game to continue.

“It’s Statchel’s turn actually.”

“Ugh,” Razor-Quill groaned in disgust, resisting the urge to facewing. With a sigh, he waved for the third griffon to go on with his turn, lest the game drag on even further.

“Whatever tweaks your beak,” muttered the third member of the group, the deepness of his voice belying his age. Unlike the other two griffons at the table, Statchel’s body was squat and muscular, and both his fur and feathers were a ruddy brown with no difference in hue or coloration. 

“Oh, hush now,” Rosewing said in retort, playfully slapping her tail against one of Statchel’s hindlegs beneath the table, causing him to flinch at the sudden touch. 

Shooting the griffoness with what he probably thought as a menacing glare, he calmly looked over to Razor-Quill, who had been patiently suffering the other two griffon’s banter. 

“Got any aces, boss?” Statchel asked, a light smile adorning his beak as Razor-Quill silently passed a card over to him. “Cool.”

“You know,” Rosewing began, stroking the tuft of light brown hair on the end of her tail, “I wonder how that pony is doing, she was pretty badly off when we found her.”

Statchel looked at her with a reproachful glare, eyes narrowed to slits. “What is this we business? You were busy looting that blue stallion for every bit of shininess he had! I’m pretty sure that we weren’t even done shooting yet before you were on his body!” He shook his head in annoyance, before continuing, “I was the one who found her, along with... ugh, the other creature.”

Razor-Quill began to slowly massage his temples, doing his best to ignore the bickering that was unfolding before him. His groans of annoyance went unnoticed by the squabbling griffons, and he idly wondered if splitting off from Gawd’s Talons to form his own group had been worth it. 

As he began recalling the days before the Wasteland had been cleansed and purified, the grinding of claws scratching against wood brought him out of his reminiscing, his body inwardly cringing at the unpleasant and unexpected sound. Looking back up, he could definitely see that the two feather-brains were at it again.

“We shouldn’t just shoot the thing just because we don’t know what it is, we aren’t savages!” Statchel cried out, a look of shock and disgust crossing his features. 

“Oh, bla bla bla,” Rosewing mouthed, the tips of her talons clicking together with every ‘bla’. “Why don’t you just shut the fuck up and leave the thinking to your betters.”

“That’s enough,” Razor-Quill finally said, having had enough from the both of them. “If anyone is going to be making any decisions here, it’s going to be me. Is that clear?” He gave them a stern look, making sure that his point was clear.

Rosewing turned to face him, giving him an approving smile, “Thank you.”

“I meant both of you, not just him,” he reiterated, turning his stern look into a glare.

After a moment of tense silence, both of the griffons gave each one another a cautious look before meekly slouching in their seats, their claws unconsciously going back to their cards.

“Now,” Razor-Quill began, pausing a bit to make his authority hit home, ”I know that the other survivor we found - the one that wasn’t the earth-pony - is pretty strange looking. I get that, I do.” 

He looked over to the two griffons for any signs of inattentiveness and, finding none, continued. “What you both seem to be forgetting is that this isn’t the Republic, where you get to vote. This is Sabre Squad, and I’m your leader, and as of right now...” he grimaced in distaste at what he was about to admit, “...I don’t have a clue with what to do with the other survivor, but I have enough brain cells to know that we shouldn’t just put a slug in its head and be done with the matter, at least not before talking to it.”

“What!?” Rosewing squawked, the indignation in her voice apparent as she exploded from her seat. “You listen to him and not me?”

Statchel burrowed his head into the fur of his forelegs, muffling a groan at where the conversation was heading.

“I thought you were our leader, not some nervous grass-eater!” continued Rosewing, not quite through with her tirade. Her next words were spoken in a dangerously low tone, her voice dripping with scorn. “Are you going soft?”    

Statchel lifted his head from the table, sidling up to Rosewing and settling a wing over her back in an effort to placate her. “Ease down on the throttle there, this is a friendly room, yeah?”

Rosewing immediately shrugged off the offending limb, perhaps feeling that - rightfully - her personal space was being violated. Before Razor-Quill get in a word edgewise, Rosewing’s wings flapped once, sending the playing cards on the table to the floor in a sudden gust of wind. 

“Whatever,” was all Rosewing said as she got off of her stool and stormed toward the room’s exit, exposing the room briefly to the flickering candlelight of the hallway before slamming the door behind her.

With the room once more in the inky darkness, save for the central light of the ceiling lamp, the two male griffons were left alone with their thoughts, a tense silence hanging above them.

“Excitable, isn’t she?” Statchel said dryly after waiting for the cards to finally settle to the dusty floor. He began to rifle through some of Rosewing’s cards, which had been spared from her fury. “And a cheater, too! She said she had no princes!”

“I think we better call it a draw,” Razor-Quill said dejectedly, taking a moment to run his claws over his crest feathers again. He stepped out of the light, his eyes taking a moment to get accustomed to the darkness before being able to clearly see the doorway. 

With his destination in sight, he made his way after the angry she-griffon, leaving Statchel alone in the room.

“Draw, my ass...” Statchel muttered quietly, leaning forward against the table and wrapping his forelegs around the stack of bottle caps.


***  ***  ***


Absolute darkness was the first thing that graced Kiako’s sight when he finally managed to gather the willpower to open his eyes. He rubbed at the corners of his eyes to clear them of grime before blinking rapidly, making sure that his eyes were actually open and unblocked before panic began to creep up on him.

Taking several deep breaths to try and calm himself down, he attempted to sit up before being wracked with pain across the front of his body, forcing him to lay back down with a gasp. Still unable to see, and the newfound ache pulsating across his chest, stomach, and thighs, he resigned himself to laying down on what he guessed was a bed, though it was a bit small considering that his legs were hanging off the end.

Wanting to examine his surroundings a bit - even in the darkness - he slowly spread his arms out, letting his hands and arms slide against the scratchy cloth that covered the bed. It took a few moments for it to occur to him that his arms were actually exposed to something other than the mesoprene fabric of his jumpsuit, and he felt naked without the flexible and bullet-resistant protection. As a matter of fact, he almost was. The only articles of clothing he was wearing was a t-shirt and a pair of boxer briefs.

He waited a bit before trying to get up again, letting his mind wander for a few minutes as he took a moment to try and remember where he was and, failing that, tried to remember what had happened to him. With a bit of effort, he recalled himself rising from the rubble after getting his hands on his pistol, only to find a bunch of technicolor mini-horses accosting his own mini-horse companion. From that point onward everything was a flurry of gunfire and movement, followed by agonizing pain, and then darkness once more. 

Wanting to know where he was, he slowly rolled to the side of the bed so as not to upset the bruises on his stomach, which he imagined to be large, before swinging his legs over the surprisingly short bed. Cautiously standing up, he probed the dusty floor in front of him with his toes, making sure nothing was blocking his path before slowly reaching out with his hands to find something to touch. 

The first thing that his fingertips touched was a large, flat surface in front of him, probably a wall. Small curls of what felt like paper were coming off the wall, and he assumed that it was some old wallpaper. He started moving, keeping one hand against the wallpaper while carefully scouting ahead of him with his feet to make sure he didn’t run into anything. 

He stopped, his outstretched hand coming into contact with another wall, meaning that he was at  corner of whatever room he was in. Reaching around, looking to see if there was perhaps a lamp nearby, he was surprised to find that his hand came into contact with ceiling, which was just a few centimeters higher than his head. Even in the darkness, the man’s face was still sullen, his perpetual frown deepening at the situation he was in. 

He passed another corner before coming to a change in texture on the wall. Unlike the peeling wallpaper texture that he had felt before, this surface had the feel of wood grain beneath his fingertips. Continuing his tactile exploration, he found a handle at about the same height of his thigh, along with a pair of hinges along one side of the surface; a door.

Reaching down to the handle, he gave it a twist, trying to turn it. Unfortunately for him, it wouldn’t budge. Stepping back a few meters, he gave a half-hearted charge at the door, slamming into it with his shoulder. Aside from upsetting the bruises on his body, and maybe adding a new one to his shoulder, the door did not budge. Rubbing at his shoulder, he stared futilely in the darkness at where the door was.

Rather than trying to continue beat himself against the door, he continued to map out the boundaries of the room, once more coming back to the bed after passing another pair of corners. It appeared that the only pieces of furniture in the room were an annoyingly short nightstand,which was empty save for a canteen and an unlit candle, and the bed which he had first found himself on.

Licking his cracked lips, he realized that he was actually very thirsty, and the room’s dry and dusty atmosphere wasn’t doing much to help in that regard. Carefully sitting down on the knee-high bed, he reached over to the nightstand to grab the canteen, uncapping it and draining it for all it was worth before returning it to its original spot.

Whoever had put him in this room had also taken all of his equipment, and the only thing he could do was wait until his captors - perhaps rescuers - came for him. That said, while he may have temporarily lost his freedom, he could never lose his collar.

Laying down and curling up on the bed, he closed his eyes against the darkness, letting his body relax as he let his collar decipher scattered radio waves into a form more understandable to the human mind.


***  ***  ***


Finders Keepers awoke the same way she always did when presented with the luxury of a soft bed beneath her: slowly. 

Looking at her surroundings through half-lidded eyes, it took her muddled mind a few minutes to fully realize that she wasn’t still buried beneath a pile of rubble and surrounded by ponies that meant to do her harm. The realization didn’t have as calming an effect as one would expect, and she hastily worked herself up onto her hooves, the springiness of the mattress making her wobble enough that she nearly fell back onto the bed.

With the practiced movements of someone who felt as though they had been sleeping for years and yet were still tired, she hopped off the bed. Unfortunately for her, her muddled mind failed to grasp that the blanket that had at some point been draped over her was still partially wrapped around her body, and the resulting landing was about as graceful as a one-winged pegasus.

She spent the next several minutes curled up on the floor, the tangle of linen still wrapped around her as though to mock her clumsiness. Forehooves wrapped around her muzzle, she quietly moaned as she endured the world of pain that was her bruised muzzle. 

Still, she couldn’t lay on the floor forever, as much as she wanted to. When she felt that the pain had subsided enough that she wouldn’t be a moaning-mare no more, she got up onto her hooves again, furiously kicking the damnable blanket away first though.

Ears twitching and turning about the room, she closed her eyes as she listened for the sound of approaching hooves, a sure sign that somepony had probably heard her. After about a minute of listening, the only thumps that she could discern were the ones beating in her chest. Body sagging with relief, she let out a quiet sigh as she raised her head to the ceiling, silently praising the Princesses for small favors.

Her little ritual complete, she was now fully awake, and looked about the room with inquisitive eyes. While there may have been a bed behind her, she was certain that the four walls that surrounded her were no longer meant to house a bedroom. 

Lining the flowery wallpaper were numerous crates coming in various shapes and sizes, their yellow exteriors having faded from time and whatever elements they had been exposed to. No two crates were the same shade of yellow anymore, and if one ignored the scratches, dents, and peeled paint it could almost be seen as some sort of weird art piece. If the room had a window, it wasn’t anywhere Finders Keepers could see it, and it was only thanks to the fluorescent lantern hanging from the center of the room’s cracked ceiling that she wasn’t in inky blackness.

The fact that directly below said lantern was what could only be a surgical table - thankfully clean and not covered in rusty tools - made her feel very uncomfortable, and she did her level-best to suppress a shudder. Deciding that she wanted to leave as soon as possible, she looked over to exit and walked to the door, her hoofbeats the only sound in the room other than the gentle hum of the lantern. Unsurprisingly, the wall that the door was set into was also lined with more crates, leaving only just enough space for the door to swing inward to let somepony in. 

Before even getting her hoof onto the handle, her ears picked up on the audible click coming from the door’s lock, and without wasting any time she hurriedly got of sight of the doorway, her side pressed firmly against the stack of crates.

“I know you’re awake,” came the sudden - and very male - voice from the doorway, causing her to flinch in surprise. That flinch soon turned into a surprised whinny as a beaked face peeked out from behind the corner, golden eyes locked with her own.

Finders Keepers stumbled backwards, her hip and shoulder catching along the varying surfaces of the crate-wall, nudging several of the containers loose and onto the floor with a clatter of metal and plastic.

“You about done?” the griffon head asked, nonplussed at her reaction. The rest of him soon came into view, revealing a stocky body covered with a light-brown shade of fur and feathers. 

“Y-yes, I’m fine now,” she stuttered, her ears swiveling nervously of their own accord, and she hoped he didn’t notice. “You just startled me is all.”

“Right,” he said, his tone unreadable. His wing flapped out in a single quick motion, pointing toward the bed she had been earlier. “Can you please sit down on the bed for a moment while I clean up?”

She stared at him for a moment, standing stock still as he began to put the crates back where they had been, allowing her to examine him more closely for any signs of... something. Her eyes drifted over to the curved wooden handle that poked out from a holster hanging off of the griffon’s right shoulder, which was covered by dull grey plates connecting to a larger section of barding that covered most of his torso save for some space for his wings to slip through. On his chest was the white shape of a slightly curved sword, a pair of words encircling it: “Sabre Squad”.

Looking over to the bed for a moment, its blanket trailing onto the floor where she had fallen earlier, she trotted on over, leaving the griffon behind to clean up the mess that she had made in her surprise. Hopping onto the bed, she turned around and sat down, considering the griffon across the room. 

The griffon wasn’t part of the group that had attacked her, that much was obvious. The uniform and the way he carried himself was a dead giveaway to that, and add in the fact that he wasn’t filthy only cemented the position that she was at least in good hooves, at least for the moment.

“...Or claws,” Finders Keepers muttered to herself, drawing a look from the griffon.

“What?” he asked curiously, already done with stacking crates and currently walking towards her.

Slightly annoyed that she had been caught talking to herself, the mare simply blinked her eyes and shook her head at the griffon. “Nothing.”

“Right.” He didn’t sound convinced, but not pushing the issue. Instead, he raised a talon in front of her. “Follow my talon without moving your head, please.”

The pony did as he asked, her large, pink eyes giving the moving appendage their full attention as it moved from left to right in front of her face.

“So tell me,” Finders Keepers asked conversationally, her eyes still following the talon. “What are mercenaries doing in Haybale? I’ve never heard of Sabre Squad before.”

The griffon was silent for a moment, his eyes tracking her own as he did his work. After a few more seconds of this he lowered his claw, reaching inside the pocket of his barding to remove a small flashlight. “We were hired to scout out this town to see if it anyone would want to resettle it. You know how it is these days, what with all of this new land that’s been opened up.” He let out a small chuckle, which helped somewhat to ease her tension.

“This place any good, then?” she asked, curious to know if the town had more to it than... unfriendly inhabitants. The griffon’s response to her question made her flinch, causing her to blink rapidly in the face of the bright light beaming into each of her eyes, one after the other. 

“Looks like you’re fine” he said, turning the light off and tucking it away.

“What in Tartarus was that for?” she asked, angry at the sudden test of her vision but also understanding that it was what doctors did at times. She fluttered her eyes for a moment, trying to get rid of the spots that danced in her vision.

“The sedative we used tends to mess with the mind and body, making folks clumsy and a bit loopy, for a little bit anyhow.” Finders Keepers’ ears perked forward at the word ‘sedative’, and the griffon seemed to notice this, as he went on to explain. 

“We didn’t want either of you waking up on the way over here, so we gave you some sedatives to work as a muscle relaxant, and to... well, knock you out.” He gave her a sheepish smile, his beak curling slightly.

With a groan, Finders Keepers rubbed at her muzzle, which still had a gentle-but-ignorable ache. The sedatives explain my ‘performance’ earlier, then.

“So I was put out so that your ‘secret base’ wouldn’t be discovered in case I woke up from that mess out at that apartment?” she asked, looking back up in annoyance.

“Got it in one!” the griffon said, shooting her a sly look. He gestured with a claw over to the crate-lined walls. “Look how much stuff we found in this town alone. Took us days to get what you see here into this room, and we’re sure as hell not going to give this stuff up free.”

Finders Keepers tilted her head quizzically at him. “Why would you tell me all that then if you wanted to keep this secret? And why leave me alone in a room full of drugs and potions?”

The griffon’s beak curled wide at her question, which frankly looked a little strange. 

“Becaaaause,” he began, his grin getting even wider, much to her discomfort, “judging from the big thump I heard earlier, you’re in no condition to be unlatching crates and jamming yourself up with Med-X and other intravenous goodies!”

The mare’s ears drooped at that. She knew that something was off the moment she had woke up. With a resigned sigh, she knew that he was right. She let herself collapse onto her side, her head flopping against the pillow with an audible pomf.

“So now what?” she asked, her voice taking on a slightly depressed tone.

“There there,” the griffon said in a faux-paternal voice, a claw gently patting her on the head, causing her to flinch reflexively. “Doctor Statchel assures you that the side-effects of the treatment are only temporary. In fact, how about you and I get some lunch?”

Finders Keepers was about to say that she wasn’t at all interested in food, but her stomach had its own opinion about that.

“I’ll take that as a yes, then?” the griffon now known as Statchel asked, looking down at a suddenly sheepish Finders Keepers.

“It’s probably for the best,” she muttered.

Her stomach rumbled again in agreement.


***  ***  ***


The grunts and moans of pleasure drifted amongst the inky blackness of the room, the occasional squeal of metal springs jostling beneath the intertwined couple, the sound of metal steadily joining in on the crescendo of shared pleasure. This continued for some time, until eventually both partners reached their breaking point, and with a final gasp and a grunt, it was over.

Both partners lay beside each other, the steady rhythm of panting matching the quickness beating within their chests. Going on for several minutes, one of them finally recovered enough to reach over for the nightstand lantern, tugging on the chord to illuminate the room.

Bathed in white light, the room was no different from most of the others in the building, save for the aesthetics that had been added by its new residents. Stapled and pinned haphazardly to the walls were faded posters and flyers depicting various Pre-War settings, mostly peaceful. 

Set against the wall across from the room’s entryway was a large princess-sized bed, where a pair of griffons lay relaxing across its tangled and blanket strewn surface. 

Rosewing turned to the other griffon in the bed, letting out a soft trill as she teased him with her tail. “Mmmmm.... you definitely know how to show a hen a good time, Quill.”

The other griffon responded to his nickname by draping a wing over his partner, embracing her in his steel-grey plumage. “Oh, I like to think that I know how to treat a lady right.” 

“Pfft,” Rosewing snorted amusement, reaching and partially climbing over Razor-Quill to pick a cigarette from the carton sitting atop the nightstand. “I don’t think I could be considered a lady after what we just did. Nah, that was done the way it was supposed to. Rough.” 

The older griffon laughed at that, grabbing the lighter off of the nightstand before his partner could reach it, and lit her cigarette for her before lighting one for himself. Both lay silent, simply basking in the afterglow and each other’s company, puffs of smoke drifting toward the ceiling in a cloud of ash. It went on like this for several minutes, until one of them finally broke the silence.

“You know,” Razor-Quill began, blowing a puff of smoke from his beak before taking another drag, “we’re actually going to need to do something about that creature we found.” He shot her a pointed look. “Something responsible.”

Rosewing took a drag on her cigarette, feigning disinterest in the subject being broached. The facade continued even as the cigarette burned down to the skin of her claw, threatening to burn her.

Razor-Quill let out a sigh. It seemed to him that every race had its own problems with females, and griffons were no exception. Stubbing his cigarette out into the ashtray, he continued looking at Rosewing. 

“What is this really about, Rosey?” he asked, using the private nickname that he used only when he was alone with her. When he got no response, he pressed on, concerned. “Is this about me taking Statchel’s side over yours?”

Rosewing tossed what little was left of the cigarette at the nightstand, aiming for the ashtray. Taking a moment to brush away the ash that had fallen on Razor-Quills wing - which was still draped over her- she finally looked at him.

“We’re not being paid to rescue people stupid enough to get caught by traps and raiders, so why do we have to take care of them?” she asked, honestly seeming puzzled.

Razor-Quill blinked, surprised at the callousness behind the other griffon’s words. 

“Damn, Rose, that’s pretty cold,” he said, shaking his head. “You’re right that we don’t need to help them right now, but killing those raiders just so happened to fall under the specifications of our contract, and saving a pair of idiots just happened to be the icing on the cupcake.”

Rosewing still didn’t seem thoroughly convinced by his reasoning, and taking a moment to think, he knew something that would cheer her up. 

“Just think of it this way,” Razor-Quill began, shooting her a smile, “in the end, you got this pretty thing, didn’t you?” 

He reached for the nightstand, pulling open the drawer to remove a steel chain, which was followed by a golden medallion that was layered with a multi-colored lattice of gems.

Rosewing’s beak lit up in a smile. “Yeah, that’s true. I guess saving those dweebs paid off in the end after all, didn’t it?”

“Sometimes being the hero isn’t so bad,” Razor-Quill chuckled, handing the medallion back to its owner. The female griffon shook her head, pushing the jewelry back toward him. 

“Who said we were done?” Rosewing asked, her beak lighting up in a smile that sent a chill through Razor-Quill’s body.

“Now hold on a second, these old bones can only take so much!” the male griffon protested, his feathers quivering in mock-fear.

“Break’s over; get back back in the game, old timer!” Rosewing said, rolling atop the other griffon just before turning off the room’s only source of light.


***  ***  ***


Statchel closed the door behind him once the beige earth-pony was out of the way. He gestured for her to continue down the hallways as he locked the door.

Said hallway was lined with doors on both sides, small brass plaques denoting the number of each room. The only light in the hallway came from the flickering of candles that were set along the walls at certain intervals, providing just enough light to prevent someone from bumping into the wood paneled walls.

“Is this supposed to be a motel, or something?” drifted the voice of the mare, who was already far down the hallway. “Because if the entire point of putting me to sleep is to keep this place a secret, why let me go around without a blindfold or something?”

Statchel turned around, an amused smile on his beak as he headed down the hall to meet up with the mare, who was peaking around the corner at a staircase leading down to the first floor. 

“You’re right that this is a motel, but we removed the sign in front of the building a while ago.” He stopped beside a candle that had melted into a stump of melted wax, and lit the backup candle beside it, once more illuminating a small section of the hallway. He continued forward again, putting the lighter back into one of his many pockets.

“Couldn’t I just look through a window, or something?” the pony replied wryly, one of her eyebrows raised.

Statchel let out a barking laugh. “Good luck with that, what few windows there were in this place we boarded up.” He extended a claw down the stairs, gesturing for her to continue down.

Shrugging at that, the mare went downstairs, hugging the wall cautiously. Statchel followed close behind, keeping an eye on the earth-pony’s movements to see if she was about to stumble. Fortunately, in the brief time that it took them to get to the first floor, there were no problems with the pony’s movements that he could see, and he felt that whatever clumsiness that had plagued her had finally run its course.

“What’s down there?” the beige mare asked, stopping at the bottom step as she pointed down a hallway that was nearly the mirror image of the one above them, with doors and candles running along the walls. The only true difference, aside from minor variations like the old paintings that dotted the walls, was that at the end of the hallway there was a set of barricaded double-doors.

“The lobby,” Statchel answered matter-of-factly, not going into further details. The less the pony knew, the better. 

To the mare’s credit, she didn’t pry for more information, and instead simply followed him to the far end of the hallway, coming to the door of the closest room to the lobby barricade. Digging into one of the side pockets of his barding, Statchel pulled out a small chain that jangled with numerous keys. Glancing back to the door, he saw that there was a streak of blue paint along the handle, and he selected the right key accordingly.

“Just a second,” Statchel muttered, taking a moment to wriggle the key into the door’s lock before finally opening the door, waving her through with a wing. “After you.”

The earth-pony looked between him and the dark room for a few seconds, her hesitation obvious. After another few seconds of awkward silence, she walked into the room, her hooves clicking against the hardwood floor. 

Entering the doorway after her, he reached upwards and tugged on a string, activating the spark battery lamp that had been wonderglued upside down to the plaster ceiling. Unlike the candles flickering outside in the hallway, the light that fought back the darkness was of the fluorescent variety - just like in the medical room.

Like most of the other motel rooms, this one had a floral pattern wallpaper that was starting to peel in places. Unlike most of the other rooms, Sabre Squad had actually bothered to empty it to get the proper furniture for what would eventually become both a pantry and kitchen, going so far as to scavenge some shelves from a nearby grocery store.

Those sames shelves were now set against the walls of the room, food ready to be grabbed and eaten at the table in the middle of the room.

“Anything to your fancy?” Statchel asked, seeing that the mare was having trouble picking out from the assorted mix of scavenged Pre-War foods that had been collected from various parts of the town.

An ear twitched in his direction, telling him that she had at least heard him. She turned around, her ears rigid in uncertainty. “I don’t mean to be ‘that mare’, but do you have anything more... ah... fresh?”

Statchel rolled his eyes. “I’m sure that, as a scavenger, you’ve eaten worse than some old junk food. No fine dining here, pony, unless you’d care to try some pickled rat?” 

He couldn’t help but laugh at the look of revulsion crossing her muzzle as he produced a jar of the aforementioned food. Well, if she doesn’t want any, I’ll just have to eat it myself.

Rearing up onto his hind legs and spreading his wings to balance himself, he firmly gripped the jar in his claws and unscrewed the lid, helping himself to nice and plump rat, the harsh scent of cider vinegar wafting from it’s wrinkled flesh. In less time than it took to open the jar, his beak snapped up the rat from his talons and he gulped it down.

“That’s gross.” The mare commented, a look of disgust twisting her muzzle into an expression that he didn’t much care for.

Suppressing a sigh, Statchel decided to tone down the “avian carnivore” act and, with the edge taken off of his own hunger, decided to help her pick something from one of the shelves. Stepping across the room to stand beside her, he moved aside several boxes of frankly unappetizing looking oven-ready meals to retrieve a small tin container, before turning around and setting it on the table.

“What’s that?” the pony asked, looking over his shoulder at the item.

Statchel tapped a talon against the metal with a metallic plink, drawing the mare’s eyes to the words that had been scraped into the metal: canned corn.

“Any clue if it’s still fresh?” she asked, a dubious look on her face as she stared down at the container.

“Well, that’s up to you to find out,” Statchel replied, not quite sure himself. “Tell you what, let’s make this a team effort - I’ll pull off the lid, and you decide if it’s worth eating. Sound fair?”

The mare simply shrugged, her response not containing much in the way of team spirit. “Go for it.”

Flashing her a smile, Statchel pulled at the metal tab of the pony-made container, revealing a mass of wet, yellow kernels within. Setting the curled up piece of metal aside, he slid the food toward the delighted mare. As she took a tentative sniff of the food, Statchel decided that then was a good time to ask a question of his own for once. 

“So, I think now’s a good time for you to tell me your name,” he said.

Letting out a disappointed sigh, the pony looked up to address the griffon’s question. “Fair’s fair, I guess. My name is Finders Keepers; I’m a scavenger.” 

Statchel nodded, glad that he at least knew the pony’s name. That didn’t mean that he was done yet, though. “Well, I’ve already introduced myself, and I think by now it’s time you answer a few of my questions. Fair’s fair, after all.”

Finders Keepers shifted on her hooves uneasily, her body tensing up slightly. Nonetheless, she nodded her head.

“Right then,” Statchel started, looking directly at the mare. “After we cleared out the raiders” - Finders Keepers’ knotted tail clamped down as he said the word, but her face remained neutral - “and made sure the area was clear, we found you and... someone else.”

He gave her a pointed look, dipping his head slightly. “I’m sure you know who I’m talking about.”

Finders Keepers turned her head for a moment, letting out a soft sigh as if to compose herself. Turning back to face him, she spoke warily. “I only met it the day before the attack, so I don’t know too much.”

“That’s fine, just tell me what you know,” Statchel said soothingly, wanting the pony to be at ease with him. “This isn’t an interrogation.”

Finders Keepers’ body loosened up a little, apparently satisfied with what he had said. Wetting her lips, she began to speak. “It isn’t from around here, that much I can tell you. It...” - she hesitated a moment before picking up again - “...he doesn’t speak Equish, and to be honest he’s sort of a jerk.”

“Why burden yourself with him, then?” Statchel asked, curious as to what her motives were for being with the creature.

Finders Keepers sighed, as though regretting something. “Well, he wanted to tag along. I’m not one to say no to someone who’s lost, no matter how weird they are.”

Statchel nodded his head in approval, forced to admire the pony’s willingness to help a stranger in need, despite how dangerous and idiotic such an action may have been.

“How bad is he?” Finders Keepers asked, catching him slightly by surprise. “He was pretty close to the mine when it went off.”

Statchel stared at her, his expression growing hard as he prepared to deliver the unfortunate news. “I’m afraid that... You’re not quite rid of him yet.”

At first Finders Keepers lowered her head in disappointment, her ears drooping to the sides as muttered a prayer, before suddenly stopping herself and looking up, a look of confusion crossing her features as she did a double-take.

Statchel drank in the pony’s confused expression for a several moments, before breaking out into a cheery smile. “He had some burst eardrums and some buckshot in his leg, but with the magic of medicine he’ll be completely fine - maybe a little sore, though.”

Finders Keepers’ face twisted into a disbelieving stare, her mouth opening as though to say something before closing.

Statchel was still smiling, impressed that he had managed to actually stupefy the pony. “Gotcha, didn’t I?”

Finders Keepers only shook her head at him, her disbelief apparently so profound that she was rendered speechless. So it came as a surprise to Statchel when she suddenly swiped the corn off of the table, sending the food to the floor.

“Really?” the earth-pony scowled, shaking her head again in disbelief before slamming her forehooves down onto the table. “Did you really have to make me think that raiders had taken another life, just to make me look like an idiot?!”

“Hey, I didn’t think that you were going to take this th- hey, stop.” Statchel took several nervous steps back away from the irate mare who was steadily approaching him.

He grunted softly as the pony repeatedly poked him in the chest, pushing him back further and further as she continued. Attempting to plead his case only fell on deaf ears, and he didn’t feel as though he was in enough danger to warrant fighting back; still, enough was enough. Statchel grabbed the offending limb with a set of claws, preventing the mare from causing causing further annoyance, at least with that limb. The pony gasped in surprise, her eyes going wide.

Though Statchel did have to admit, the sheepish look the pony now had on her face was a bit out of place, compared to her apparent anger just moments ago...

“So I see that one of your patients is out and about. That’s good.” 

Statchel’s hackles rose at the sudden presence of the gruffer voice that had come from just behind him. Feeling like a cub who had just been caught reading a dirty magazine, he turned his head, already knowing who the voice belonged to.

“What did you do this time, Statchel?” Razor-Quill asked, not looking at all amused with what he had apparently walked into.

If Statchel could, he would would have been sweating bullets right about then as he tried to come up with a believable excuse, anything to not make himself look like more of an idiot in the eyes of his superior. 

“Oh, hey boss, how’s Rosewing?” Smooth.

“She’s fine,” the older griffon answered, fully aware of what Statchel was trying to do. “She can take care of herself, though the same apparently can’t be said for you. You have two seconds to do the smart thing before I peck you.”

Statchel gulped at the not-at-all concealed threat, knowing full well that the other griffon would be true to his words. Giving in to the idea that there was no good way out of this, he opened his beak to speak.

“We were arguing about corn prices!” Finders Keepers shouted awkwardly, ripping her hoof from Statchel’s claws to go over to stomp on some soggy corn kernels. “Look how squishy this is! I wouldn’t pay two bits for this!

Razor-Quill and Statchel exchanged awkward looks, both knowing full well what the unconvincing mare was trying to do. The older griffon looked over to the earth-pony, grimacing in apparent distaste.

“Not impressed. Work on your lying a bit more before trying to do it.” He turned back to Statchel, his expression still the same. “This happens again and you’re going to wish your marefriend didn’t come to back you up.”

“Woah, woah, boss, it isn’t like that!” Statchel retorted, shuddering at the mere thought of such an unnatural and twisted relationship. “Besides, even if we could, what would the kid look like?”

“Can we not go down this road? It’s getting creepy,” interjected the room’s only female occupant.

“You need to learn when to keep your beak shut, Statchel.” Razor-Quill looked over to the mess on the floor, and then to the beige mare. “Clean that up, we’re going to have guests soon.”

“Guests?” Statchel asked quizzically.

“Well, more like guest,” Razor-Quill corrected. “Rosewing is bringing the biped down, so kiss and make up. I trust you two can behave yourselves?”

Statchel began to rapidly nod his head, hoping that Finders Keepers was doing the same. All he wanted was for the older griffon to leave the room so that no further embarrassment could happen, for anyone. Razor-Quill gave them both a hard look for several seconds, as though daring them to cause anymore trouble. Apparently satisfied, he gave a curt nod and left the room, closing the door behind him with a paw. The remaining occupants of the room waited a tense minute for any sign that the older griffon was coming back before letting out twin sighs of relief, both glad that the his reign of terror was over, at least for the moment.

Statchel looked back over to Finders Keepers, his body shaking slightly. “Sorry about messing with you earlier, and sorry about my boss. He’s scary like that sometimes.”

The pony shook her head. “No, I’m sorry that I freaked out at you like that... and for freaking out about ‘corn prices.’”

“Well,” Statchel began, looking gloomily at all of the corn that was on the floor, “we better clean this up.”

Finders Keepers let out a disappointed sigh as she looked at the tainted food. “Turn around while I clean this up. You don’t want to watch this.”


***  ***  ***


There had been no luck with getting any useful information from the radio waves, and Kiako Lalene had relegated himself to the floor so that he could at least lay all the way flat.

That didn’t mean that it had all been a waste, though, as he had at least found some interesting foreign, though disturbingly familiar music to help pass the time. The singer of one particular song had enraptured him with her rich, smooth voice. It had upset him that he didn’t understand any of the lyrics, though not as much as the fact that he was probably listening to a singing horse-thing. After listening to a few songs - some of them featuring that same voice - he decided that he’d rather just lay in silence, alone with his thoughts, and he willed the collar to stop tuning in to that particular frequency. It was disappointing that he hadn’t heard any English, but he supposed that he was lucky to even manage getting that one frequency through all of the static.

He sat up, rolling his neck to remove the stiffness that had built up. Hard floors were no substitute for beds, but when those same beds were made for quadrupedal mutants, well, sometimes the floor could be preferable.

A click from the other end of the room drew his attention, and despite not being able to see anything, his eyes instinctively went toward the door, just in time to see a soft, flickering stream of light filtering in from the hallway. Wincing slightly at the first light he had seen in hours, he waited for his captor to show himself, fervently hoping against hope that it could be someone that he could talk to.

When the door swung swung open, he was met with the dark silhouette of something that was definitely not human. It simply stared at him, some sort of weapon held in its claws.

“Get up, freak. It’s time for supper.” The words were in clear, understandable English, the creature’s feminine voice filled with disdain.

Kiako Lalene blinked.
> Chapter 4: An Exchange of Words
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

Everything comes to an end, and though she wished that the fun hadn’t ended as soon as it did, Rosewing was ready to move on to other things. Most likely she’d be asked to patrol the halls or some other dull task, and that was fine by her; she’d already had her free-time for the day, and she was feeling in a good mood.

The motel room was quiet and subdued, a stark contrast to earlier events. The nightstand lantern had been hung on a wall hook to better illuminate the room, the resulting light casting the griffons' shifting shadows onto the opposite wall. A small bowl of water sat on the floor, both griffons using it to dampen some rags with which to clean themselves, wiping and scrubbing away at their bodies to remove any traces of their earlier activity.

Smoothing out the fur on the inside of her thigh, Rosewing discarded her washcloth to the floor with a soft plap, not even bothering to aim for the bowl. Based on all of the other objects scattered throughout the room, it wouldn’t require an observer to be a PipBuck technician to figure out that the griffon didn’t much care for tidying up her room.

Wordlessly, she scooped up the barding that had been hastily shucked off from earlier. Rather than the bulky metal and plastic armor that her companions wore, Rosewing’s barding was much more flexible, consisting of hardened leather that came with pockets for inserting metal plates, in case she needed more protection. Sitting back on her haunches and keeping her wings flat against her sides, she lifted the barding over herself and let it slide down her arms and head, wiggling a little bit until the barding settled over her torso and midsection, her wings wriggling through the gaps in the leather.

Taking a moment to adjust the straps, Rosewing looked over to Razor-Quill who, despite not being as spry as he used to, had already finished donning his own, heavier barding and was now smoothing the covers of the bed… her bed, since it was her room.

“Are you seriously doing my bed?” Rosewing asked incredulously, though she couldn’t help but smile.

“A bit of order in your life will probably do you a bit of good, you know,” Razor-Quill replied, his attention focused on tucking in any loose edges of aged linen bed sheets under the mattress.

The slender griffon rolled her eyes at that. If she had wanted order in her life, she’d have become a peace-trooper for the NCR, rather than being the mercenary she was now. 

No, rules and regulations didn’t appeal to her one bit; following the orders of one person was already near the limits of her tolerance, but having to follow the orders of anyone that outranked her? The relative freedom that she had grown up with was all that she knew, ever since she had been a cub. Like many children in the Wasteland her education had been of a more pragmatic than academic nature, and a failing grade was never a stern talking to.

Mercenaries weren’t simply born, though. They needed to get new blood from somewhere, and the fact that an expectant mother was probably too busy watching over her egg — or swollen belly, in the case of a pony — made things worse when it came to getting new contracts. Fortunately for them, there were plenty of orphans out there who hadn’t been softened by the coddling of parents, and were perfect candidates for “professional” mercenaries. In return the orphans received the safety and comforts that typically came with being part of a close-knit mercenary band.

Nothing came free though, and her education had been of the nature one would expect from a group of hardened mercenaries. Mercenaries like Razor-Quill.

It took Rosewing a moment to realize that Razor-Quill was looking at her expectantly, as if waiting for something. Whatever that reason may have been, she must have missed it.

“What?” Rosewing squawked, slightly embarrassed that she’d been caught reminiscing.

Razor-Quill simply gave her an even stare, his blue eyes looking into her hazel. With one half of his body illuminated by the wall-mounted lantern and the other casting a deep shadow across the room, he certainly did look intimidating, and a bit eerie. Rosewing didn’t know what Razor-Quill had asked, so she remained silent, waiting on him.

“Rosewing,” the older griffon spoke, an edge of annoyance in his voice. “I’m about to ask you to do something that you aren’t going to like.”

Rosewing felt her body relax, not even realizing that her muscles had been tensed up. Letting out the breath she didn’t know she’d been holding, she gave the other a griffon a sheepish smile.

“So, how bad is it?” she asked half-jokingly, some self-confidence returning to her demeanor. She was no stranger to doing unpleasant jobs, and not even bedding the leader of Sabre Squad could completely free her from her responsibilities.

Razor-Quill’s expression didn’t falter, and a newfound sense of dread began to well up inside Rosewing’s breast. What could possibly be so bad as to make Razor-Quill extra-extra-seriousness all of the sudden?

“I know you don’t like it,” Razor-Quill began, the edges of his beak forming into a small frown, “but I need you to escort the other survivor down to the pantry.”

“The pony?” Rosewing asked, her words laced with a desperate hopefulness.

The male griffon simply shook his head, his eyes still fixed on hers, as though watching for any sign of insubordination.

Rosewing swallowed nervously, her talons clicking against the floorboards as she tried to find a way to get out of having to deal with the other survivor.

“And what’re you going to be doing?” she demanded, hoping to maybe turn the conversation around and perhaps get the other griffon to change his mind.

“I’m having Statchel get the pony and bring her to the pantry, which is the same place you’re going to be when you bring in the —” Razor-Quill paused for a moment, as though trying to decide on the right word to use in reference to the other survivor — “ape. After that, I’m going to do a quick perimeter sweep. The least you can do for me is take care of one unarmed wastelander. And by ‘take care of’, I don’t mean shoot. Understood?”

Rosewing found herself nodding, her beak forming a discontented grimace. Razor-Quill watched her for a moment longer before nodding his own head, apparently satisfied that his “request” would be followed.

Wordlessly, Razor-Quill turned away from the bed, heading over toward the door before suddenly stopping. He turned around again, walking up to the nightstand and opened a drawer. “Almost forgot.”

Rosewing could just make out the mumbled words that the other griffon had said, and she looked at him quizzically. What had he forgotten? The answer came to her, literally, as Razor-Quill tossed her something that flashed in the lantern light. 

An outstretched claw caught the object by its steel chain, and she saw that it was the medallion that she had recently looted, its golden surface lined with a latticework of wire-thin gems that seemed to change color, depending on how the light hit it. 

She smiled, glad that despite the job she’d been given, Razor-Quill hadn’t let her forget about her prize. Wanting to thank him, she looked up just in time to see the door gently close shut.

Alone in the room now, her smile fell into a frown. Though she enjoyed the mercenary lifestyle and the opportunities it offered, even she had to admit that it was missing a few things. With a dreary sigh, she hung the jewelry chain around her neck and let the medallion slip into her barding, between the peytral and the plumage underneath. She searched the floor for the remaining pieces of her barding, ignoring the bits of trash and other debris that littered the area. 

It didn’t take her long to find her missing bits of armor, and after awkwardly putting on the thin steel hock-guards and tail-blade, she was nearly finished with her preparations to escort the “ape” — as Razor-Quill had called it — to dinner. Rosewing had purposely been taking her time, but she could only procrastinate for so long. 

Letting out another sigh, she headed over to the bed, leaning down to reach underneath to find the final piece of equipment to finish her “ensemble”. Talons scratching and sweeping against the dusty floor and bits of paper and glass, it took her a moment to find what she was looking for, but when she did she had no trouble bringing it out from under the bed. It hadn’t been under the bed for any longer for an hour or two, but that hadn’t stopped her leather holster from becoming a brief resting place for several dust-bunnies. 

Hanging off of her right shoulder were several plastic buckles, and it was here that she connected the matching buckles of her holster to the ones on her barding. With a satisfying click, both herself and her weapon — Rose Red — were ready to do their “duty.”

Shrugging her shoulders to make sure the weapon wasn’t too unbalanced, Rosewing headed toward the nightstand, where she saw that Razor-Quill had left a key — presumably for the creature’s holding room. Tucking the key into one of her barding pockets, she squinted up at the lantern hanging above her, a talon reaching up to flick the switch. By the time the room had dimmed down into its natural darkness, Rosewing had already exited the room and closed the door behind her.

While the flickering of candles wasn’t nearly as bright as the lantern she had just turned off, they provided more than enough light for her eyes to adjust to the hallway. Unlike everywhere else in the motel, the second-level hallway had absolutely nothing in the way of ornamentation, save for the mottled, dusty wallpaper that ran between doorways.

Rosewing looked down both ends of the hall to see if anyone else was around; first to the left toward the stairwell, then to the end of the hallway on her right. Seeing nothing out of the ordinary she headed right, following the zig-zag of doors toward the end of the hall. As she padded down the hallway, she slipped a claw into her pocket to remove the key that had been given to her by Razor-Quill. Easily hobbling along on three limbs, she stopped at the end of the hallway, looking down at the key and then to the door she stood before.

42, she mused, turning the little brass key in her claw.

With a final, self-pitying sigh she inserted the key and unlocked the door, which had been removed and reinstalled so that it couldn’t be unlocked from the inside. Rosewing could still see traces of the door’s original orientation, even in the candle light.

Arm crossing over her breast and reaching toward its opposite shoulder she took a moment to pop the retaining strap of her holster, wrapping her claw around the familiar grip of Rose Red. Giving the boxy, rectangular pistol a perfunctory check to make sure that it wouldn’t blow up in her face, she turned the weapon toward the door and shoved it open, letting her candle-lit shadow flow into the room.

Eyes taking the barest moment to adjust, she scanned the relatively bare and musty smelling room, looking for what she knew to be the room’s only inhabitant. It didn’t take her long to find it sitting on the floor, nor for her weapon to be aimed in its direction. Whether the creature’s slight wince came from the sudden light entering the room or simply reacting to the weapon aimed at it’s relatively flat face, she didn’t much care.

“Get up, freak. It’s time for supper,” she barked, a talon-tip stroking the pistol’s trigger guard, as if in anticipation. Make my day, I dare you.

The creature blinked at her, eyes wide and the little tufts above them shooting up, perhaps in surprise. Whatever the reason, the reaction was short-lived, and soon the creature’s eyes returned to their original size and the eye-tufts settled back down. 

Before she could repeat herself, the creature slowly stood up on its paws, its fleshy claws set behind its head. Rosewing had to stop herself from letting the talon slip inside the trigger guard, such was her surprise in how smoothly the creature had stood up on its hind legs. 

Surprised as Rosewing was for dealing with something outside of her expertise, it was by no means enough to make her turn tail and run, or to make her forget her “duty”. While she may have only come up to the apparently-bipedal creature’s waist, she was the one with gun. If push came to shove, she would be the one burning holes in things.

The biped didn’t make any further moves from its position next to the bed, simply staring down at her with a face that made it perfectly clear how it felt about the position it was in. Just as Rosewing was about to wave the biped closer to the door, her eyes caught the dark shape that stood out against the biped’s pale neck. It took her a moment to figure out why she had suddenly became so focused on the band, but the reason became clear soon enough when the biped turned its head to the side for her to look.

One didn’t need to have been a slave to get the general idea of what a slave collar looked like; a dark, metal band that wrapped around a victim’s neck, the collar itself packed with enough explosives to make escape futile.

The knowledge that the creature standing before her had, or still was, a slave did little to change her feelings toward it. It was just that, a creature, and certainly not another griffon. Rosewing waved the creature to come toward the doorway, taking a few steps back herself so that she would never be within swiping distance of its long arms. As the ambient light from the hallway gradually illuminated the approaching biped, she couldn’t help but feel a wave of nausea roll through her.

The griffon already knew that the creature was mostly hairless, save for its mane and strange eye-tufts. What she wasn’t expecting was that it still had plenty of fur on its arms and legs! Of course, calling it “fur” would have been an overstatement, considering the very minor coverage provided by the thin, lightly shaded hairs that ran down the biped’s legs and arms. The only protection against the elements that the creature had were the two pieces of clothing that Statchel had failed to strip from it, either due to being lazy, or pity.

The first — and most substantial — piece of clothing was a grey shirt covering the biped’s upper body, neat stitching connecting the short sleeves that served to cover a portion of its upper arms; there was even a little pocket stitched to the front of the shirt. The second piece of clothing was also grey, appearing to be made of the same cloth as the shirt. Covering the groin and moving down to cover the upper thighs — though not far enough to cover the ugly, speckled bruises on one leg — there was no mystery for her as to what purpose the cloth served.

Remembering the first time she had seen the creature, it had looked weak and helpless amidst the rubble, even with the admittedly impressive looking armor it wore. The one standing before her now didn’t look so helpless now, though it did lack the barding and equipment it had before; she wondered if it would have been so submissive if Statchel hadn’t removed the armor. Looking back up at its face, Rosewing could tell that she wasn’t the only one doing some sizing up, and she had to fight off a shudder of revulsion when it was looking back at her. Wings ruffling in annoyance she took a few more steps back, clearing the doorway entirely.

Once more in the hallway, she gave the creature another suspicious look beckoning it forward with the end of her pistol.

“Keep your claws, paws, whatever, where they are and move forward. No funny business, or you get dusted.” The nearly inaudible but by no means subtle flick of her weapon’s safety only punctuated her readiness to deal with any problem.

Though she didn’t have lips herself, Rosewing had been around ponies long enough to recognize what it meant when someone pressed their lips together until there was only a thin line. If the freak standing in front of her was feeling annoyed or angry, it would just have to deal with it.

The ‘freak’ in question moved forward, obeying her instructions, its strange body moving in a way that struck her as off somehow, though she couldn’t think of any reason other than that the proportions and joints of its body were far different than hers. She moved laterally from the doorway, putting some space between it and herself so that she could maneuver if the biped decided it wanted to try its chances.

Claws still behind its head, the creature’s face was still locked in the same stern, humorless expression as it had when she first entered the room. Maintaining eye contact with her, it began to move forward, lifting one leg at a time — impressive considering the fact that it only had two to stand on — until stopping at the doorway.

“Any further orders for this toy soldier?” a voice asked, its smooth baritone easily understandable save for the strange accent that hovered minutely over every word.

Rosewing felt her body tense up at the unexpected remark, mentally stuttering for a brief second before realizing that the speaker was right in front of her. Recovering from the brief startle, she regained her composure, muscles loosening up slightly.

“Down the hall and stop at the edge of the stairs.” She punctuated her order with a wave of the pistol she still held. “Anything else, and you’re dust.”

The biped simply nodded, expression unchanging as its head ducked underneath the doorframe to enter the hallway, its back turned to her as its fleshy feet padded softly against the ancient floorboards.

The griffoness watched as her charge obeyed the order, her observant eyes catching another strangeness of the creature’s anatomy. Unlike the ears of a pony or donkey, the biped’s were located differently and were of a completely different structure, the cartilage forming stiff, inflexible looking ridges.

Sorta like a seashell… sorta. She couldn’t help but be amused that seashells were what came to mind when looking at an ear, no matter how strange it may have looked. She shook her head to clear the imagery, though not without a soft smile on her beak. As much as she disliked her current task, it didn’t mean she had time to relax.

The biped hadn’t gotten too far ahead of her during her musings; it had only gotten to the halfway point between her and the stairwell. Wasting no more time on silly thoughts or daydreams, she moved to close the distance between herself and her charge. As the distance between Rosewing and the staircase lessened, the opposite occurred with the lighting. The candles ahead of her were more closely placed, unlike the ones behind her which had been used more sparingly.

With the lightning more even and less erratic, she could clearly see that there was some sort of symbol adorning the back of the biped’s shirt, one that she was unfamiliar with. The design was made up of three empty ovals, their light blue edges intersecting across a central point to create a six-pointed symmetrical shape. A small dot sat on the edge of each oval, giving off the impression that the dots were following a sort of elliptical orbit.

While never going so far as to call herself an artist, Rosewing couldn’t help but admire the way a series of simple shapes formed to create one more complicated. She herself liked to paint or draw when the occasion allowed, such as the time she had given her weapon the distinctive floral patterning that had become its namesake.

“Stop,” Rosewing ordered, the biped obeying and stopping at the top of the staircase. Its head turned slightly to the side, as if trying to angle one of its stiff ears toward her. The griffoness let her eyes wander toward the symbol on the creature’s shirt again, her curiosity beginning to get the better of her.

“What’s the symbol on your back?” Rosewing asked abruptly, for the first time actually interested in anything to do with the strange biped.

Seeming to stiffen at the question, the biped remained silent for a moment before speaking, its tone firm despite the slight accent.

“Something-for-something,” it said, the first three words blending together strangely, sounding as if the words were sped up somehow. “Answer my question first and I’ll answer yours.”

Rosewing couldn’t help but frown at the offer. Unlike the ponies that made up the vast majority of the Wasteland’s population, griffons weren’t the type of people to be open to personal questions. This was simply fact, a fact that anyone should already know.

That being the case, she didn’t really see a particular any particular harm in playing along, so long as the question wasn’t too outrageous. After mulling it over for a moment she decided to go along with the offer, despite the oddness of its earlier words.

“Fine. Whadd’ya wanna ask?” The words came out a touch harsher than she had intended for them to be, but they got the point across well enough. She was the boss after all, at least for the moment.

Blunt, pale claws still steepled behind its head, the biped asked its question, voice firm and even. “What are you?”

As far as questions went it was one of the more absurd ones, so much so that Rosewing couldn’t help but let her head draw back in mild surprise, eyes wide for a brief second. 

What are you? Oddly enough, she found that she didn’t doubt for a moment the sincerity of the question. She didn’t think that the biped was pulling her tail when it had asked the question, nor did she think it was asking what she did for a living.

The biped hadn’t moved since it had asked its question, simply standing patiently as it awaited the answer to its question. Breaking the pregnant pause that followed the creature’s question, Rosewing finally answered.

“Griffon. I’m a griffon.” She couldn’t help but feel not just a little bit self-conscious as she said that. 

The biped simply nodded, claws still steepled over the back of its head. “A deal’s a deal. Ask away.”

Rosewing frowned. Now that it was her turn to ask a question, she wasn’t so sure she shouldn’t ask about something else. On the one wing, she still had no idea what the creature actually was, other than being male and walking two legs. On the other, she could still ask about the symbol on the shirt, which in truth appealed to her more than simply knowing what to call the owner of said shirt. 

Knowing Statchel’s ever-present curiosity, she figured that if anyone was most likely to ask the first question, it would be him. As far as she knew, the other two griffons of the group didn’t share her interest in art, at least not to the same degree that she did, which made the decision on what to ask that much easier.

“What’s the symbol on the back of your shirt mean?” Her pistol flicked toward said symbol for emphasis, more for herself than for anything else. The owner of the shirt answered her immediately, the firmness of its tone softening somewhat, as if the question was about something that interested it. 

“It’s a simple depiction of the —” its voice seemed to dip for a moment, saying something guttural and unintelligble, —” model. To be more specific, it is a stone atom, hence the three electrons.”

Rosewing couldn’t help but make note of the little quirks she heard in the biped’s speech, which didn’t seem to be related to its slight accent. She had noticed the same little quirk earlier as well, when the biped had made its little offer. It wasn’t the first time she had spoken with foreigners hailing from outside of Equestria, and for the most part she’d had little trouble in understanding them. The same was true here, and aside from the little irregularities in its speech the biped spoke the language very well.

“So…” Rosewing began, writing off the biped’s speech impediment in favor of getting some follow-up information on the symbol. “...it’s related to science, then?”

“You would be correct.” The interest that had colored the biped’s explanation was gone, its tone once more falling back to the firm base that seemed to be the norm.

Wow… lame, were the words that ran through her head at that moment, mirroring the disappointment she felt at learning the meaning behind the symbol. What a damned waste of a design.

“Right, enough questions. Down the stairs you go,” Rosewing ordered, curiosity replaced with the forceful tone she had used when first meeting the biped. The one time she’d taken an interest in something foreign, and it turned out that it was something for nerds.

The biped complied, claws still behind its head as it took the first step down the stairs, its head dangerously close to brushing against the sloping ceiling. One step, then two, both paws on a tread before repeating the process with the next one down. Watching her charge descend, Rosewing couldn’t help but notice the circular aperture in the back of its collar, or the flecks of metal within gleaming back at her like a trio of brass stars.

With the final creak of wood the biped reach the foot of the stairs, taking a few more steps before stopping in front of the wall, not deviating at all from the order Rosewing had given it. Satisfaction was the furthest thing from her mind, though, even with the biped’s wordless compliance of her orders. Her gaze was focused solely on that hole in back of the creature’s neck, a heaviness welling up in her breast that only increased the longer she stared. The biped shifted, its body pivoting enough so that its pale blue eyes looked back into her hazel. Its expression was still locked in that same stern look as before, but its eyes had hardened into one of annoyance. She had been staring for too long.

“It’s rude to stare, you know.” The biped’s words were spoken with an air of calm indifference, belying the hardness in the owner’s eyes.

Rosewing was silent, unable to break the gaze she shared with the creature at the foot of the stairs. Shaking herself mentally, she forced herself to break the silence to give a pair of commands.

“Move down the hall, claws behind your head. No fast movements, or you’re done.” The biped gave a curt nod, the hardness in its eyes softening, before turning around again to walk out of her sight. The griffon let out a ragged sigh, just becoming aware that she’d been holding her breath until then. The tightness in her breast had begun to recede, and she felt soon enough that there would be no more problems.

Descending down the stairs and reaching the first floor she turned her head to look down the hall, seeing the biped moving toward an awaiting Statchel. The male griffon gave Rosewing a respectful nod, but her attention was elsewhere, once more focused on the aperture at the base of the creature’s neck. Something about a living creature having what looked like an exposed socket on its neck made her flesh crawl.

Only machines are supposed to have those, came a small voice in the back of her mind. 

Still standing in the hall, Rosewing watched Statchel direct the biped into the room with the measured prods of a machine-pistol. The brown griffon gave her a questioning look, as if to ask if anything was wrong. She shook her head. With a shrug, Statchel followed the biped inside, the griffon’s tail pulling the door closed behind him. Muffled voices reached Rosewing’s hearing a moment later, the content behind whatever being said of no interest to her; she was happy enough just to be alone, if only for a second.

Letting out a quiet sigh, Rosewing began to roll her shoulders and stretch her legs, feeling the unease she felt earlier flow away with whatever tension had built up in her muscles. Wish I could just stay here. Smiling at the thought, she knew that wasn’t an option. Razor-Quill might have been relatively lenient and laid-back compared to some other griffons she’d met, but when commands were issued he expected nothing but obedience.

Taking one last procrastinating stretch before walking toward the door to the pantry, Rosewing steeled herself against whatever discomfort she’d soon face, and opened the door. 
			
> Chapter 5: Plain English
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

With Statchel having left the pantry to give her some privacy, Finders Keepers was able to “clean” the mess of spilled corn far faster than if she were in polite company. With no one watching, all bets were off.

Licking her lips clean of any stray kernels, Finders Keepers soon found that all that remained of the corn were the bits that had fallen onto the floor, and even she wasn’t that desperate. Not yet at least. That left only the tin that her meal had come in, which now just contained some corn-tainted water. Shooting a cautious glance to the door, she moved her hooves to grip the sides of the metal container, lifting it up to her muzzle to drink what remained.

Unfortunately for her the door chose that particular moment to swing open, causing Finders Keepers to spray corn-water across the room and onto the familiar figure of her bipedal companion.

Hacking for a few brief few seconds, she sputtered once more, this time with an apology that probably wouldn’t be understood. The biped’s response was to be expected: a look of annoyance focused on her, followed by a limb trying to brush the stain off its shirt. With an exasperated sigh it — he, she corrected — moved to the sit across from her, his pale, furless legs bending and crossing in a seemingly unnatural fashion before resting on his haunches.

Despite the fact that the biped was now sitting, the table seemed comically low in comparison, its surface barely above his stomach. Still, he was low enough now that Finders Keepers could see Statchel closing the door behind him, with one weapon still trained at the biped’s back as a precaution.

“Way to have a gun on him while he’s on the ground, ” Finders Keepers pointed out, her tone of disapproval mixed with no small amount of amusement. Fat chance of the biped somehow managing to overpower a griffon, let alone one as muscular as Statchel.

“You never know,” Statchel replied with a smirk, slipping the machine pistol into his barding’s holster. The male griffon moved from between the doorway and the biped, eyes staying on the latter’s collar for a moment too long before the wearer stared right back.

With the creature looking at Statchel as he crossed the room, Finders Keepers had a few seconds to stare at the collar without fear of being seen as rude. The dark ring of metal around the biped’s neck seemed much more comfortable than she would have first thought, as it didn’t appear to be digging into the wearer’s pale flesh at all. It almost looked pretty, with all the runic markings scored into the metal.

The face across from her soon came to look in her direction, though by that time it would merely be looking at a politely sitting earth-pony, who seemed to merely be waiting patiently for something.

Giving the biped a polite smile, she turned her head to see where Statchel had gone when she’d been looking at the collar. A quick search managed to locate the missing griffon, who was currently standing on his hind-legs to work on something on the counter, though what she couldn’t tell. Leaning a little to the side, she saw that Statchel was simply connecting a hot plate to a spark battery. How exciting, she thought.

“So,” Finders Keepers started, wanting to break the silence with something that amounted to more than just small talk, “how long will you be having us here? Not saying that we’re not thankful and everything, but I’m sure we can’t be here forever, you know?”

“Probably not for long,” Statchel assured, turning from the hot plate to face the earth-pony mare. “I imagine that Razor-Quill will probably want to ask you a few questions before he turns you loose.”

Finders Keepers nodded at that, smiling in relief as her fears were assuaged. She had not, in fact, been dumped out of the frying pan and into the fire after all.

The sound of muffled steps from the hallway alerted her to a newcomer, and she turned around just in time to see the door open to reveal another griffon, this one’s features contrasting greatly with those of Statchel’s. Still, while the mare wasn’t very knowledgeable about griffons, she knew enough about them to pick out genders, and this one was definitely no male, which meant Razor-Quill had yet to arrive.

“Hello!” Finders Keepers greeted warmly, if a little forced. “Thanks for taking us in after saving us from those raiders, we'd've been goners if it weren’t for you.”

Rather than getting the return greeting Finders Keepers had hoped for, she was miffed to see the griffon had chosen to stare at the back of the biped’s neck instead, completely ignoring the earth-pony. She wasn’t the only one to notice the one-sided greeting, either, her ears unconsciously perking up at the sound of Statchel’s barding scraping against the wooden counter, followed by the clicks and clacks of talons hitting the floor as the griffon turned to look in the same direction as Finders Keepers.

“It’s rude to stare at a guest, you know,” Statchel’s said, the deepness of his voice almost equal to the tone of annoyance that had been piled onto the short sentence.

With words guttural and low, the biped said something as well, his voice mirroring Statchel’s only in annoyance, but it was enough to convince Finders Keepers that the message carried the same sentiment — if not more so.

The reaction was unexpected, though.


***  ***  ***


There were many annoyances that plagued the man throughout his life, most of which were actually quite minor compared to other things. Still, there were limits to the unpleasantries he was forced to endure, and he had already given one warning already.

“Does every hole tickle your fancy,” Kiako said as he turned to look to the creature behind him, “or am I the exception?”

The already-large eyes of the cat-bird in question went wide with unmistakable indignation — something that apparently transcended the boundaries of species. Its feathery head reared back away from him, and Kiako couldn’t help but let a flicker of a smile pass over his face. It took a few milliseconds for him to register that the offended creature’s talons had just come off the floor for a swipe at the back of his head, but with the familiar warmth of something wet and sticky running down his scalp, he was anything but motionless.


***  ***  ***


Statchel’s first reaction was to wince at the unprovoked strike the biped had just received to the back of his head. Still, at least it didn’t go across the face, said the part of him that tried to find a silver lining in what was likely going to turn into something unpleasant.

Fortunately for the griffon, his protective instincts were much quicker than that other part of him, as he had his forelegs up just in time to protect his head from the suddenly approaching table.


***  ***  ***


Definitely wasn’t expecting that, Finders Keepers mused from her spot on the floor, her ears ringing from when the previously docile table had slammed her onto the floor before continuing onward toward the poor griffon behind her. He’ll be fine…

The earth-pony blinked away the foggy film that covered her vision, giving her head a little shake despite the protests of her undoubtedly bruised muzzle. Facing the front of the room, amidst some shattered kitchenware and a few cups, she could see the contorted bodies of both the biped and the rosey-feathered griffon, their bodies bleeding and on the floor but not at all still.

With the biped’s lack of body hair, Finders Keepers could clearly see where the griffoness’s talons had left weeping lacerations on her opponent’s pale, unprotected flesh. That didn’t mean that the griffon wasn’t being given as good as she got, though, because even her rosey-hued feathers weren’t that red.

Shakily getting up onto her hooves, she knew that she couldn’t just lay there and watch the fight. With a quick glance behind her to check if Statchel was alright — and he was, if him pushing the table was any sign of that — the earth-pony threw herself into the fray, coming to the rescue for a second time.


***  ***  ***


Rosewing’s beak shut with a painful clack as the back of her head hit the latch of the door that had been left ajar. Really wish I had closed that.

The griffoness tried to go for the gun holstered on her barding, but before she could wrap her claw around Rose Red’s grip, the wind forced its way out of her beak with a ragged gasp as the biped snaked a kick beneath her and into her midriff, lifting the front of her body a few inches off the floor before something else — also hard — slammed into the top of her skull, sending her to the floor.

Dazed and her thoughts a little muddled, Rosewing felt something pressing hard against her throat, but the near-blind, panicky swipe of a foreleg earned her a grunt of pain from her opponent, followed by a faint snap and the sound of someone falling.

Having made herself some breathing room, she pushed against the floor to give herself as much distance as she could before her back hit the wall, and by then the two-legs was on her again, its clenched fists pounding into her with such fury that for a brief moment she could have sworn it was an earth-pony delivering the blows. 

Ignoring the thunder of her pulse, and trying to stave off the thunder of blows raining down onto her body, Rosewing managed to force out an ear-piercing shriek of rage that put pause to the blows that had a moment ago seemed endless. With a grunt of pain she managed to sweep her wing against the crouching biped’s legs, knocking it off balance so that the follow-up sweep with her foreleg finished what the first one started. 

The fighting continued from there, on the ground. Biting, punching, kicking, and everything in between were the order of the day, and so focused was the griffon on destroying her abominable assailant that she never noticed the hoof that smashed into the side of her head, or the gunshot that followed.


***  ***  ***


Old as the motel was, it didn’t take long for someone to grow familiar with the noises it made. Wooden boards creaked beneath the paw, and hinges squealed in protest at not having been oiled in centuries; it was the same story with many of Equestria’s buildings.

Some noises are trouble though, and can’t be ignored. Razor-Quill dropped his microphone with a start, tore off his headphones and grabbed his pistol from off the table before scrambling out the door, the tinny voice on the radio forgotten.

That sure as hell wasn’t the building settling, Razor-Quill thought, his mind racing through the possibilities of what had caused the crash downstairs. He was already flying down the stairs before he realized that he’d taken off his barding earlier. 

A solitary gunshot rang out the moment his claws hit the base of the stairs, his joints popping painfully in concert. Cursing for reasons more than just old age, he continued to close the distance between himself and the pantry.


***  ***  ***


The man lay on his side, the floor pleasantly cool against the area of skin where his shirt had ridden up. Other parts of his body were starting to realize that he’d taken just as much of a beating as he had given in return, and he could feel the pinpricks of sensation that meant pain wasn’t far behind.

Bleeding and beaten as he was, though, he was relieved that he wouldn’t be falling out of a LifeNet pod anytime soon. The fight was over for now, that much he knew, thanks to the rather unexpected end to the fight. Unfortunately for his horse-like companion, it had been the one to take the bullet likely meant for him, and was reacting appropriately in response to being shot: screaming and crying bloody murder, probably at the shaken hybrid that had fired the bullet.

Moving a hand to wipe away some of the blood on his face Kiako found that there was something wrapped around his fingers. Investigating the matter he found that some sort of medallion was on the floor beside him, and it just so happened that a fine steel chain connected both the medallion and his fingers together. How did that get there?

Casting a furtive glance around the room, he saw that the other occupants of the room were still recovering from the fight — though one would likely take a bit longer to recover than the others, he was quite sure. Looking over to the hybrid with the gun to make sure it or its owner wasn’t looking toward him, he pulled the chain loose from his fingers before tucking his prize in the space between his waist and the elastic strap of his briefs. It was quick and simple, and none were left the wiser. 

Taking a moment to wipe away some blood that was about to drip into his eye, he turned his attention to his wounded — and loudly protesting — acquaintance. Screaming and hollering in a way that transcended species, the equinoid was thrashing on the pantry floor between himself and the rosey cat-bird he had just scuffled with. Whether the bullet had been meant for him or not, the equinoid was the one who had reaped the repercussions.

What drew his attention the most though wasn’t that the thrashing creature was wounded and bleeding — though he did give a cursory look over its blooded flank, small caliber perhaps? — or even the racket it was making, but instead what it was saying. Sitting upright now the man stared wide-eyed as the equinoid’s stream of foreign expletives and curses began to flow into something sounding uncannily familiar to human speech, if not quite English.

Before Kiako could even figure out what was going on his thoughts were interrupted by the figure that had burst through the doorway. The man’s eyes focused instantly on the gun that was scanning the room before it turned on him, a sickly green glow emanating from the muzzle.

“Statchel, what happened?” bellowed the room’s newest occupant, the speaker’s gruff voice in clear English. Kiako’s eyes drifted up from the muzzle of the weapon went up the limb holding it, and saw that this creature was of the same species as the other two hybrids in the room. 

“He f-fucking shot me!” cried out a feminine voice, the words sounding like they were being spoken through gritted teeth.

Was I being lied to? So she does know English! Beyond bewildered by this point, he sat up straighter to try and get an uninterrupted view at the wounded equinoid. That got a reaction out of the cat-bird, and for the man’s trouble he was rewarded with a shove back onto the floor, his head nearly smacking into the wood. 

“S’what’s you get for trying to join in, fatty!” This voice Kiako was already familiar, for he had just been fighting it — or her, he supposed — just moments ago.

Yet another voice chimed in, and Kiako’s head turned to look at the other hybrid that had escorted him into the room earlier. “And you shouldn’t have started this whole mess in the first place, Rosewing!” 

Rosewing, pretty self-explanatory. Statchel must be the other cat-bird, then. The man gained some childish pleasure at being given two of the names of his captors, without having to ask himself. Still, something was going on that wasn’t normal — aside from him being captured by talking animals — and he wasn’t going to draw any undue attention to himself by asking questions. Best to play it by ear.

“We have bigger things to worry about than who started what,” the unnamed hybrid began, obviously the leader of the group by this point. “Statchel, take the pony and treat her. We’ll have a talk later.”

“Got it boss,” Statchel said, having already holstered his gun by the time he had helped up the wounded equinoid. “Let’s get you up and out of here.”

“Just hurry up,” was all his horse-like acquaintance managed to hiss as she was helped out of the room, Statchel the cat-bird lending support.

Unfortunately that left Kiako alone with two of his captors, one of which already had a reason to hate him — possibly even before the fight happened — and the other currently holding him at gunpoint. He’d been in similar situations before, but never one quite like this. If they did choose to execute him, he hoped that they’d make it quick so that this little adventure could end and he could be back in familiar territory.

Kiako stared at the remaining two hybrids, Rosewing having come around the side of the unnamed one, gun drawn. One of her eyes was swollen shut, the sickly purple clashing with the feathers of her head, and blood dripped from a nostril in her beak. 

“Can I have the honors, boss?” Kiako could see the edges of her beak curling up in a wicked grin, though the fact that her beak even could unsettled him more than her bloodlust. 

The man glanced over at the other cat-bird, trying to gauge its reaction to Rosewing’s offer. Looking past the large beak and into a pair of very large and blue eyes, he tried to figure out what the hybrid-leader was thinking. It took the man a few seconds to realize that it was trying to do the exact same thing with him. 

If the two hadn’t been locked onto each other so, Kiako might not have registered the almost imperceptible nod that the cat-bird gave to him. He wasn’t quite sure what that meant, but it gave him some relief that maybe, just maybe, the hybrid wouldn’t let his underling avenge herself upon him.

“Rosewing...” the leader began, hesitating for a moment as if deciding how to finish the sentence, “...go to Statchel and get fixed up. I’ll take care of this.”

Compared to the cool reply that had answered her question, Rosewing’s response was anything but. Kiako could see the flicker of shock across her avian features, a flicker that was replaced by a scream of frustration and a litany of curses and accusations of the other hybrid’s mental faculties. 

The male cat-bird wouldn’t be swayed on the matter however, which only served to increase Roswing’s level of frustration. The fiery passion that the female hybrid exuded for his murder frankly amazed Kiako, and the image of a child throwing a temper-tantrum was one of the first things that came to mind. 

Just as it looked as if the argument would turn into a more physical confrontation did Rosewing finally relent, having been ordered to put her gun away. She cast Kiako in a baleful glare that more than told him what she wanted to do to him, and it seemed to him that the only thing that prevented her from changing her mind on the spot was her obedience to the other hybrid.

As if daring her to do anything more, the male cat-bird continued to glare at Rosewing even as she slinked out of the room. Only when the door was slammed shut in a final act of defiance did the male hybrid turn to back to Kiako, looking him over as if seeing him in a new light.

“You’re hurt,” the male observed, gesturing with a talon to the many aching cuts that crisscrossed the man’s legs and arms, as well as the one on his face.

Kiako nodded at that. “If you have my belongings, I can treat myself, rather than having your… male… tend to me. That will allow me to avoid your other subordinate.”

The hybrid nodded back, seemingly pleased that he could keep the man and Rosewing away from each other. Still, as strange as talking with some sort of animal experiment was, Kiako had questions that he needed answered, two in particular.

“What are you, you and the… horse-thing.”

Upon being asked the question the creature seemed taken aback, surprised at what had been said. That didn’t last long though, and soon the male gave a soft chortle, as if a child had said something humorous. Kiako didn’t much care for it, but he waited silently for the cat-bird to finish.

“You really aren’t from around here, aren’t you?” the hybrid said after it had finished, a mirthful look in his eye. “I’m a griffon, and that filly we found you with is a pony.”

Kiako mulled the names over, ignoring the slightly patronizing tone of someone talking to a tourist. The names were familiar to him, but neither could really be true, could they? To see a phenotypical mix of avian and feline, only to have it be named after a breed a dog, was truly bizarre. 

Though I can see why the other creature might be called a pony, he grudgingly admitted to himself. Naming conventions could wait later though, and with a grunt of exertion he heaved himself off the floor, careful to keep his arm against his hip, where the medallion he had stolen earlier was hidden between himself and his briefs.

“Take me back to my belongings, and I’ll treat myself,” Kiako announced. He had put off checking himself for too long, and if he waited any longer he would pay the price for it, whether by blood loss or infection. Already he felt as if he were a little faint-headed.

“Good,” the griffon. “I don’t know what you are, and I don’t much care. All I know is that you’re trouble, and I don’t want to deal with you.”

“Believe me, I don’t want to be here.”

The two beings stared at each other for a moment, and then walked out of the room.


***  ***  ***


Once again the earth-pony was back in that medical room, though this time she was at least awake and not under the effects of some sedative: now Finders Keepers was trying a different drug, one that numbed the pain and not the mind. That very same surgical table she’d seen during her last visit was now seeing some use, and despite her coat the cold metal still managed to give her a shiver.

Finders Keepers had long gotten used to the profuse apologies from Statchel, and withdrawn within herself, trying to ignore that the fact that the griffon was digging inside of her to undo the damage he’d done. Even with the painkillers, she still flinched as the probe touched something it shouldn’t have.

Giving herself a break from the floral pattern on the walls she closed her eyes, letting out a drawn-out sigh to try and rid herself of some of the unease that had built up ever since the day at started. 

If there’s ever a time to think about your life choices, it’s when some guy is pulling a bullet out of you, she mused darkly, unable to help but chuckle under her breath. 

“Sorry,” Statchel murmured, his deep voice at odds with how apologetic he was being. She didn’t give him a reply.

Thinking back to when she had first left home five years ago, she reminisced about the places and people she’d met in her travels since. Her scavenging had taken her all across the battered Equestrian Wasteland, from the bustling NCR capital of Junction Town to the quiet and more subdued Stableside. She’d even met the original Element of Kindness, if only briefly.

Still, it wasn’t all sunshine and rainbows. She’d had run-ins with bandits on occasion, forcing her to leave some of the best scavenging spots she’d ever run into. Other times she’d have to run away from the wildlife if her pistol couldn’t deal with it. Adding a gunshot wound to the list was a long time coming, if nothing else.

She was a scavenger though, and she went where the pickings were good. It was her namesake, after all.

Mercenaries though, they were different. It wasn’t that they did questionable jobs in exchange for caps; she looted the dead, whether the corpses were buildings or actual corpses. No, what bothered her the most was that she felt confined in this place, this motel. Being trapped in the same building with the psycho-griffon and another griffon who had shot her to protect the first one didn’t help her opinion of the place, either.

Finders Keepers took pride in her knack for getting out of bad situations, and her instincts were telling her that she should leave this place as soon as possible. Getting shot by the griffons who had saved you from bloodthirsty raiders couldn’t be a sign of goodluck. 

The opening and closing of the door brought her back to the real world, her ears perking at the sound before her eyes followed. There in the room was the one member of Sabre Squad she really didn’t want to see.

“Get me a compress, Statchel,” Rosewing said, her demand sounding a little sulky to the pony’s ears.

“Wait your turn Rose, I’m kinda busy cleaning up the mess you started.” Finders Keepers flinched as another bullet fragment was removed. Thank Celestia and Luna for the painkillers.

The pony flinched again as Rosewing sent her a hostile glare. Finders Keepers glared right back, and the staring match continued for a few more seconds before the griffon finally relented, shaking her head and getting her own medical attention from a nearby crate.

“I’m nearly finished, just need to slap a healing poultice on and give you a potion and you should be mostly better,” Statchel said from the other end of the table, trying to sound cheerful.

“Your bedside manner is still bad,” Finders Keepers quipped, not entirely without humor.

The griffon huffed at that, but continued treating her. Now that Statchel was no longer digging into her with his tools the healing could begin, or as he called it, “the Two P’s”. The pony could feel the tickle of the healing poultice doing it’s work, though the potion she drank almost made her throw up.

Spitting out the plastic vial, she turned to look how Rosewing was doing: she might have been a psycho, but she had helped save the biped’s life as well as Finders Keepers’. Either the griffoness was really bad with tending to herself, or the crates were hard to open. Maybe it’s both.

Statchel moved on to tend to his squadmate once he made sure Finders Keepers was fine, offering yet another apology as he left to tend Rosewing. 

More or less alone at this point, there was nothing to do but wait for whatever happened next. Her thoughts moved to the strange creature that she had saved and traveled with, and wondered if it was alright. She had the suspicion that if Rosewing had killed it, she’d have looked a lot happier.

Once again the door opened, though this time it wasn’t a griffon filling up the doorway. Favoring one leg, the biped stood there equipped in his barding once more, and carrying her saddlebags. He tossed them to the floor.

“We’re leaving.”



> Chapter 6: Leaving the Nest
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

The looks on Statchel’s and the “pony’s” face didn’t at all surprise Kiako when he walked into the room and spoke. He was just as surprised himself that he could now understand — in English, no less — Statchel and the equinoid before him, though he kept his immediate emotions beneath a facade of indifference. 

He was fairly sure that the method of him being able to understand the duo — and perhaps Razor-Quill as well, since Kiako had only met him after he was able to understand their language — wasn’t telepathic in nature: his time with the Lightbearers, a faction comprised of monks, doctors, and geneticists, had given him the knowledge to protect himself from those who would violate the sanctity of his most private thoughts.

“... And you said he couldn’t talk.” The deep voice of Statchel brought him back from his memories, back into the real world. Kiako clenched his jaw, frustrated with his inability to pay attention to all things at all times.

“I said I didn’t know a word he was saying,” the equinoid said, ears pinned flat and eyes narrowing as she looked at the squat griffon. When Kiako had first set off from Zanesville, a parting gift — and payment — had been an old nag to carry him on its back. His time with horses from then on had given him the experience needed to tell what they were feeling, and right now he was pretty sure that this one was annoyed.

“...And I didn’t know what she was saying, either. As we can see, that’s changed, somehow.” The man shifted onto his other leg, immediately regretting it as the pressure sent a twinge of pain shooting up his lacerated calf.

“I wish he didn’t know how to talk, else none of us woulda been here,” grumbled Rosewing from the corner of the clinic, Kiako knowing her name only by the brief conversation he had struck up with Razor-Quill on the way to get the man’s belongings.

“You were being quite rude,” Kiako replied tersely, crossing his arms as he stared at the female griffon’s back. “I don’t know if you came from either egg or vivipary, but obviously you were born in a crater if you think I’m going to let you get away with your behavior, without even a comment.”

The man heard a snicker behind him from Razor-Quill. “The one time you mess with someone bigger than you, and you wind up in here.”

“Wait a sec, hold on!” the equinoid interjected, cutting off Rosewing’s biting response to Razor-Quill. She looked over to the sulking griffon. “You said that you could understand him? When?”

“When I was ‘escorting’ —” she raised her claws to give a pair of air quotes, something that he didn’t expect these creatures to have, especially since the language and writing styles they used were assuredly not English —”that thing, before I came to the pantry. He’s some sort of nerd, like you.”

That got him a wide-eyed stare from Statchel, and Kiako had a suspicion that the griffon didn’t get a chance to stretch his intellectual muscles nearly as much as his actual ones, which were quite impressive for a creature his size. Kiako gave the much-attentive griffon a slight nod, tossing him a bone.

“Where I am from, I am an Applier and Daedalian for the Techs. Before we go on a side tangent though, we need to figure out why you two are suddenly intelligible to me, and why… Rosewing… was the first able to understand me. I’m quite confident that you are not speaking my language, nor am I speaking yours.

The man could practically see the want in Statchel’s large eyes, the want to ask more questions, specifically about what he did. That would have to wait though, and wait it did as Statchel let out a frustrated sigh.

“It’s gotta be some sort of spell, that’s my guess.” 

Kiako was about to scoff at the idea of magic having any involvement — quite openly, too — but before he could the equinoid cut in. “Unless you folks got a unicorn tucked in another room of this place, I don’t think that’s what’s going on here.”

“It isn’t telepathic in nature, either,” the man asserted, sharing the equinoid’s feelings about mythical creatures: there was enough trouble in the world without involving magic and fantasy. “...Unless of course you have a few dozen All-Mind cultists in the next room over. In that case, we’ll need an All-Mind detector.”

The others in the room were staring at him with their large eyes, as if he had just tried to explain cold welding to a group of savages.

“What?” the man asked, quite serious. Realization came a beat later, and his lips formed a hard, thin line at his own foolishness. This wasn’t the Province, and despite the fact that they could all miraculously understand each other, that didn’t mean that his life experiences would have any meaning to these sheltered creatures.

“Right,” Kiako bit out, some of his frustration leaking into his voice. “How can we explain the phenomenon that we are currently experiencing? The information we have thus far is that up until recently — with the exception of Rosewing, for reasons unknown — I haven’t been able to understand your language, and you haven’t understood mine. Suddenly, we’re all perfectly capable of understanding each other in our mother tongues.”

He looked at them, hoping that they’d know something that he didn’t. As of late, challenges of the mind were few and far between, but he at least wanted to have a chance of solving the problem. This, this was something different: it was beyond his knowledge as an Applier and Daedalian. What he needed was a Theoretician, someone with the training and mind for problems of a theoretical nature. 

Statchel opened his beak to say something, but then closed it. A moment later he opened it again, this time with a question of a more personal nature. “Much as we all want to know what’s going on, you mind if I ask what your name is? I’m Statchel, Saber Squad’s medic and, heh, technician.”

The griffon’s sudden bashfulness threw Kiako for a loop, and for an uncomfortable moment Kiako was trying to realize what exactly it meant. Thankfully, a rude wisecrack from Rosewing helped move things along.

“Statchel, you’re a technician the same way a nurse is a surgeon. Don’t try and jump yourself up a rank just to try an’ impress a freak.”

“Hey!” the equinoid chided.

“I suppose I should introduce myself in a way other than my job description,” the man said, ignoring the earlier wisecrack and bending at the waist to give a light bow. “My name is Kiako Lalene.” He pronounced it slowly, as Ky-ko Luh-lean, so that he wouldn’t have to repeat himself.

“While we’re on the subject of names, I’d also like to know yours.” A wrist flicked to point a finger in the direction of the most familiar of the group, the equinoid.

“Finders Keepers,” the mare said, nodding in his direction. “I’d say ‘a pleasure to meet you’ and all, but I don’t think our meeting was that pleasant.”

Kiako’s lip twitched in a brief smile, knowing exactly what she meant. “I can’t help but agree with that statement. It’s unfortunate that our current situation hadn’t happened sooner, otherwise this —” he waved a hand across the room “—might not have occurred.”

A retching sound brought his attention to the corner of the room, where Rosewing was getting off of a pile of butter-yellow crates, the same kind that lined the walls of the room. “Lemme know when the weirdo is gone.”

The man sidestepped out of the way as the rose-hued hybrid made her way to leave the room, a gust of wind blowing into his face as the door slammed shut. Well, Kiako thought, at least the peanut gallery is gone.

He hadn’t heard Razor-Quill speak for a few minutes, so he could only assume that he had already left, which meant there were just the three of them now: Statchel, Finders Keepers, and himself.

“...And good riddance, too.” Finders Keepers shifted on her gurney, as if trying to find a comfortable position in which she wouldn’t have a gunshot wound. Might as well wish for the moon, too.

“She really, really hates you Ky-ko,” Statchel said, intentionally drawing out the name in the same fashion the owner of it had originally.

“It’s Kiako; you don’t draw it out,” the man clarified. “As for her hating me, there’s nothing we can do about that, unless you happen to know a good psychotherapist. Barring that, we can solve this problem simply by me not being here. How is the wound?”

A succession of hooves clattering against wood brought Kiako’s full attention to Finders Keepers, who had just slid off the gurney. He had expected her to keel over almost immediately afterward, but to his mild surprise that wasn’t the case.

“Bit stiff, actually, but I can at least walk until it mends itself, right doc?” A hoof pointed in the direction of the bloodied bandaging on her flank. 

“Very nice, but let me change the bandages first.” The griffon went over to do just that, but not before opening one of the nearby butter-yellow cases to remove some fresh bandages. Are all of these crates medical supplies?

“You know,” Finders Keepers visibly winced, ears flicking backwards for a moment as Statchel worked on her, “when I first saw you get buried underneath that pile o’ gravel, I didn’t think you’d be what you… well, what you are.”

“There’s really no easy way to ask ‘what are you?’, I think,” Statchel cut in, and for his quip he got a weak whip of his patient’s tail directly to the face.

Kiako took a step back, leaning back against the door and crossing his arms over his plated chest. The signs of him being in a foreign land were hard to refute, but up until now it hadn’t really bothered him. Even in the variety of ecosystems that the Province hosted, people had always managed to prove themselves adept at finding their way into every nook and cranny — from the grassy plains of the Union controlled Northfields to the blasted ecological hellscape that was Alpha County.

Everywhere but here. Decades before the Fall, GlobalTech had bought the Grand Canyon from the government of the time, the United States. While the man didn’t quite know the specifics of what might have lead to that decision, GlobalTech’s legacy had survived the apocalypse: whether that be in the form of the Province’s long defunct monorail network, or himself and the many clones like him.

Mulling it over it made more and more sense that the creatures before him were some type of experiment, and experiment to create a new breed of… something. Soldiers? He could see the griffons as being useful in that regard: low to the ground and capable gliding. The equinoid? Useless, and obviously a failure. 

Still, whatever the experimenter’s reasoning, they had done a fantastic job in minimizing human interference to a level that was frankly astounding. The buildings, weapons, and even the very language these creatures spoke had been crafted solely to make them think they had a society of their own. That level of control over an experiment containing intelligent lifeforms was unprecedented.

...And over twelve decades later, here I am to finally ruin a successful experiment. I know of Theoreticians who would have loved to witness this in its prime.

Science for the sake of science: that was what the Theoreticians espoused, whereas Appliers felt that science needed to have a clear goal in mind, in order to benefit mankind as a whole. GlobalTech was long dead, and there were no Theoreticians around to yell at him.

With a hissing sigh he pushed himself off the wall, taking a step forward to finally answer the duo’s question. “I’m a human, Homo Sapiens Sapiens to be specific.”

“H’umahn? Mahn wise-wise?” Statchel questioned, head tilted quizzically. “Well, I really can’t complain, I’ve never even heard of a h’umahn before.”

“Why’d you say ‘wise’ twice?” This came from the equinoid, or ‘pony’.

Kiako opened his mouth to say that he hadn’t, but then closed it. Thinking about it, that was what he’d said, wasn’t it? Except it was Latin…

“I didn’t, actually,” the man said, after all. “But I do believe I’ve found a quirk in this translation phenomena, in that it will translate any word in any language so that others can understand: the words Homo Sapiens Sapiens are not my native tongue, but a much older language used in science, specifically taxonomy.”

His hypothesis only drew a blank stare and a nod from Finders Keepers, but Statchel seemed to understand what he meant, and seemed quite excited. “I know a few Griffic words, let’s try them out!”

The griffon had gained the firm attention of both the man and the equinoid, and when Statchel’s beak opened recognizable words did come forth. Something seemed off, though.

“Well, whatever it is, it doesn’t work for me because I didn’t get any of that,” Finders Keepers remarked.

“Repeat what you just said for me, please,” Kiako asked, moving closer so as not to miss anything.

“Crossbow, mutton, cloud-seeding, sunrise.” These were the words that Kiako heard, just as he had before. That same offness was still there, too: some of the words sounded as if they’d been sped up, as if by sound software. 

“Are you aware that some of your words are sped up?” Kiako asked after a moment mulling over what he had heard. “When I speak, does the same thing happen?”

“Actually, yeah,” the equinoid said, blinking with the realization. “Did you hear it, Statchel?”

The griffon nodded at that. “It sounds like some sort of weird unicorn spell, doesn’t it?”

“Please stop with the talk of unicorns, please. It isn’t conducive to the topic and has no place here.” It was the second time he’d heard the word ‘unicorn’ as an explanation for the strange phenomenon, and already he was getting irked by such an ignorant excuse for actually trying to figure out what was going on.

“Well it has to be some kinda magic, right?” The words came from Finders Keepers’ muzzle, but Kiako had no interest in whom the question was directed at. There were quite a few things he wouldn’t tolerate, but the the talk of superstitious drivel made his blood boil like nothing else. 

“Let me know when you’re ready to leave, Finders Keepers. Finding an answer to our dilemma at this juncture has proved fruitless and we waste not only time, but brain cells as well trying to come up with magical solutions to the problem.” With that, the man kicked the equinoid’s saddlebags across the floor before pivoting on his good leg to leave.




***  ***  ***



“What an absolute ass!” Finders Keepers fumed, speaking only when the door had slammed shut. That biped, that h’umahn, was not only an idiot but an ungrateful one to boot! She’d been the one who had dug him out of that pile, and ever since she’d been suffering because of that decision to do a good deed! Who in Tartarus did that freak of nature think he was?

She wanted to scream, she really did. Kicking over the gurney behind her would have felt so good, but she held herself back: she was better than that. Instead, she merely resigned herself to taking a few deep, calming breaths to settle herself down.

“You okay?” The voice beside her was deep and reassuring, something that she appreciated greatly right then.

“Yeah… yeah, I’m fine now,” Finders Keepers lied, shaking her head. She went over to her saddlebags to check if anything had been damaged.

“Do you… uh, you want us to make sure he doesn’t follow you?” Statchel offered hesitantly. “We can probably do that.”

That definitely gave her something to think about. She had been willing to lead the biped to the nearest settlement, but that was before her encounter with the raiders. I’ve already taken a bullet for him, do I really need to do anything more for him?.

“We can give him a map of the area, mark down the nearest settlement.” Statchel offered, surprising the mare. “Closest one is a few days away, so I don’t think he should have too much trouble getting there.”

Finders Keepers turned around to look at the griffon, into his deep, brown eyes. They stared right back at hers. She liked to think that she was a good judge of character; it had definitely helped her out in the past, that was for sure. Still, Statchel had shot her, even if he hadn’t been aiming for her.

The mare frowned. Even if Statchel hadn’t been aiming for her, the bullet was still meant for Kiako. Would the h’umahn have kept fighting even after being shot? He did seem like the stubborn type, at least from her brief time with him.

There was also the issue with Rosewing’s obvious xenophobia; despite everyone else in the building treating Kiako somewhat fairly, Finders Keepers didn’t think that everyone else in Equestria would be willing to take an ‘ask first, shoot later’ policy.

“That would be nice…” Finders Keepers trailed, liking the idea. Despite the offer, she had her doubts. “I just wonder if he’d even be let into a settlement, or if the guards would just shoot first.”

Statchel brought a talon to his beak, stroking it as if in thought. “Don’t think Rosewing is a good way to judge everyone else, but I get what you mean. Say, do you know if he can read at all?”

Finders Keepers raised an eye at that. “What’re you getting at?”

“I’m saying that if Kiako has his own language, then he probably only knows how to write in that, right?” the griffon began, waiting a moment for the mare to nod her head before continuing. “Right, well if that’s the case, I don’t think he could read any map we gave him.”

The earth-pony’s stomach sank, head lowering in resignation. As much as abandoning the strange biped to the wasteland appealed to her, she knew that it would be one of those things that weigh her down for the rest of her life if she did. She didn’t want anyone to die because of a choice she made, even if it was a stranger.

With a mournful sigh Finders Keepers raised her head to look back to Statchel. “I don’t suppose one of you could do it?” she pleaded, already knowing the answer she’d get.

Statchel gave her a sympathetic look, before shaking his head in regret. “Sorry, but my place is here. A contract’s a contract, and I’m bound to it until it’s finished.”

The pony gave one last sigh before standing up straight. All she wanted was to make a living in accordance with her cutie mark, but it looked like she now had a mission of a different sort, one she was loathe to do. In for a cap, in for a carriage… I’m probably not even going to get paid for this.

Still, there had to be a way to make her life at least a little bit easier. “Is there anything you can give us? Supplies? Weapons? What were those raiders carrying?”

The griffon considered it for a moment, before giving her a crooked smile. “Get your stuff on and follow me, I think we can give you two something to use.”

Thank the Princesses for small favors, Finders Keepers thought.




***  ***  ***



Kiako saw Statchel leave the party and head toward the stairs with Finders Keepers, once again wearing her belongings. If he weren’t otherwise occupied, he might have even asked what they were doing, and when he could leave. His annoyance with the pair’s superstitions had long since passed, instead superseded by a problem that personally affected him. 

One of the slim hydraulics that made up part of the brace on his left leg wasn’t matching his stride perfectly, which was a big problem since that was its entire purpose for being: to help him carry heavier loads over long distances.

His first few steps when putting the suit back on had been a real pain, and he had to force the hydraulic to move with his leg whenever he wanted to move. Not a good prospect with the way his calf was. Still, he was fortunate neither he nor his backpack were carrying anything too heavy, otherwise he’d not only be having trouble walking but would be off-balanced to boot.

As for the cause behind it, his best guess was that the explosion that had buried him in rubble had either damaged the power pack or blown out some of the weight-sensors in the leg brace’s joints.

Weighing just over nine kilograms and wrapping around the waist and back before running down the legs, it was normally useful for carrying heavy loads, and didn’t impede his movement at all. Now it was just a hindrance, albeit one that he was loathe to rid himself of. True, he could always get the parts for another one an assemble it, but it was still quite expensive. The nice thing about having lots of money is that you don’t need to do work, all you have to do is watch what you buy.

Do these creatures even use chips?

The man cursed the moment the unwelcome thought had entered his head. If he was the first human to be here, then of course the Bankers wouldn’t be here to regulate the economy or the value of the local currency. Looking down at the little poker chip dispenser on his belt, he let out a low groan as he realized that he couldn’t simply buy what he needed, not unless he took a 9mm shortcut to the nearest LifeNet pod.

Before he was even aware of it the stubby revolver was in his hand, thumb pulling back the hammer experimentally. For those like him, there was always a way out.

“We’re back!”


Kiako jerked at that, turning his head down the hall from whence the voices came, and he was met with the duo that had left minutes earlier.

“Uh, you’re not planning to use that, right?” Finders Keepers asked, gesturing with a hoof to the weapon still in the man’s hand.

“No.” Kiako decocked the revolver, slipping it back into its thigh holster. “Merely checking to see that these rounds have primer.” Even a misadventure is an adventure, I suppose.

“Good to hear,” Statchel breathed out from behind the equinoid. The griffon’s brown wings were spread as though in flight, a useless endeavor considering the weight of the creature they were attached to. Still, despite the fact that the wings would never be capable of flight, the items that were balanced atop them were of interest.

“We’re being given some stuff by Statchel,” Finders Keepers started, looking back to flash a grateful looking smile before continuing, “so that we can handle ourselves on the trip to Stableside.” As she said that, the griffon arched his back and maneuvered his wings forward, the objects sliding down the feathers and onto the floor before him The maneuver impressed Kiako much more than what he and the equinoid were being given. 

Unidentified canned foods were mixed with a few jars of what looked to be pickled vegetables, and along with that there were a few items he couldn’t identify, including a trio of metal-framed bulbs full of something purple and viscous. Some sort of jam, perhaps?

What really grabbed Kiako’s attention though were the two firearms that were also on the floor. As far as he was concerned, these weapons looked more likely to explode in his face than anything else. Still, guns were guns, and he picked out the one weapon that was actually meant to be fired by someone with manipulator digits, whether they be talon or finger.

The fact that he could fire it by hand was about the only thing the weapon had going for it. A rudimentary weapon at best, the improvised firearm looked to be made with a heavy iron barrel connected to a piece of furniture with fasteners that looked like they would fall off if he looked away long enough. Add in the fact that the weapon lacked even basic sights and was terribly unbalanced, it was a break-action on a weapon that he could likely already snap over his knee with one good motion.

Kiako brought the weapon up experimentally, trying to bring it as close to his shoulder as possible despite there being no actual stock. He had no idea how bad the recoil would be, but he had a feeling that it would only add to his opinion on the weapon.

“Where did you find such a piece of junk? This is amateur work, and that’s being generous. I don’t suppose you have any crossbows?” One of the man’s first weapons had been a crossbow, and its utility and versatility had come in handy during his early days out of Zanesville. I suppose this isn’t so different from back then. I have minimal weaponry, a meager amount of supplies, and a pack horse to carry my things… maybe.

The hybrid gave him a look that could have belonged on the face of any human. “And where would I even find a crossbow? A museum? Sorry, but we don’t have many spare weapons, and you’re lucky that I’m even giving you these.”

Give me a workshop and materials, and I’ll blow your little mutant mind away, Kiako thought, agitation simmering beneath his stoic facade. Thankfully, his equinoid companion — or perhaps “guide” would have been a more accurate term — was willing to profusely thank Statchel for the metaphorical table scraps he’d provided.

Finders Keepers had apparently already stuffed everything in her saddlebags while the man had been glancing over his new “weapon”, and the only thing of what they’d been both given that he could see was the weapon she had taken, hanging from her neck by a leather cord. 

Closer inspection of the stubby and battered weapon revealed that it was indeed mouth-operated, much like the magazine-fed pistol the equinoid already owned. This newer weapon was also magazine-fed but, judging from the size of the magazine and barrel, almost certainly carried many more rounds to fire. It didn’t look very accurate, though.

Statchel started moving down the hall again, not toward the stairs but in the opposite direction, away from the pantry. The hybrid beckoned the duo to follow him, before turning around the corner. Finders Keepers and Kiako obliged, the latter moving his head to the side to avoid a jutting candlestick. Turning the corner, they were met with a rubble-strewn room that looked to be the lobby for the building, judging by the front desk and a line of frankly uncomfortable looking chairs that had no business holding a human backside.

Unlike the hallways they had been walking through, this room had no lightsource beyond what candlelight leaked into it. That wasn’t to say that there were no windows in the lobby, but only the frames could be seen behind the pile of rubble that barred both entry and the outside from getting in. Between the two blocked windows was a set of inward-swinging double-doors that presumedly led outside, but only if someone removed the rather large crate of rubble that blocked entry and exit.

Statchel sidled up against the crate, pressing his side against the wood. Legs bending to stabilize himself, the griffon began to push against the crate, the rasp of wood scraping against wood being the sound of progress. The movement of the equinoid’s ears flattening at the admittedly grating noise caught Kiako’s attention, and he couldn’t help but feel a bit of amusement at Finders Keepers misfortune of having more sensitive hearing. 

“Do you need help?” Finders Keepers asked, ears still flat against her skull as Statchel continued to shove against the crate. 

“I got this,” the griffon croaked, still straining against a crate that was just a bit taller than he was on all fours. He was moving it alright, but not nearly as fast as the equine wanted.

“It would probably go faster if I helped you,” Finders Keepers piped up, starting to move forward. A harsh flick to the ear stopped her though, as Kiako moved past her and toward the crate.

“I’m sure that your doctor would disagree,” the man quipped dryly. He ignored the insult the wounded equine hurled back at him, setting the improvised firearm down against the rubble. 

With the man helping to pull the crate whenever Statchel pushed, the duo were able to move it far enough that one of the doors could be opened, while completely blocking the the other one.

A piercing white glare immediately blinded Kiako, and his eyes shut with a will of their own to protect his vision. He stumbled back a few steps, the heels of his boots scuffing the dusty floor as he sought refuge until his headache subsided. He wasn’t the only one suffering from the sunlight either, and he heard two other groans from within the room that weren’t his own. In a way, it gave him a small sense of peace knowing that he wasn’t alone in his suffering.

It had only taken a moment for his right eye to acclimate to the unfiltered sunlight, and by that time he’d already scooped up the improvised firearm to peer out the doorway. With only his good eye used to the sun, he looked around to see if anyone was lying in wait to gun him down.It wouldn’t be the first time.

The only thing that assaulted him was a fresh breeze against his face, the wind carrying a the mixed scent of growing things and a chemical smell he couldn’t quite place. Being inside for so long, he allowed himself a moment to bask in the open air, both the breeze and the sun feeling wonderful against what little exposed skin he had.  It was pleasant, but he had things to do. Tearing himself away and ignoring the pleasures that nature provided, he looked back to the rest of the group, who seemed to have recovered from the light just as he had.

“Which way are we headed, and what is the destination?” Kiako inquired, head tilting toward the street. The shoddy weapon was cradled in his arms, barrel pointed away from the other beings.

“I’m taking you to Stableside, but I need to get my bearings first.” Finders Keepers walked by him through the doorway, her ears swiveling just as a horse’s would. If there was anything that the equinoid heard that was a cause for alarm, the man didn’t see it in her posture.

Statchel was next out the door, the hybrid’s wings brushing unwelcomingly against the man’s legs. The sound of the griffon’s talons took a different pitch when he’d passed the threshold, the clicking of keratin on stone reminding Kiako of ticking machinery.

“...And what sort of place is Stableside?” Despite actually being curious, Kiako couldn’t clamp down on the amusement that leaked into the question. Thinking about the name, a particularly amusing thought weaved itself into his mind. One wonders if a stable and prison are one and the same to these creatures.

Before he could get an answer the man was buffeted by a blast of dust and air, and he reflexively took several steps backwards into the lobby. He wasn’t surprised for long though, and a few quick blinks cleared his eyes.

When he looked through the doorway again he could see that Finders Keepers was still there, if slightly more dusty — not that it was easy to tell, what with her coat color. Curiously, she was looking up, not anywhere she should be if she was trying to get her bearings. Peeking his head outside, he turned his gaze skyward.

It felt like he’d been punched in the gut, and if he hadn’t been holding onto the doorframe he might very well have fallen from sheer surprise. So many things raced through the man’s head as he looked up to the sky, seeing the familiar silhouette of Statchel. Not gliding. Flying. 

He might have continued to stare in awed bewilderment were he not broken out of it by the insistent prods of a hoof against his leg. 

“What!?” Kiako yelled hoarsely, his head snapping down to toward the offending limb, only to see a startled equinoid. The two looked each other for what seemed an eternity, before Finders Keepers spoke.

“...Are you okay?” The voice sounded cautious, as if afraid that the man would yell again. More than that, it was soothing, and Kiako felt some of the tension in his body leave him. That still didn’t remove the weight of unease that hung from his shoulders like a lead cloak, though.

“I’m fine,” Kiako lied, his voice coming out gruff. His eyes shifted back toward the sky, his fists clenching.




***  ***  ***



It’s good to stretch my wings again, Statchel thought. While he may have been a bit on the heavy side compared to other griffons he’d met, he had no trouble when it came to flying. 

A light chuckle rumbled deep from within his throat, thinking about how he was flying while Razor-Quill and Rosewing were still inside. Saber Squad had been laying low inside the motel, a strict “no-fly” rule being put in place by Razor-Quill once they’d dragged the pony and hu’mahn into the hideout.

And now because she couldn’t keep her stupid trap shut, she’s gonna be in there for just a bit more. If karmic justice existed, that was surely an example of it, at least in Statchel’s opinion. Rosewing was undoubtedly the most aggressive griffon out of the whole group, and her flying style showed as much.    

Statchel banked to the left, looking down toward the motel expecting to see two figures walking towards the edge of town. The griffon let the wind take his sigh of annoyance once he saw that the duo below hadn’t moved an inch. 

“This better not be like last time,” he muttered, flapping his wings to get more altitude as he widened his patrol path.




***  ***  ***



Two days earlier
Haybale, Equestrian Wasteland

From above, the dilapidated buildings that made up the township created a ragged tapestry of many faded colors. Originally built to make use of rich farmland that had previously gone unused before the war, it was definitely built to last. Two hundred years of neglect had not been kind though, and the residential district was a large splotch of muted red, the once proud brick homes and public buildings now crumbling. 

The market area wasn’t any better. While still colorful in comparison to the other districts, looters had been through the area enough times that the damage from pony hooves more than outweighed anything time alone could do, many of the stores and stalls being gutted and burned out wrecks.

It was all old news to the griffons riding the thermals above the township, something to which they had long grown accustomed. Their interest lay in the two figures walking through the residential district far below them.

Deciding to investigate, the flight leader broke off from the front of the V-formation, wings diagonal to the ground as he killed his speed enough that he could corkscrew to a lower altitude. With the sun directly overhead, the male could see his shadow expanding on the roof below him, and he killed the rest of his descent with a few well placed flaps of his wings before landing expertly.

The leader’s wingmates arrived a few beats afterward, spreading out on roofs across the street from where they had seen the two figures enter a building. Only when the team was set up did the leader remove his goggles, exposing his blue eyes to the world. The female of the group did the same, her hazel eyes meeting his own.

Unlike the first two the third griffon did not remove his flight goggles, preferring instead to shield his eyes from the bright sun. While not of one mind, the trio of griffons were of one group, their barding all having the same white sabre insignia emblazoned on the breast.

Taking cover behind the reverse side of the roof, out of view from the street the others were looking down on, the third griffon, began to undo some of the equipment buckled to his flanks. Anything that might be needed in the aftermath of a firefight was in the pair of steel medical boxes: Med-X, healing bandages, and the all-important healing potions were the most important amongst the supplies.

As an afterthought, the griffon unfolded the fore-limb brace that was built into the stock of his snub-nosed machine pistol. Making sure that his supplies were safely secured to the roof, he shimmied up to get a good firing position over the street, before nodding to the leader.

Nodding in acknowledgement from his prone position, the leader looked backed into the second story window across the street, machine gun in position. 

Just keep it together, Statchel, the medical-griffon thought to himself, covering the entryway with the machine pistol.

Still covering the doorway, he was about to hiss a question at Razor-Quill when he was interrupted by a scream from within the house, and his gaze swung around just in time to be met with a violent explosion that blew out the left and front sides of the building in a cascade of falling bricks and mortar.

Heart trying to beat through the insignia on his barding, he looked over to where Rosewing and Razor-Quill lay prone, hoping that the dust hadn’t billowed from the street and up to them. Unfortunately, whatever explosive had gone off had displaced enough dust to effectively obscure Statchel from the other two griffons, and vice versa.

“Rosewing, fly up and circle the area! See anyone hostile, you buzz ‘em!” came Razor-Quill’s voice hissing through the dust, the reassuring tone of command helping to ease Statchel’s worries, if only for a moment.

By the time the dust had cleared enough from the street, Statchel could see into what remained of the living room and the kitchen, as well as the entryway. It was as if someone had sawn off a section of the first floor to expose the inside to the rest of the world, and it was truly a wonder that the rest of the building hadn’t fallen into the street. 

Just as he was about to check for wounded — and against his better judgement, too — the telltale sound of ponies clip-clopping down the street gained his attention, and he forced himself to stay behind the apex of the roof.

Another hiss from Razor-Quill was heard, this time being directed at him. “Statchel, incoming. From the right.”

Statchel nodded his head, rasping his own affirmation in reply. He pivoted on the roof and shifted his view toward a street corner, a pair of talons adjusting the sights his weapon.

He sat there for several minutes, unmoving. Occasionally he would look up to see Rosewing flying lazy circles around the town, throwing in a few barrels rolls for good measure. At least that idiot is too high up to cast a shadow…

Statchel had to wait a few more minutes until the posse of ponies he had heard earlier came around the corner, but by then he already knew they were bad news by what little he could hear. Made up primarily of earth-ponies but with a few unicorns mixed in, he could definitely tell by the grisly trophies they carried that these weren’t scavengers.

Great, not only do we have to deal with this ghoul problem, we also gotta deal with a raider problem too, Statchel thought sourly. He had heard reports of raiders popping back up again, but he had just chalked it up to banditry.

His tongue dry as it ran along the edges of his beak, he fought down the murderous urge to squeeze the trigger until his gun ran out of ammo, and then reload until every last piece of his filth was dead on the street. Normally a calm and collected griffon, this was an urge that would not be beaten into submission. The pulse in his head began beating faster as his rage began to take hold of him, the urge to kill rising with every second. Despite his efforts, a talon slipped over the trigger.

Just as he was about to let loose his own personal justice upon the raiders, he felt a set of talons rest on his shoulder, and just like that he began to felt the rage evaporate.

The whispering voice of Razor-Quill spoke from beside him, “Easy. Don’t let your heart rule your head. We wait for Rosewing to get back to us, and then we let ‘em have it.” Statchel received a gentle squeeze on the shoulder, and that combined with Razor-Quill’s calming words helped quench Statchel’s anger. If only for a little bit.

Talon off the trigger, Statchel grumbled in acknowledgement. The griffon smiled weakly, secure in the knowledge that he’d soon be able to avenge himself on the nameless trash below. That smile quickly dropped from his beak as he heard a screech from below.

“Well lookie he'a!  We got ou’selves ah new fuck toy und’uh this pile!”

An overwhelming sense of dread came over the griffon, his hackles rising as though a stormcloud were overhead. That dread turned into horror as he saw one of the raiders uncover the head and leg of a beige earth-pony, one that was clearly still alive.

He turned to Razor-Quill, frantically gesticulating at the unfolding scene before them, silently begging to be given the order to fire. If Razor-Quill took notice of his pleas he gave no sign of it, continuing to watch the situation unfold.

As the lewd comments and suggestions of the raiders continued, Statchel turned away from Razor-Quill and instead looked to the sky for assistance. The sky was clear and sunny, a brilliant blue that would have been one of the rarest sights over ten years ago. Clear skies were not what the griffon was looking for though, and he had found no sign of Rosewing.

Looking back down to where the raiders were, he could now clearly see that the bandit’s prey was talking as well, though he could barely hear her voice. He didn’t need to know the words that were being said though; he could tell well enough just how the stricken pony was feeling.

Once again Statchel slipped a talon over the trigger, his heart heavy with what he was about to do; not with the fact that he was about to take a life — he was quite eager to do that, in fact — but that he was going against Razor-Quill’s instructions.

The raiders’ sudden halt threw him for a loop, the unkempt ponies no longer taunting and harassing their captured prey. He saw the lime green unicorn magically draw a rusty revolver from another pony’s holster before hissing at her followers. In a short amount of time the raiders were all seriousness, and their weapons were out and ready as they looked about the area, their ears swivelling.

Once more the the lime green unicorn was on the earth-pony’s case, this time with a gun against the latter’s head and the former asking questions. Statchel cast another glance at Razor-Quill, who still seemed to be waiting for Rosewing to arrive. 

Stifling a frustrated hiss, he swung his gaze back onto the situation below, just in time to see the unicorn’s yellow-lit revolver swing across the poor earth-pony’s muzzle. Statchel was ready to end that unicorn right then and there, but was distracted by the sight of an object slowly sliding towards the wrecked remains of the kitchen.

The distraction was forgotten as another bit of movement grabbed his attention again, his eyes catching the sight of a picture frame falling off a wall before shattering against the floor. That single falling picture frame had taken everybody’s attention away from the street, and it was at that moment that Rosewing struck, zipping down the street and pumping buckshot into the open room.

A beat after Rosewing had finished her strafing run Statchel and Razor-Quill took over where she had left off, letting off bursts of automatic weapon fire down into the gutted building, quickly finishing off the ponies that Rosewing hadn’t already taken down.

In the span of only a few seconds it was over, the raider’s few shots coming nowhere close to the griffons who had vanquished them. Before Statchel could even get all of his medical supplies gathered Rosewing was already starting to scavenge the dead, and by the time he himself was down there the female griffon had moved on to a second body.

She can play with dead corpses for all she wants, Statchel thought as he saw Rosewing tearing away at something just out of view. I have something more important to do.

The sudden flapping of wings followed by the clatter of talons clicking against the rubble strewn floor signaled Razor-Quill’s arrival. Statchel ignored it and continued moving toward a specific pile of rubble, the one covering his newest patient.

Claws wrapped around the edge of some masonry the griffon pulled his forelimbs toward him as though he were trying to turn the page of some giant book. The squeal of talons grinding against stone was followed by a massive crash as the debris was clear of the earth-pony.

“Try not to bring the rest of this house down will you?” Rosewing squawked from across the room, her voice laced with scorn. “We won’t get paid if we destroy all the buildings!”

Statchel ignored her, not wanting an argument to distract him from what was most important: the downed earth-pony. Judging from the quick check of her — and it was definitely a her — vital signs, there didn’t seem much to be wrong with her aside from her coat being slick with sweat and an above-average pulse.

Whatever the reason for her being unresponsive, at least she was alive. Perhaps she had passed out? Either way, a docile patient was the best patient. A sedative would keep it that way, at least for a little bit longer.

A minute and a spent syringe later, Statchel looked up from the pony and called out to Razor-Quill, who was currently digging through some rubble in what looked to have once been a kitchen — at least judging from the refrigerator sitting triumphantly atop some rubble. “Boss, the pony seems stable but I think we should take her to the hideout just to be sure.”

“Why should we have to deal with a pony that was stupid enough to get caught by raiders?” Rosewing countered suddenly, her voice coming from uncomfortably close behind Statchel, giving him startled jolt, “Way I see it is that if she’s not dead we don’t have to deal with her. Boom, problem solved.”

“And that’s why you’re not a doctor, Rosewing,” Statchel said without looking back to the griffoness. He continued to look at Razor-Quill who had since stopped digging through the rubble to give them both his attention. “The way I see it is that we have plenty of medicine, and there’s no way we can carry it all with us when we leave; so why don’t we actually use it for what it’s made for?”

The older griffon’s face worked as if in thought, though only for a brief moment. He gave Statchel a curt nod before giving a glare to Rosewing, effectively cutting off any further argument from her. With a final huff, Rosewing moved past Statchel to get to another body, but not before giving him a shoulder check just to show how she felt about his idea. The male griffon just shook his head went back to work freeing the earth-pony of what debris remained. 

“Hey Razor, check this out!” Statchel heard Rosewing call out, her voice oddly cheerful and excited despite not getting her way mere minutes ago. Must mean she’s found something shiny, Statchel thought.

Looking up to see what the female griffon had found, he found that he had been right. Rosewing was holding up some sort of jewelry to the air, sunlight glinting off its golden surface and reflecting back into his eyes, blinding him for a brief moment. 

It only took a few seconds for his vision to recover, but it was still uncomfortable. Opening his eyes again he saw that Rosewing was showing her trophy to Razor-Quill, who just nodded his head and said the appropriate ‘yes’ or ‘cool’ as the griffoness babbled at him. 

Shaking his head at the female griffon’s antics, he moved gather up his supplies once more. As he was about to stuff a syringe of Med-X away he heard a soft thump accompanied by the sound of metal hitting stone. Statchel’s body tensed as he snapped his head up toward the source of the noise, and he was sure the others were doing the same based on the burst of movement from the corner of his vision. The subtle rattle of weapons being lifted followed soon after.

It was a wasted effort on their part though; there was no mortally wounded raider that had managed to draw a gun on them, and instead the trio of griffons were met only with the sound of wind blowing through the wrecked house.

“I wasn’t the only one who heard that, right?” Rosewing asked to no one in particular, her hazel eyes darting between mounds of rubble and occasionally to the street.

“No,” Razor-Quill replied, his head also scanning the area for any signs of movement. “This was a bad spot for the raiders, and it’ll be a bad spot for us too if we stay any longer.”

A great sheet of debris covering the floor of the house, a mixture of brick, insulation, and wood all covered by a thick layer of dust — something to be expected from a building of its age. 

There were parts of the building that had no film of dust on them, though. A lot of dust had been blown toward the rear wall of the living room when the griffons’ had flown in and landed, with trails of pawprints expanding outwards from the large, dust-freeish bubble of floor.

Statchel’s eyes had caught another little trail in the dust, one that was just hidden from view for the others. Unlike the other trails this one wasn’t made by paws or hooves, but was instead a series of lines of varying widths that occasionally curved when a chunk of rubble was in the way. 

Ignoring the others, Statchel followed the trail, his body instinctively lowering itself low to the ground like that of a cat he in part resembled. It wasn’t a long trail but it did take him to toward the kitchen, the same area Razor-Quill had been in earlier.

If he hadn’t been following the trail, Statchel would have thought nothing of the patch of blue in the rubble, since there were other blue objects occasionally scattered around the room; a chunk of a vase, a couple of coffee mugs, and other miscellaneous objects.

This bit of blue wasn’t just detritus floating in a sea of dust and rubble though, and as Statchel got a closer look he could see that it was strapped down to some sort of grey-clothed limb, one that ended with a type of object he was no stranger to. It took him a beat to realize that this may have been the other individual that had walked into the building earlier, before the explosion.

“Just need to disarm you first,” Statchel muttered as he braced the limb with a claw while attempting to gently pry the strange, lithe digits from the grip and trigger of a small, black revolver.

Potential patient and raider-victim disarmed, Statchel began to clear away rubble from off of what was hopefully a living body and not just a severed limb. His ministrations had not gone unnoticed by the other griffons though, and he could hear one of them padding over to him.

“What’re you doing? We already got all the good stuff, and you gotta start moving that… pony…” Rosewing’s sentence trailed off as Statchel removed another chunk of rubble, and for a moment both were speechless. 

“Everything alright over here?” Statchel was jolted by the sound of Razor-Quill’s voice from behind him. Rather than simply reply, he stepped aside to give the leader of the group a full view of what he had dug up.

“I, um, found the other one,” was all Statchel said meekly, unsure of what — or who — he had uncovered. He held up the small revolver up to Razor-Quill, the weapon carefully pointed upwards. “I found this on… it. Pretty sure that the gun is what made the noise we heard.”

The older griffon examined the weapon for a moment before nodding, handing it back to Statchel. “Good work finding the source of the noise, but we still need to move out of here. Check to see if the —” Razor-Quill gestured to the subject of discussion “— is alright. You wanted to take care of one patient, now you have two.”

“Woah woah woah,” Rosewing spluttered, her eyes darting between the two male griffons. “Bringing the pony to our place was bad enough, but we don’t even know what this thing is!”

“It’s alive is what it is,” Razor-Quill commented, his voice carrying an edge of annoyance. “Saving lives isn’t breaking our contract with the Republic, and if you really want to argue then do it later.”

“How do you even know it’s alive, though! It looks dead to me!” Rosewing insisted, sweep a limb toward the body for dramatic effect.

“I guess your pissing and moaning is enough to wake the dead,” Statchel finally snapped, his voice coming out far more harsh than he had meant it to be. It had the effect he wanted it to have though, and Rosewing visibly flinching as though struck.

Rather than saying anything more he simply gestured to the creature’s fingers, which were no longer pointing outward but had instead curled inward to form a fist. 

“Knock it out the same way you did the pony, Statchel,” Razor-Quill said, and soon Statchel was doing just that, needle in claw. 

“And no more beak from you, Rose. You’ve held us up long enough, don’t make me take it out of your pay.”

Letting out a hiss, Rosewing complied, walking away from the other griffons. The padding of her paws on the rubble faded quickly, and Statchel idly wondered if she simply took off.

As the medical griffon searched the biped for a vein to stick a needle in, it occurred to him that he had seen the creature’s weapon before, atop the computer on the other side of the room. He cast a glance behind him to look at the little trail that had led him to his newest patient, and wondered.

> Chapter 7: On the Road
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

An hour of walking had left the dilapidated buildings and rubble-strewn cobble behind them, houses and businesses replaced instead with long neglected farmland dotted with the occasional shed or farmhouse. The pair of travelers were quiet, the only sound made being soft footfalls and hoofsteps against untended ground and the rustle of brambles and weeds clawing vainly for purchase in either cloth or fur.

“At least something’s growing here,” Finders Keepers mumbled bitterly, kicking a leg free from a bush’s constrictive hold. She shot a glance behind her to see how her companion — for that’s what he was at this point, no point denying it — was faring, and saw that he too was slowed by the flora, a very pony-like scowl etched across his face as he waded his way forward.

She took a moment to examine the creature — the human — that called itself Kiako Lalene. Over twice her height and broad in the shoulders, his whole anatomy screamed wrong whenever she really paid attention to it, from the way his legs bent when walking, the many spindly appendages at the ends of his arms, and even his almost-flat face with his beady eyes that were far smaller than any pony’s.

All of that was strange, very much so, but the one thing that weirded her out the most was the fact that his skin was bare, covered by neither fur nor feathers. Indeed, the only parts of his peaches-and-cream complexion that were covered by fur were the flat-top manestyle and a pair of eyebrows covering the bony ridges over his eyes.

“You’re staring again,” Kiako commented, irritation bleeding into his smooth baritone voice, the barest traces of some sort of accent hanging off the words. His face was still locked into that stern, humorless expression of someone who took life far too seriously, his brow set low and staring at her with eyes that looked out at the world with suspicion.

“Just waiting for you to catch up,” she replied casually, not entirely a lie. She turned to look forward, gesturing ahead with a metal-shod hoof. “If we keep going we’ll eventually hit the Galloping Gorge rail line, and then we follow that until we hit Smokey Mountain Valley.”

“Anything specific about this place that I should know about?” the man asked, steadily making progress through the undergrowth, the fabric portions of his barding doing an excellent job at catching any stray branches.

“Just that if we keep moving, we’ll get there in a couple days,” she replied, wincing as a branch whipped past her face and scraped against the leather hood of her barding.

“I’m sure that most of that time will be spent in this field,” Kiako joked bitterly, an arm sweeping out dramatically to emphasize the sea of green that they still had to get through. 

The mare’s ear flicked in agreement for her, and it was just as well too. She was young and in her prime, but this field was definitely something else, every step a struggle to not to get tangled or trip. It was enough of a chore without having to focus on a conversation as well, and she was quietly grateful for the fact that the biped didn’t seem interested in talking right then.

If what Saber Squad said was true about holding down this town for future settler-ponies, well, they were welcome to have it. At least this field will keep them busy for a bit, she mused spitefully.




***  ***  ***



Kiako sat at the base of an earthen embankment, the sun having sunk low enough on the horizon that every shadow cast was long and thin. Night was coming, but for now the sky was bathed in the soft, warm hues of dying light, soon to fade as the moon rose up from the opposite horizon.

Travel had been made much smoother once they had escaped from that hellish field, the rolling grasslands surrounding Haybale being altogether more preferable, with only the occasional tree or rusted-out hulk marring the landscape. It was almost unsettling how unmolested they had been during their journey, the only wildlife seen being the occasional flock of birds or the ever-present chirping of insects. 

When they finally stopped to rest for the day Kiako was just about ready to collapse, the steady pace he had been managing earlier that day having degenerated into something approaching a limp. The explosion he’d been caught in days earlier hadn’t left him entirely unscathed; the steel bracing that formed part of the passive exoskeleton he wore was warped, irreparably damaged. Instead of putting two-thirds of the weight of his equipment into the ground, that leg was bound to a brace that refused to move as fluid as it should have.

Finders Keepers, his equinoid guide — or pony, as they apparently called themselves — hadn’t been oblivious to his growing discomfort during their travels, even offering several rest stops. Pride alone had stopped him from accepting most of those admittedly generous offers, the only one being under the guise having a late lunch where they both had eaten ravenously from their own packs. Even that short reprieve wasn’t enough, and now he was paying for it: the cramping in his leg and occasional muscle spasms were proof enough of that.

Still, it was just as well that he had decided to bear the pain and keep moving. The embankment alone was a good find as it would give them some cover, both from the wind and any prying eyes. Most serendipitous though was that a small brook ran along the embankment a couple of meters away, and if he was truly fortunate it would even be drinkable. 

A short, excited whinny from nearby jolted him alert from his exhausted state, eyes going wide as his head swivelled in search of the horse-borne bandits that his mind unhelpfully conjured up for him. His alarm came to an abrupt, embarrassing halt as a beige coated, gear laden pony came into his view.

“I was just about out, too!” Finders Keepers cried out happily as she trotted her way over to the brook and, to his surprise, drank directly from the water with not even the laziest attempt at checking its drinkability.

Exhausted and as dehydrated as he probably was, he still had his mental faculties about him to not give in to the impulse of drinking from a tainted water source. Then again, death is only temporary he contemplated, the faintest of smiles playing across his face before forcing the thought out of his mind. He had a safer approach.

“Since you’re so eager to try the water,” he began, only a touch of humor in his voice as he reached for his backpack to pull off his empty canteen, “why don’t we take a more scientific analysis of the water purity?”

A lone ear twitched as he started speaking, the owner lifting her head up from the brook to stare at him, hazel eyes staring out at him from beneath a leather hood. The man raised the object and tossed it underhand over to her, only realizing the moment it left his fingertips that, no, horses can’t catch things.

He couldn’t help but blink in surprise, self-reproachment short-lived as the equinoid casually caught the cap-end of the canteen in her mouth, delicately clenched between rows of disconcertingly human-looking teeth.

“How i’f filling up y’ur wa’fer going to help wi’f ’at?” Finders Keepers asked, more or less intelligible despite speaking around the container, her gaze questioning. She spat the container from her mouth, letting it balance precariously on the edge of her hoof. “Huh. This looks new.”

It took Kiako a brief second to recover his wits, Finders Keepers’ ability to effortlessly catch the canteen being a being a bit of a surprise.

“Yes, it is,” Kiako bit out, his agitation bleeding into his voice. He took a calm breath, closing his eyes a moment as he reined in his frustration, swallowing uncomfortably as he composed himself. Reaching into one of the smaller pouches on his belt he came up with a folded slip of chemically treated paper, holding it up to show the pony.

“This is a water field-test kit,” he explained calmly, unfolding the paper and running a finger along the colored boxes with chemical symbols imprinted on the surface. “When these areas come into contact with a specific chemical they change hue; the darker the color the more contamination there is. Quite simple, really. There’s a reason they mass-produce these.”

Finders Keepers just stared at him, her lips and eyes betraying her mirth long before she did as she tried not to laugh. When she finally did, it was not the mocking, scornful laughter he was expecting but instead something warm, almost gentle in a way. Kiako simply bore it, giving her a flat stare as the laughter slowly wound down into a giggle before ending with an amused snort. 

“Is there something you would like to share with me?” the man finally asked, his voice carrying very much the same tone that a teacher might use if he had caught a student passing notes. 

The pony let out a breathy sigh as her head dropped to look at the ground, a faint smile still played across her face as she looked at him, voice a touch wistful. “I was just thinking, about how useful those would have been when I was still a filly. Purified water was always expensive and sometimes we couldn’t afford it.”

“That does seem to be a common problem,” he observed dryly, though not entirely without sympathy. When he had first set out beyond Zanesville, into the arid Plateau region of the Canyon, reliable water sources had been a problem for him. One particular death was quite memorable to him, if only due to the agonizing and slow nature of it; suffice to say he paid much more attention to where he got his water from, and made sure to set enough chips aside for it.

“Still, you seem to have done well enough for yourself despite the setbacks,” he said, and gestured to the mare, examining her critically for a moment. “What are you now, eight, ten years of age?”

Apparently what he said had amused Finders Keepers, for his question was met with startled, coarse laughter that grated on his sense dignity all too fast. He was beginning to wonder if his dignity would even be intact by the time he managed to get in contact with someone in the Province.

“You really aren’t from around here,” the pony said once her brief bout of laughter had died down, looking at him curiously in a way that he hadn’t seen before. “I’m still not sure where you’re from, but it’s obvious you don’t have many ponies there.”

“More than you’d think,” he said wryly, which earned him an eye raising. He didn’t elaborate, finding petty solace in being vague. He certainly wasn’t going to explain what horses were; opening that can of worms wouldn’t benefit either of them, especially not him. Like it or not he still needed her, to lead him to some sort of civilization, no matter how much of a mockery of the past it may have been.

“Tell me then, how old are you?” he asked conversationally, returning to his earlier question. “You can’t be too old, you sound—”

“Like not a nag?” the pony interrupted, a smirk playing across her muzzle. “I turned twenty last winter.”

It was his turn to raise an eye, hearing the pony’s age. Despite the fact that automobiles were starting to become more and common, horses and other equids were still an indispensable part of life. Scouts covered vast swathes of land with the help of horses, farmers used them to help plow or tow, and the Franklin Riders rode from town to town to deliver the mail.

He himself was fairly well versed in equestrianism, having rode them often enough that it was impossible not to pick up a few things. One particular bit of knowledge that came to mind was that horses typically only lived for about twenty-five to thirty years, and that was being generous. He didn’t think Finders Keepers was lying, but it did raise more questions than it answered.

“How old can ponies get to be?” Kiako inquired, unable to keep his interest from leaking into his voice.

“I’m starting to think this is getting a little one-sided, how about you tell me how old you are?” Finders Keepers asked as she scooped up his canteen in her teeth, trotting over to the brook and dunking it in.

“Thirty-three,” Kiako answered plainly. The lie came easily enough, more so than it would have if he had been a few years younger. Like any skill, lying was something that had to be developed through years of practice, and for the most part that training started well before a child had learned to speak. 

Most nine-year olds were far better liars than he had been when he first came out of the pod in Zanesville, unless they were particularly slow. Now that he was at that age himself, he was confident that he’d caught up.

The best lies hold an element of truth. It was an old adage, one of the more useful ones in fact. Lies of omission were still lies, but they were easier to take at face value. His body was indeed thirty-three years old, as any blood test would show.

“Huh. I thought you’d be older,” the pony admitted, coming back with his canteen full of water. Once again her words came out clear and concise, despite the canteen hanging from her teeth. 

“And why is that?” he asked, accepting the canteen with a small nod of thanks. He gathered some grass from next to him and began wiping down wherever he thought her mouth had touched, which elicited huff of annoyance from the pony. 

She simply gave what looked to him almost like a shrug, head slightly to the side as she raised her brows at him, lips slightly pursed as her head bobbed a bit. “I guess you just kinda give off that vibe.”

“I’m not entirely sure how to feel about being assumed old,” he mused aloud. He’d met plenty of older people during his travels, but he couldn’t imagine himself becoming one of them. Every death for him was a renewal, body and mind capable as they ever were. It was safe to say the thought of growing old didn’t appeal to him.

“I’ll go get some firewood, you have fun with that,” Finders Keepers said with a titter, nudging her chin over to his canteen. “Tell me how it goes.”

Kiako watched the pony leave, not saying anything. It was clear to him that she knew something he didn’t, but he didn’t think she to be actively malicious in her intent. Regardless, he did need to test the water purity, and with the pony temporarily away there would be no distractions.

It was an uninteresting process, more or less simply dunking the strips of paper into a still source of water before removing them for drying and inspection. If the tested contaminant was present in dangerous quantities then the color on the strips would be of a dark hue. The man even did this several times, to be doubly certain.

Brow stitched into a frown, he tossed the paper strips away, letting them flutter onto the grass like falling leaves. Some of them landed face up, some face down, but each and every one of them were as pristine as they had been since they had been taken out. No heavy metals. No harmful bacteria. No contaminants.

The water was as good as any he’d tasted, pure and refreshing as he drank greedily from the canteen, letting its contents soothe his parched throat and dribble from his lips and down his neck. Not even his collar protested his choice of drinking from what should have been a hazardous water source, the warning tingle of radiation entirely absent. 

It was only through conscious restraint that he didn’t dunk his head into the brook, instead taking his time to fill up his canteen to take more moderate sips. If he were alone he’d be more than happy to peel off his armor and scrub himself down, feeling grimy after several days without bathing. Perhaps if he were alone and in familiar territory he might, but with neither of those being the case he simply settled for splashing some water up into his face.

The sound of shodden footfalls heralded Finders Keepers return, and Kiako turned to see that she had indeed found some firewood. Several withered branches were balanced precariously on her back, and a couple sticks and what looked to be a clump of dry looking moss were clenched firmly between her teeth.

He refilled his canteen before joining her by where she’d set down the branches and kindling, likely where they’d be bedding down for the night. It took him a moment to actually sit down though, having to give an exaggerated flex to his knee just to force past the resistance the damaged armature was gave him. 

“You’ve been slow all day, leg still bothering you?” the pony asked, clearly noticing his difficulty, a slight touch of concern in her voice accompanying the questioning look she gave him.

“The explosion we were caught in damaged some of my equipment,” he replied, running a hand along his leg. “These metal struts are warped now, and don’t move as I do.”

“And you couldn’t just remove the doohickey earlier? Or whatever it is.” 

“It makes things lighter, put simply. I’m sure even you could appreciate that,” He answered, already beginning to unstrap the metal from his legs.

She was quiet for a while, and the man was content with that. He was more interested in removing his handicap at the moment than making small-talk, something that everyone else seemed to excel at.

“You know,” Finders Keepers started, an obvious edge of warning in her tone that grabbed the man’s attention back to her again, “where we’re going you can’t keep doing that.”

“Doing what?” he asked, raising a brow. What is she on about now?

Her eyes narrowed, a small frown forming on her muzzle. Horses were very expressive animals once one got to know them, and these ponies were that and then some. He could read her annoyance just by her ears alone, not even needing to look at the more obvious signs.

“You know what,” she growled out, clear agitation seeping into her voice. “Being rude, and insulting ponies who are trying to help you, who have helped you! That attitude of yours is gonna get you shot someday, and I don’t wanna be around when it does, not after all the trouble you’ve put me through!”

Kiako took his chastisement stoically, not batting an eye as he listened to the frustrated mare. The outward facade belied his own growing agitation with the mare, his jaw setting as he continued to be berated by the pony, this uplift. Who was she to lecture him, in anything?

Still, he managed to keep the lid on his temper, settling for glaring rather than opening his mouth to let loose the hateful stream of words that sat at the forefront of his mind, just begging to be spoken aloud to the world.

“Are you done now?” he managed evenly, hands sitting by his side having curled up into fists in lieu of working to remove the braces from his legs.

Finders Keepers stared at him hatefully, teeth grinding and knotted tail swishing behind her in a clear, unbridled expression of her anger. The man didn’t flinch from her gaze, glaring right on back at her with a more-or-less apathetic expression on his face.

He caught the momentary flick of her eyes glancing down toward his thigh, the one where his revolver sat in its holster. His own moved over to the stubby and battered weapon that had been given to her by Statchel, now currently hung from a chord around the mare’s neck. Almost imperceptible, he managed to notice the muscles tensing up under the pony’s coat, as though on the edge of making a sudden movement. 

Neither of them spoke to one another for some time, the growing silence between them having a palpable air of hostility that would have been clear to anyone had they not been alone. The man didn’t know how long they had been staring, but as time went on his anger was joined by something else, the niggling sensation of doubt creeping into conscious thought and planting their hooks into him.

“Are we ready to do this again?” Kiako asked cautiously, his own body tensing up as the words were spoken. His right hand slowly uncurled from the fist it had been making previously, the man eyeing the mare carefully.

“Your gun didn’t work last time,” the pony pointed out, the bravado in her voice having a ring of falseness to it that he was sure even she noticed.

He felt compelled to tell her that that had changed, but something in the back of his mind stopped him from opening his mouth. Perhaps it was the doubt growing in him, or maybe it was his imperfect survival instincts kicking in. He knew how flexible the pony’s neck was, and remembered the stand-off they had been in only days before. If this went on, he knew there would be no serendipity to prevent a shootout.

Being killed would have been unfortunate to say the least. He was lost, assuredly, but he was lost in a place that to his knowledge had yet to be seen by human eyes in a very, very long time. The presence of fresh, above-ground water alone was worth a good deal of chips, and the landscape seemed almost untouched by trials put upon it by the Fall that had left the Grand Canyon uninhabitable in some places.

He thought himself a reasonable man, but even as he weighed his options he found it difficult to go against the grain, to ignore the voice of pride that told him to stand his ground and admit no faults. 

Pragmatism weighed heavier in his mind than pride though, this time. With an almost conscious force of will he relented, fingers outstretched by his sides as he forced his body to relax, eyes intentionally averting away from the pony in a show of submission that he was certain the equid-like being could understand. The only thing I have to lose is my pride, he thought bitterly.

“I believe we’re getting ahead of ourselves,” Kiako admitted, the sincerity in his voice carrying a hollow ring.

From the corner of his eyes he could see that Finders Keepers agreed, if not with words then by the way her body deflated with an unrestrained sigh of relief, the mare dropping down to her haunches as all tension seemed to flow out of her.

He didn’t know the pony all that well, and in fact knew almost nothing about her. Amidst the strangeness of the past couple of days he had found himself in a scuffle with not one, but two different types of uplifted beings, each more peculiar than the last. Rosewing was quick to violence — he still had the bandages under his armor to prove that — and seemed all too ready to brawl with strangers. Finders Keepers on the other hand fought only in self-defense or if pushed, at least from his recent experiences.

Seeing her drop her guard so suddenly and so recklessly, despite what had nearly happened, comforted him in a way. The mare seemed far quicker to forgive — or at least back down temporarily — than he would have ever been, and in some ways he couldn’t help but admire that. It made working with others so much easier when they were willing to make concessions, a thing he himself was loathe to ever do.

The gentle slope of the embankment was cool against the back of his head, blades of grass tickling at his ears as he stared up at the dimming sky, dull clouds drifting off to no doubt unfamiliar places. The trials of the day were finally starting to catch up with him, eyes growing heavy as exhaustion set in like a sudden fog on a cold morning.

Soon enough he stopped thinking entirely, the last thing he saw being the first pinpricks of starlight fading into the night sky before finally closing his eyes and drifting off to fitful sleep.




***  ***  ***



To say Finders Keepers was angry was like saying that the winter rains were cold and wet; it was true enough, but it didn’t really express what she felt after the little showdown she just had with that absolute jerk!

She had thought the creature’s attitude had been bad before, back before they’d been caught up in that explosion in Haybale. At least then she hadn’t had to actually know what was being said to her, but now that this human suddenly knew how to talk he seemed to be taking every opportunity to be rude and belittling. Tartarus, she seethed, I can’t believe I was actually thinking of shooting him and being done with all this, but somehow that mule managed to get me to sink that low!.

She couldn’t help but let out a disgruntled groan as she walked away from the passed-out human, ignoring the dark yet oh so tempting voice in the back of her mind that was telling her to pick up her gear and just leave him there. She might have done it too, if not for how dark it was going to get, or how tired she was after everything she’d been through. Still, awful as the man was, and as much as she wanted to buck his stupid, weird face in, she still felt as though she should at least bear it until they got to Stableside. At least then she could wipe her hooves of him and still have a clean conscience. 

What would the Princesses do, she wondered, a small smile playing over her muzzle as she thought of what one of them might do. Like many ponies she was firm in her belief that the Princesses had ascended to Goddesshood, having to leave their corporeal forms to watch over Equestria even as it was consumed by the Zebras’ balefire megaspells. Despite what the pegasi claimed, the moon and sun still being set on their course after two-centuries was proof enough of the Princesses’ divinity.

Even so she didn’t think prayer was going to be all that helpful to her. For the time being she just wanted to be away from what seemed to be the source of her problems, and she continued to walk for some distance to find a spot to settle down. Unfortunately for her these parts of the Equestrian Wasteland weren’t all the populated, even Pre-War, meaning that unless she wanted to make some sort of hole in the ground to sleep in, the best she was going to get was near this embankment.

With a disappointed sigh she settled down on a grassy spot, no sign of rocks that would poke her into her during her sleep. If it weren’t as dark as it was she likely would have dug a small trench to lie in, but by this point it was far too late for that, and instead she simply settled for laying down against the grass, not even bothering to make another fire-pit.

Head resting against the shallow slope of the embankment she fought to get into a comfortable position, finally settling into something that for the moment was fine but was sure to make her regret the decision in the morning. That was future-Finders Keepers’ problem and for now she was content to just close her eyes and take in the rich, bucolic scents of the land and air around her.

It was a cool, quiet night, one of her ears perked up to the sounds of chirping insects and the soft rustling of wind blowing across the plains of grass all around her. Listening to the ever-present noises soothed her as much as any lullaby, a deep feeling of tranquility flowing into her as she nestled into the cool soil. Despite all of her troubles lately, nights like these never failed to remove the day’s worries from her mind, and she could truthfully say that at that moment she was truly at ease.

Untroubled by life, she gently drifted off with the thoughts of friends, family, and happy times at the forefront of her mind, a soft smile on her lips before finally being consigned to the oblivion of sleep.




***  ***  ***



Sometime during the night the sun had switched places from west to east, its rays filtering over the horizon and breaking over the embankment to illuminate everything in its dull light. With darkness fading, so too were the comforting sounds that came with it, to be replaced by the early morning stillness that declared it to be a brand new day. Unfortunately for her, Finders Keepers wasn’t one to greet the sun with a cheerful smile and a bit of pep in her step. Quite the opposite, actually.

Sprawled uncomfortably on the ground, her blanket somehow making its way a good dozen hoofs away from her during the course of the night, the groggy pony found herself cursing past-Finders Keepers for picking such a good spot to sleep that night. With not even her blanket close enough for the excuse of catching a few more winks, she resigned herself with a sigh to actually trying to get up early for once.

Smacking her lips and feeling as though something had crawled inside her mouth and died in it, she lazily craned her neck to nibble on some grass. The grass wasn’t very good being raw and right out of the ground, but at the very least it served to fend off her morning-mouth and to help wake her up. Chewing slowly as the little ponies in her mind dusted the cobwebs off her faculties, she was working up the courage to actually get up despite the fact that two of her legs were tingling and would no doubt buzz with pain should she try and move them.

A couple of minutes and a few stretches later and she was as good as new, at least physically. The morning haze of having just woken up still hung over her mind, and she found herself wishing for a good cup of coffee or even some really strong tea. To go along with simply being tired, she also felt gross, her fur coated in dust and matted down with sweat that caused her back to itch as her barding rubbed against it.

Doing what she should have done before going to bed she unbuckled and shrugged off the barding, letting it slip off of her as she sluggishly made her way up the embankment, apprehension building up in her as she narrowed her eyes into slits. As her head crested the ridge she was immediately welcomed by Celestia’s glory, her eyes tearing up as she rapidly fluttered her eyes until it was bearable enough for her to continue on. With a huff, she took several more steps before stopping again, her bleary eyes focusing on a pale shape down by the brook.

It’s too early for this, Finders Keepers thought fuzzily, standing there as her mind and eyes caught up with the rest of her body to piece together what she was looking at. Only when the pale shape unhunched itself did she put two and two together, her ears picking picking up the distant sound of splashing water. Looks like I’m not the only one having good ideas today.

Seeing Kiako’s barding and equipment piled up neatly nearby, she was reminded that even when he had been disarmed he still had some clothing under his barding, back when both of them had been taken in by the Saber Squad mercenaries. No longer having just his legs and arms uncovered and now having his whole body exposed to the world, she thought she could see why. With how thin his fur was it was no wonder he was shivering in the crisp morning air, the bandages on his body providing no help whatsoever.

As she continued to watch the human languidly bathe she found herself slowly becoming more awake, the last remnants of morning fog clearing from her mind as curiosity kicked it back into gear. Watching the biped wash itself, she found herself in equal parts intrigued as well as unsettled. Intriguing because, despite already knowing how strange Kiako’s anatomy was even with his body being covered, it was quite another to get an unobscured look. Unsettling too, actually just being able to see the muscles shifting beneath his skin.

She turned her gaze away with a shudder, deciding that she didn’t need to see anymore. It was just as well she supposed, well aware that bathing while a peeping-pony watched you from a high vantage point was probably not the best way to start a morning. Hate to see what a peeping-pony cutie-mark would look like, she thought, the corners of her lips curling up in an amused smirk.

From her position atop the embankment she had a clear view of the surrounding plains, the Unicorn Mountain Range looming just above the mostly unobstructed horizon. They hadn’t gotten all that far from Haybale the day before, only enough to get it out of sight. Now if I’m right it should be another day before we hit Galloping Gorge, and maybe one or two after that to get to Stableside, she thought to herself, mentally charting their path to the settlement.

Her travel planning was interrupted by the prick up of an ear, body going still for a moment as she caught the distinct sounds of the plains waking up to greet a brand new day. At first it was just the distant calls of birdsongs, but soon it was joined by the barks and snarls of no-doubt wild dogs, maybe even wolves. Amidst their noise she couldn’t hear the birds anymore, and she wasn’t sure if they had flown off or if they’d been made into breakfast.

Regardless it was probably a good idea to hurry up, and she started to trot on down the opposite side of the embankment, calling out to the human. “Hate to interrupt but we might have trouble coming, best hurry up!”

Previously looking calm and generally at peace with the world as he bathed, the human’s posture and general demeanor took a sudden change for the worse as he heard her call out to him. Kiako whirled around to face her, a wide-eyed snarl plastered over his scarlet face, one arm grasping out to his belongings only for something to leap off of the pile of barding and land into his paw.

The hows and whys of what was happening didn’t matter right then, terror and confusion having no place in her mind as instincts took over, her body propelling itself forward as the man’s arm swung out to bring that snub-nosed revolver to bear, her momentum carrying her down the dew-slick grass. Her eyes desperately roved for something to hide behind, knowing full well that this area was as open as a place could be. Cursing herself for leaving her weapon behind with her barding, she was left with no option but to hope against hope, leaping up to her hooves and rocketing forward.

Head low to the ground, her hooves tore up the ground to quickly close the distance between herself and the biped. Somehow a bullet hadn’t torn into her yet, not because of any misses but instead due to the gun not going off at all. Her panicky mind was racing a mile a minute, and she realized that during her rush forward the biped had lowered his aim, and was now trying to dive out of the way. Too late for the both of them.

Shit! was one word that popped into her head, right before her skull slammed into Kiako’s torso and drove the breath from the man’s lungs in a ragged, ugly wheeze. Her vision flashed white for a moment after the collision, the world seeming to stop for the barest of instances before starting up again and sending them both into the brook in a tangle of flailing limbs and mutual cursing. Despite the sudden chill that ran through her body as water washed over her coat and the general chaos of the situation, the one part of her mind that didn’t have a stake in the situation appreciated disjointed blur of water droplets reflecting the morning light, right before her vision swam with stars as a fist slammed up side her head.

She let out a gurgling gasp as her side landed on something hard and angular, the wind blown out of her in a mixture of bubbles and air. The water wasn’t that deep, no more than ankle depth, but it was enough for half of her world to become a muffled, murky blur as one side of her face went under the water with the other above it. From the corner of her eye she saw the pale shape of Kiako looming over her several body-lengths away, but he didn’t advance on her, instead falling to his knees and sitting down on his haunches, one arm held conspicuously between his legs.

Winded but not wiped she lurched up to her hooves, the sound of water cascading off of her wet body and dribbling into the brook below not enough to mask how her ragged breathing, nor Kiako’s. The man in question looked like how she felt, bare flesh scraped and bruised in places, chest rising and falling as he stared out at her warily through wide pupils. The fight — if that’s what it even was, she wasn’t sure — hadn’t taken that long, but like most it was intense and got the blood pumping, and soon enough she was sure she’d come off of her adrenaline high and feel even worse than she had waking up this morning.

Thinking a bit more rationally, she sat down to mirror the human down the brook, each giving a nod of understanding to the other as things wound down. When she had woken up that morning she knew she was going to take a bath, but she really hadn’t expected it to be as chaotic as it had. A soft wind had been blowing in from the south, a bouquet of scents carried along with the breeze that she noticed only now that her sinuses had gotten a good wash. There was the usual smells of the plains, like those of plants and dirt, but there was also the pungent metallic-tang of iron as well. She didn’t think she was bleeding but she checked anyway, her head jerking this way and that as he patted herself down, eyeing the water around her for any crimson stains flowing down from her. It was only when she looked up at Kiako did she see where the scent came from.

“Got a little something there,” she noted casually, pointing to her own muzzle before gesturing over to the man’s nose where a thin stream of blood ran down the slight furrow in the flesh under and between his nostrils, hanging just above his lip.

The man let out an irritated huff, face scrunching up in a scowl that ended with him rolling his eyes and looking away from her for a moment, a paw flicking over to her dismissively. He met her gaze again, a lopsided frown on his face that seemed out of place, almost exaggerated in a way. Hearing the guttural but unmistakably foreign words pouring out of his mouth in rapid-fire fashion, she immediately knew why he seemed more… aggressive than usual.

Finders Keepers couldn’t help but let out a noise of annoyance herself, head craning back as she let out an exasperated groan to the morning sky. This is just what I needed, she thought angrily, teeth gritted. As if this miserable mule wasn’t bad enough when we could at least talk to each other, now I don’t even have that!

More of those strange, guttural words were spoken in her direction, and her ears swiveled over to Kiako before she looked at him. He kept flicking a paw at her, nodding his chin along with it as he looked at her expectantly, eyes glancing somewhere behind her.

“What?” she asked, eyes narrowed in confusion. Despite how frustrated Kiako had made her feel in the past couple of days, she at least had someone to talk to for once on her trips. After everything that happened though, she was definitely going to be charging him for the trip to Stableside. Communicating that was going to be a lot harder now.

Kiako shifted from his previously cross-legged position, bringing his knees inward and withdrawing his left paw from his groin once it was covered up by his legs. He placed the palm of his paw up toward the sky and made placed a digit from his other paw on the surface, making a series of counter-clockwise circles, all the while nodding at her with his chin to an area behind her, voice insistently repeating the same series of words over and over again. 

“If you think I’m gonna be turning around right now, think again buster,” she said evenly, shaking her head as she gave the human a flat stare. 

He stared right on back at her, looking to be just as annoyed as she felt. With a weary, exaggerated sigh followed by a lone tsk he dipped one hand into the water to retrieve the familiar, dripping shape of his sidearm. Leaning forward so that his chest touched his still closed leg he handed over the weapon, looking grave all the while.

It didn’t take PipBuck technician to figure out the meaning behind the gesture, though she still wasn’t sure why he was handing it over. She stared at the matte black revolver for a long moment before finally giving in, accepting the wooden grip in her mouth and eliciting a brief look of what couldn’t be mistaken for anything other than regret on Kiako’s face. 

“Haey, ay’ brus’ muh t’heef twah ah wee’,” she muttered from around the wooden grip, her words sounding like nonsense even to her. With a huff she finally gave in, turning her back on him. Almost immediately she heard the trickle and splashing of water as Kiako got up from the brook, ear picking up soft footfalls heading away from her. 

Just as well, she thought, teeth biting down into the wooden handle in a grimace as the last traces of adrenaline were out of her system, a feeling of weariness creeping over her that brought along with it the aches and pains of the brief melee she had taken part in. She doubted it was anything serious, but she was definitely going to be sore for a while, and she was most definitely not going to be wasting any of her hard won Med-X on anything superficial.

Finders Keepers risked a glance behind her, catching sight of the man wearing the same — albeit now slightly damp — grey short-sleeved shirt and groin-shorts as she had seen him wear before. The distinct sound of a zipper was heard as he stepped into the also grey one-piece jumpsuit that he wore under the blue portions of his barding. Her head jerked back to stare forward just as she thought the human was starting to look at her.

You know, I should really be doing something more useful, instead of just waiting for that weirdo, she mused. She had originally come over to get a bath, and despite being shoved into the water she still hadn’t managed to get all of the dust out of her coat; as it was her bath was only half finished. 

Gently tossing the firearm onto the dry bank nearby, she stooped down and gave herself a quick roll in the water, stirring up a cloud of silt around her that quickly faded away as it went with the current. Without soap and a good brush she still felt dirty but at least she was less dusty, and she didn’t think she’d have to worry about that particular bane of her existence for a couple more days unless she happened to find a prime scavenging spot.

“You done yet?” Finders Keepers shook her mane in a spray of water droplets, stepping out of the brook with water running down her legs and off her fetlocks. The mare looked over at the man, not really expecting an answer but hoping that he’d take the hint from her tone.

Kiako was bent down half-way at the waist, looking to be in the process of strapping on some barding to a thigh. He would have been at least had he not frozen to stare at her so intensely, brow furrowed as if in deep thought. 

“I can understand you again,” the man said before she could even make a comment, sounding just as perplexed as she was.

“Well.” She let the word sit there for a moment, not all too sure where to go from there. On the one hoof it made things a whole lot easier for the both of them, but on the other it just raised a whole lot of questions.

“Well,” she repeated, brow stitched in thought. “Don’t suppose you got any idea how this is happening? Some kind of magic?”

“Again with your magic,” the man quickly scoffed, earning him a deep frown from the mare. “I haven’t been idle in regards to this problem, but even my hypothesis has a lot of holes in it.”

“Aaaand?” Finders Keepers drawled, a hoof tapping in impatience. She was eager to get a move on, and she was already beginning to regret the fact that the human could talk to her again.

“The only possible explanation is that,” he began, voice taking on something akin to smugness as he raised a digit to trail the boundary between where pale flesh and dark metal met, “for whatever reason my collar has created a very limited sort of field around me, and is able to intermittently translate foreign languages into something understandable.”

“So it’s magic,” the pony replied, nodding as if in agreement, taking a bit of childish satisfaction at the brief look of annoyance she got in return. She returned to seriousness, nodding over to the man’s paw and then to the gun resting in the grass behind her.

“What kind of rock have you been living under where you think magic doesn’t exist?” she asked, voice and expression a tad incredulous at the biped’s continual denial of the existence of magic. “Besides, I saw you use magic to pull that gun into your paw!”

“That wasn’t magic,” Kiako asserted with a forceful cutting gesture, letting the words sit for a moment before continuing, “The exact mechanics behind such augmentations are admittedly not well understood, but the process of replicating them and adapting them for human use is understood well enough to conclusively prove it’s not magic.”

She didn’t even know what to say to that, knowing the words individually but not in the way they had been strung together. Still, the way the human had so flippantly shut her down whenever she mentioned magic was really starting to raise her dander, and she really wasn’t feeling all too keen on backing down this time.

“Well if that’s not magic, then how about your slave collar, huh?” she retorted, huffing slightly before continuing on. “That sounds awfully close to magic to me, and it still doesn’t explain why I can understand you!”

“First of all this is not a ‘slave collar’ as you so put it,” the man corrected, not sounding or looking as if he took umbrage with her arguing with him. In fact, he almost sounded as though he was enjoying this!

“That being said,” Kiako continued, tapping the collar in question, “you’ve come across the same hole in the hypothesis as I did. What’s more is that while my collar has a great many useful functions, it has no way of receiving direct audio or visual input.”

“Have you tried taking it off to see if it’s actually your collar thingy then?” Finders Keepers asked, voice taking on some of the weariness she was beginning to feel while talking with the man. She was anxious to get underway, remembering the sounds of wild dogs from earlier.

The man noticeably stiffened as she said that, and she reflexively took a step back as the man’s usual dour expression briefly flickered into something else, something more vulnerable. Had she blinked she wouldn’t have even seen it, but by the way the man glared at her it was clear she had struck a nerve.

“The point of the matter is that while my hypothesis is the one most likely to be true, even that is suspect,” he maintained, voice glacier-like as he stared at her icily, as though challenging the mare to disagree.

Great, not only am I dealing with some foreign creature, but also one that doesn’t like being wrong. Awesome, she lamented, not rising to the human’s bait just yet. Obviously the collar had some sort of importance to him, but just because he didn’t believe in magic didn’t mean she didn’t. She herself didn’t know much about it herself other than the general things a pony should know, like how each type of pony had their own brand of magic. Magic… magic.

Finders Keepers nodded along with the gentle rhythm of her hoof tapping against the grass beneath her, thinking back to all the things she had learned over the years, struggling to maybe come up with a solution. Magic had been a part of Equestria since long before those stuffy old history books that she usually ignored were made, and magic was still here long after the Last Day. For the most part when somepony said magic she often couldn’t help but think of unicorns, or the way they seemed so uppity just because they were the only ones who could cast actual spells. 

“Except for gems,” she pondered aloud, drawing a quizzical glance from the man standing over her. Her mouth broke open into a wide, self-satisfied smile, unable to help but congratulate herself on coming up with another alternative to the biped’s stupid collar theory. After all, it wasn’t pettiness if the other pony was being a jerk.

“Hey hey! Do you have any gems on you?” she blurted out excitedly, staring wide-eyed as the man’s earlier quizzical look turned into one of abject confusion. “Come on, that’s gotta be it!”

“Gems, as in jewelry?” Kiako questioned, tilting his head slightly at her, a brow raised. One of his arms moved to a side-pocket of his jumpsuit, digits peeling back a small flap of fabric to drag out a chain. From that chain spun a golden medallion of some sort, one large gem about half the diameter of a bottle cap sitting on the back, while the other side bore a thin, thread-like latticework of gems that sparkled in the sun’s rays.

“Ha!” the mare gloated victoriously, head drawn back smugly. “I’m betting that is what’s doing it!” Whatever it is, anyway.

“Finely crafted, no doubt. But not magic,” the biped stated plainly, turning the piece of jewelry in his paws as he continued to examine it. 

“Where did you get it?” Finders Keepers asked, still feeling exultant in her victory but not enough to push her curiosity aside. “When did you get it, too?”

Kiako opened his mouth to say something, but stopped just short of doing so. He remained silent for a bit, still staring at the medallion before finally looking back to the pony, a grave expression on the man’s face. “A bit of petty theft on my part. It came free during my brief scuffle with that one hybrid, Rosewing.”

“And you got away with it too, looks like,” she whistled, a small grin on her face. She wasn’t often one for stealing, but the brief impression Rosewing had made on her didn’t really make her feel all that sorry for her either.

The human twirled the medallion for a bit, the chain wrapping around his digits and bringing the bejeweled golden disc closer and closer to his paw before reversing the direction of spin, repeating the process several times. The whole fidgety act entranced Finders Keepers somewhat, the subtle play of digits interesting to watch but ultimately not enough to distract her from seeing the pensive, guarded look on the man’s face. Kiako continued to twirl the medallion about before suddenly twisting his wrist and letting the necklace fly from his digits.

“What in Tartarus are you doing?!” the mare gaped, watching the undoubtedly valuable if not irreplaceable item flung a good distance away from them before landing at the base of the embankment. She was just about to race over to retrieve the bit of jewelry before she was stopped by a leg planted in front of her.

“No,” the man said flatly, giving a small shake of the head before continuing to speak to her.

Her eyes widened a little, ears perking up attentively him as she took in the strange noises coming out of the biped’s mouth. She didn’t hear the guttural, harsh noises that she had heard him speak in the past, nor did she hear the far more understandable if slightly accented Equestrian that the man just been speaking. No, instead the string of noises that flowed from Kiako’s mouth almost seemed to be the mixture of the two, traces of each mixing into something thoroughly incomprehensible.

Just when she thought she might have started to lose her mind, the words made an abrupt shift back into the human’s guttural language. The rapid shift into one form of nonsense into a more familiar one jarred her senses, the mare unsure of how to react other than to stare at the man in bafflement. 

Her reaction wasn’t lost on Kiako, and she could clearly see the realization dawning on him, the muscles that kept his facial features locked in its usual dour, humorless expression softening as his eyes went wide and his lips parted into an open-mouthed gasp of astonishment. His head snapped away from her, the man’s body shifting with it as he rushed over to wear the medallion had been carelessly tossed away, paws scooping it up as though it were something fragile.

“It better not be broken” she fretted, trotting over to the man once he’d gotten ahold of the medallion. “Please tell me it’s not broken.”

The biped dangled the medallion up to her face, gently twisted the chain to turn the bit of jewelry so that she could get a good look at both sides. The gold was untarnished as expected, and didn’t have a mark on it other than perhaps the slight divots where the gems were inset, said gems also looking to be pristine in condition. Her eyes lingered a bit on the lattice-work pattern of gems on the front of the medallion, catching how like before they seemed to gently sparkle or shift colors when exposed to the sun. Definitely magical.

Finders Keepers let out a gentle sigh, the relief palpable in her voice even as she thumped the man’s unprotected thigh with a hoof. “You lummox, you didn’t have to throw the thing!”

The man seemed to ignore her, or at the very least paid no attention to her comment as he brought the jewelry up to his face and pulled a block of metal off of his belt, digits dexterously unfolding a couple of items from what looked to be a pretty expansive multi-tool. He quickly set upon the medallion, probing away with the various heads, futilely trying to find a way to open the jewelry.

“Don’t think you’re gonna be getting too far,” she observed wryly. “And I wouldn’t try dislodging any of those gems.

Kiako’s brow set into a look of determination, the man briefly redoubling his efforts before finally stopping just long enough to look at her unpleasantly. “You mentioned gems before, what do you know about this thing?”

She shot him a shrug, mouth screwed up into a look of indifference. “I’m a scavenger, and jewelry and gems rake in the caps like nopony’s business. If the gems have a spell bound onto them that just means they’re worth more.”

“I don’t see how spelling would relate to a pretty bauble such as this. The enabling our communication is obviously located inside, but I’m finding it incredibly hard to find the join, and twisting isn’t helping either,” Kiako said, still working busily on trying to “unlock” the medallion. 

Finders Keepers just stood there, watching the man grow more and more agitated as he was met with failure at every turn. With a muted growl the man eventually gave up, reluctantly tucking the medallion and broken chain into a pocket. She was about to walk off to get her things before Kiako called after her.

“Does the settlement we’re headed to, this Stableside, happen to have the equipment necessary for a slice-writing?” Kiako asked hopefully, voice dipping and seeming to speed up for a brief moment near the end.

Finders Keepers could only shake her head at that, both doubting that Stableside would have anything special and not knowing what the man was even talking about. “Probably not.”

The mare got no response in return, and she was content with that. When she had first woken up that morning she was expecting to get washed up, have some breakfast, and maybe have a little talk before heading out. As it was, with all the weirdness having gone on that morning, she had only gotten two out of three. She was plenty eager to get a move on, having tarried long enough that breakfast would have to be on the go. 

She didn’t stop when she crested the embankment, her head swivelling about to get a good look at the plains as she continued on to her belongings. Save for the whisper of the wind and the gentle hum of insects, the plains seemed almost dead in a way, the happy chirping of birds earlier in the morning having still not returned despite the good amount of time she had heard since the dogs had drove them off. Almost always there was the distant background chatter of some sort of critter in the plains, and the silence she experienced then was deeply unsettling, sending a shiver along her spine that had nothing to do with the crisp morning air and her recent bath. To her, it felt as though that the plains was holding its breath, waiting for something to pass on by.

She quickly made her way back down toward where she had slept the night before, her belongings still semi-scattered around the area. There were a lot of scavengers out and about, but unlike most she chose to travel light, if only because she had never been wealthy enough to get some choice bits of equipment. The plus-side of that was that it meant she had very little to clean up, the errant blanket and her thick leather barding the only things not immediately near her saddlebags.

Taking care of her other “morning duties”, the mare was soon finished up and ready to greet whatever troubles the day threw at her, barding strapped on and secure and her saddlebags fastened safely over her flanks and covering her cutie-mark. Once more — and hopefully for the last time — she crossed over the embankment, ready to get a move on. With luck they’d make it to Stableside the next day.

The last time she had greeted Kiako that morning had ended with an embarrassing series of events that she rather forget, but at the very least they had both solved the mystery of how they were able to communicate with one another. Making her way down to the human she saw that he was just about finished himself, his passive-thingy nowhere to be seen save for a conspicuously fresh patch of dirt nearby. She didn’t pry, but she did make a note of its location.

“You ready to get a move on to Stableside?” the mare asked as she sidled up to him, her saddlebags clinking softly with the sound of caps and other goods. The trip there wasn’t just for the human’s benefit, as she herself needed to offload some of the things she had dug up.

“The sooner we get there the better,” Kiako replied, tightening the straps of a vambrace on his forearm and waving his arm a bit before turning to her fully, looking all ready to go. “I do hope you don’t have other plans that come before that.”

“Nope, straight shot to Stableside!” she said, the pleasantness of her tone belying the anxiousness that had nothing to do with the sudden quiet of the plains. She had been entertaining the idea before, back when they had left Haybale, but ever since the little melee she had gotten into the idea had gotten lodged deeper and deeper into her mind until she could no longer ignore it. With all the trouble Kiako had been giving her, what was a little bit of hazard-pay?

“About the trip though,” she continued, tension leaking into her voice as she took several steps to the side so that she could fully face him. “I’m gonna be needing some payment to get you there. No offense but you’ve been… well, you’ve been a whole lot of trouble for me.”

“That’s fine,” Kiako said, nodding to her. “I was never much one for charity, anyhow. Shall we hash out the details when we get there, or now?”

“Now hold on just one… wait, really?” She had half-expected the man to immediately balk at her request, to yell and scream like some sort of lunatic. As it was — and to her surprise — he had readily agreed far faster than she would have expected, even of herself if she had been in his horsehoes. 

“Surprised?” the man asked, quirking an eyebrow at her as his voice took on a vaguely patronizing tone. “You are doing me a service, you know. At the very least you should be paid for it, somehow.”

“Do you even have any caps?” Finders Keepers asked suspiciously, eyeing the man as though he were about to try and skip out on paying a tavern tab. 

“I’ll come up with something,” Kiako said assuredly, turning away from her and beginning to walk in the wrong direction of where Stableside was. “I am a Tech after all, and an Applier at that. Making things is what we do.”

“That’s good at least,” the mare said, relief clear in her voice even as she pointed in the direction opposite of the man. “But can you at least make in the right direction, we’re going that way.”

“Of course,” he said, and immediately made a smart about face to head in the right direction. 

Finders Keepers quickly took the lead, keeping a quick and steady pace as the man followed behind her. With his leg-braces gone the man was easily able to keep up with her, and it looked like if they kept moving without taking many breaks they would be able to get to Stableside the next day.

Though the sun might have been glaring into their faces, she knew that it would pass as the day drew on, and for the time being the warmth felt good even through her barding. A soft northerly breeze flowed across the plains, grass bending beneath its course and creating a soft shushing noise that evoked memories of cool nights and pleasant journeys. Not another pony, griffon, or anything else was in sight, just the two of them making their way to their destination.

Taking in the sights of smells of the natural world around her, that of the summer grasses and a clean breeze carrying the scents of far off places, she should have felt the tension flow out of her, her earth-pony spirit feeling at home in such an environment, away from the dead streets of cities that had died long ago. Normally she would, too, but instead all she felt was a heavy feeling of disquiet, one that dampened what was otherwise a perfectly fine day. She wanted more than anything at that very moment to be in those same dead streets she had grown up in, to feel protective walls closed around her to at least block out the feeling of being watched.

She quickened her pace, determined to shave off several hours off of their journey even if it meant she would be a tired and dishevelled mess at the end of the day. At the very least she had the pleasant picture of a nice pile of caps in her mind, and the confidence to know that in as little as a day or two her imagination would become a reality.

Hearing the sudden, deep, throaty howl from behind them, her quickened pace turned into a gallop, and the chase was on.
    
> Chapter 8: Stableside
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

The mind picked up strange things, Finders Keepers reflected.

It was as beautiful a day as a pony could ask for, the scent of grass and wildflowers carried along by the gentle breeze that rustled across the plains. This part of Equestria wasn’t so much of a wasteland anymore, and it was remarkably free of rubble or other bits of debris like sky-carriages or even roads. Much like the ground below the sky itself was also unmarred, not a single cloud to blot out the radiant sun as it hung in the crisp, blue sky that endlessly stretched out above the earth below.

The view would have been a much different sight during her childhood, she knew, even if she hadn’t experienced it herself. There was no doubt that an area like this would have just been another near-lifeless, muddy landscape with what little life there was being roaming animals and pale, stunted plants that struggled for lack of consistent light. The grey skies above were only fitting for such a dreary landscape, a permanent cloud cover ensuring a steady source of rain but only weak, filtered sunlight for the world below.

If one listened to what few ecologically-minded ponies there were — and they sure did love to be listened to — the Equestrian Wasteland could soon drop the second part of its name, and she couldn’t disagree with that after seeing places like she was in now. That didn’t mean she much cared to listen to them, no matter how loud they were. The one thing that they always seemed to gloss over was that Equestria wouldn’t be the way it was if it weren’t for one particular unicorn and her motley gang of heroes. 

Without ponies like Littlepip, Calamity, Velvet Remedy, and all the others those very same ecologists conveniently ignored, the Equestria of today would have looked very much the same as it had in the past two-centuries. Thanks to those aforementioned, selfless ponies, Finders Keepers and future generations could appreciate a quiet, peaceful view of a healing land, one that she had no doubt even a pony from before the Great War could appreciate.

Another gunshot cut across the plains, breaking her reverie and bringing her mind back to a less picturesque reality; one that involved herself and Kiako running away from a pack of monstrous things.

They probably wouldn’t be expecting that,] she noted with grim amusement, for a moment unsure if she meant the converging mutants or Kiako. She pushed the errant thought out of her head, fully focusing on her job.

“Moving back,” Kiako called out, paws dropping to his sides as he removed himself from the bipedal firing stance that was — if one ignored the obvious differences — not too dissimilar from that of her own. 

She felt the pat through her barding as Kiako ran past her, the touch probably more to act as a signal than as an act of reassurance. It was appreciated either way, and she leveled the block of metal in her mouth — her IF-22 chambered for .38 caliber ammunition — even as the man’s heavy bootfalls faded with distance.

The two of them had been running ever since early morning, a pack of mutant dogs of some sort nipping at their hocks all the way to where they were now. Unfortunately, whatever kind of breed the mutants were, they were smart. Smart enough to hang just out of range of their firearms once they had figured out that pistols weren’t all too useful past a certain point of range.

Their current plan consisted of one individual covering the other while they retreated, with the one covering making sure that the rabid beasts didn’t try to get too close. The roles then switched so that the one that had held their ground could catch up and the process could go through another cycle. Neither of them had actually planned it though, and instead it had been something that had come naturally to the two of them after realizing that just running wasn’t going to cut it.

It was sort of nice, Finders Keepers had to admit. She wasn’t used to working with others, scavengers like herself eschewing those who could potentially take a cut out of their profits. With all the dangerous radiation and pockets of Taint scoured away by the Elements of Harmony, scavenging was beginning to look more and more like a dying profession now that a great many risks had been removed and more areas were opened up. Even so though, whatever Kiako did as an “applier” or that other word he used, the two of them had managed a sort of synergy over the morning hours as they meshed into a team to protect one another. Maybe it’s just because we’re not really talking.

Her thoughts scattered once more as another gunshot broke out across the plains, this time her own.  One of the mutants let out a pitiful, snarling whimper as it was struck, its legs crumpling beneath dead weight as its momentum sent it plowing into a tumbling roll that ended only a couple body-lengths from her, a blown-out eye socket staring back at her accusingly. It was a grisly sight to be sure, but that didn’t stop her from letting out a muffled cheer from around her jawgun.

It was a brief victory though, her ear twitching as it heard the mournful howl of one of the fallen mutant’s packmates, a grim reminder that despite her brief victory there were still more of them just waiting to rush in and make her a meal. Her eyes snapped about, homing in on the dark shapes stalking just out of her pistol’s effective range. She wasn’t sure how many of them there were, but the last time she had made a count there had been six — minus the one she had just taken down herself.

Kiako himself was busy too it seemed, despite the fact that she was the one supposedly taking charge of covering the both of them. She didn’t have to see the human to know there was trouble behind her, the panicked footsteps and the rapid clicking of a hammer striking at empty chambers going tail-in-tail with the pained scream that went with the sound of falling bodies scuffling in the grass.

Her heart leapt into her throat as she spun about to the sight of Kiako and a shaggy beast rolling about the ground, the latter having its strong jaws clenched tightly on the man’s flailing arm. The biped’s usual dour look was gone, face contorted into a twisted, open-mouthed scream of anguish as he repeatedly whipped dark steel across his tormentor’s face and muzzle.

This is bad, this is bad! her mind panicked, indecision rooting her in place as her head moved about to try and get a clear shot off without hitting the beleaguered man. Uncertainty clouded her mind as opportunities popped up momentarily only to be wasted after waiting too long, and for a heartbeat she was frozen, forced to just stand there and watch as wide eyes drunk in the violence.

The massive, hulking canine’s slavering, growling jaws drew ever closer with the man’s face as the vambrace and under-barding clad arm was forced back beneath its constant assault, and Finders Keepers could see the faint sheen of sweat on the man’s face as he both tried and slowly failed to hold back against the animal’s raw strength. His pistol that had previously been bludgeoning against the creature’s skull had fallen by the wayside, the man scrabbling desperately at his belt even as he turned to face her, one side of his face obscured by the grass but not enough to hide the desperation etched on his flushed face.

“Behind you!” the man screamed, spittle flying from his mouth before a meaty paw pressed his face deeper into the dirt.

That was enough to shake off her hesitancy, and just in time for her to catch the sound of pounding paws right behind her, her head snapping back to catch the faintest glimpse of a dark shape nearly upon her. It was already too late to turn any further to fire off a shot, but where conscious thought had failed her, countless generations of equine instinct took over. 

Like lightning and almost as fast her hind-legs shot out from beneath her, hooves striking out and making contact with her assailant with a frightening amount of force that was enough to send a shock of pain up her legs and through her spine. Bone gave way before the power of her steel-shod hooves, the sickening crunch of a splintering and collapsing skull felt more than heard in its grotesquery. The roar of triumph that might have come howling out was instead something else entirely, more like a surprised whine that could no nothing but gurgle from a devastated muzzle.

Up until that moment, the monsters that had been hounding Finders Keepers and Kiako all morning had kept their distance. Still, the pack of mutant dogs outnumbered herself and Kiako several times over and it was only a matter of time until they finally went all out. With her partner fending off the literal jaws of death snapping at him, Finders Keepers’ racing mind came the terrible realization that things were about to get a whole lot worse for the both of them.

It got worse a whole lot sooner, too, as she tried to turn her body toward the thundering paws of another attacker trying to blindside her. Before her rear hooves even touched the ground again the world suddenly entered a violent spin, everything briefly becoming a blur as she slammed hard into the dirt. Her teeth clacked painfully together as the weapon slipped out from her jaws, falling into the shadow of the beast that had so suddenly knocked her down. 

The hot, fetid breath on her neck barely registered as she pitched herself forward just in time to escape those snaggletoothed jaws that snapped shut right where her neck had been less than a second prior. She had barely managed to get back onto her hooves before yet again being struck down, the throaty growl of her assailant only a low drone over the sound of rushing blood that filled her hearing. 

Up close and so personal it was still unimaginable to her that these hulking brutes were in any way related to the more common wild dogs of the wasteland, the thing’s proportions all wrong. Tree-trunk thick legs corded with muscle kept up an equally massive torso up off the ground, dwarfing the rest of its body to a degree that might have been comical if it hadn’t been so terrifying. It was as though a dog had been reimagined from a foal’s nightmare and hopped up on a lifetime supply of Buck to create the grotesque animal before her, its form positively exuding raw, primal power. The look in the monster’s eyes — for that’s what it truly looked like at that moment, a monster — held an unmistakable need, its sickly yellow eyes containing a yearning hunger that threatened to swallow her whole if she stared too long.

Equine instinct tore at her mind, urging her body to run, to escape the monstrosity that was already barreling toward her for the last time. She was practically defenseless, her pistol gone and her body sprawled out on the ground in an unfavorable position. There was nothing to do but to run, to desperately try and put some distance between herself and those glistening jaws that eagerly snapped open and shut in anticipation for the snap that would end her life.

And yet it was already too late to run, the gap between herself and her attacker short enough that not even a pegasus could have gotten away before being brought down to earth and being torn apart. Adrenaline fueled instinct and muddled thought warred over her mind, creating a moment of indecision that would cost her dearly if she didn’t act now.

Her world became a small dot of light at the end of a long tunnel, dimness creeping around her vision and swallowing everything up in darkness just as the beast-dog leapt out at her, its powerful jaws fully intending to take in her head and crush the life from her skull. She wasn’t about to give up though, not even when literal jaws of the death were about to close in on her. In the end, it came down to quick she was on the draw.

The weight hanging from the pony’s neck was gone, the weapon that had once been a burden at that moment becoming her savior. The IF-44 gripped in the mare’s clenched teeth was battered and scratched up, the passage of time and the nature of the weapon’s function having taken its toll. Still, it was a testament to the sturdy engineering of Ironshod Firearms’ weapon designs that even an apocalyptic war and two centuries later the weapons were still in constant use.

Though chunky and relatively heavy for a submachine gun, the weapon was compact enough to pass for an overly large pistol if somepony were unaware of the weapon’s specifics. Straight-blowback and operating from a closed bolt, the weapon held up to twenty-one rounds of ammunition chambered in .41 caliber. Unfortunately there was a downside to the weapon’s compact nature, the barrel being relatively short in comparison to other firearms of the same size.

Still, accuracy wasn’t what the IF-44 was known for — but at just over four-hundred rounds per minute, it didn’t need to be. 

In one second half a dozen lead slugs belched from the weapon, travelling from out the muzzle at a speed of over thirteen-hundred feet per second before crashing into the mutant’s face, the hollow-pointed rounds wreaking catastrophic tissue damage as they traveled through the back of the skull and deeper into the beast-dog’s hulking body.

Finders Keepers never got a chance to fully appreciate the grisly end result, the canine’s momentum carrying it forward even in death. The pony didn’t even have time to let out a panicked yelp as the corpse crashed into her, the world exploding into stars as she was sent into a violent tumble across the ground. 

Her tumble degraded into a short-lived, messy slide just before she came to an abrupt and painful halt as she bodily collided into something hard and unyielding. She nearly gave in to panic right there, addled senses making her a poor judge of the growling and fighting around her. A muffled, guttural bark of expectation and urgency sent a fresh jolt through her, the smothering fog of panic temporarily lifted from her mind as she leapt back up to her hooves to rejoin the fight.

The solitary blast of Kiako’s nearby shotgun might have raised her hackles were she not already fighting for her life, but as it was Finders Keepers couldn’t help but feel the thrill of elation running through her at how welcome that extra firepower was at the moment. Her own weapon replied in kind as she dove forward just as a wounded beast-dog leapt out at her, lead stitching the animal down the belly. Another blast of the break-action signalled the death of the creature she had probably only wounded, and once more she was back on her hooves and waiting for the next attack.

Over the course of minutes, possibly seconds, the pair had drifted close to one another, hindquarters-to-hindquarters as they kept what few canines remained at bay. Like the ammunition in her weapon she didn’t know how many of their attackers were left, knowing only that the growling and barking and gunfire had stopped so that she was left with only the grating rasp of heavy breathing and her own blood rushing through her ears. They stayed that way for a while, the pony’s nerves wound tight enough to act as a spring and urging her to shoot at anything moved even a trace, real or imagined.

She was the first to break the silence that had creeped up on the both of them, the mechanical clicking of an empty weapon felt more than heard startling her enough to open her mouth and call out for help. The clatter of the submachine gun quickly brought her attention downward, a startled gasp spilling from her mouth as she laid eyes upon the bleeding, ruined bodies of the dead and dying beasts before her.

“We did it,” she whispered in awe, lips curling in a beatific smile as relief surged through her body and making her feel as though she were dancing on air. “I can’t believe we’re alive!”

The elation of victory was fleeting however, the brief burst of energy it had given her a meager thing in comparison to the overwhelming exhaustion that suddenly hit her like a hammer. Her smile fell off her face as her eyes drooped in fatigue, a light sigh escaping her as the adrenaline finally wore off and unmasked the exertion that had built up in her body. With that exhaustion came awareness of the injuries she had sustained during the battle, unseen bruises that throbbed painfully with every breath reminding her just how close she had come to death.

Finders Keepers wasn’t alone in that either, her ear twitching involuntarily to the sound of the human collapsing in a heap behind her. She took that with guilty comfort, a foalish part of her relieved at the fact that she hadn’t been the one to take all the punishment that had been dished out. 

The pair sat in silence, back to back as they collected themselves to continue on. Finders Keepers’ expectations of a pleasant day had been immediately dashed upon hearing the dreadful hunting howls, and it seemed as though the day itself was taking the same route. The sun still hung at its apex above them, not a single cloud to shade them from a gentle warmth that suddenly felt oppressive against her barding and coat. Likewise, the cool breeze had slackened off to nothing, doing little to carry off the growing stench of blood that hung heavily in the air.

Settling for breathing through her mouth, the pony begun to check herself more thoroughly for any wounds and injuries that went beyond the uncomfortable-though-bearable bruises all over her body. She was both fortunate and unfortunate that her coat was the color it was, dirt and sweat showing up quite easily against the beige, though at the moment it did work to her advantage as she checked the blood that was already beginning to dry in her fur. After a few moments she let out a small but heartfelt breath of relief even as she felt a shudder run up her spine; aside from a few cuts and scrapes she was hardly injured, but it also meant that most of the blood on her was foreign. 

A single look at the mangy, savage creatures nearby was enough to convince her that a bath was in her best interests, with plenty of soap. She did not want whatever they might have had. Kiako was as practical minded as she was at the moment, the pony turning around to see the man in the process of checking himself for injuries, of which the man had many more than she did, at least visibly. 

The man no doubt looked like how she felt right then, pale face a mask of exhaustion complete with drooping eyes and the complete abandonment of that tight-jawed, stoic expression that he always bore. In fact, Kiako looked incredibly relaxed compared to how she usually saw him: he was even slouching!

Well, I guess fighting a pack of wild monster-beasts will do that to anyone, she thought, chuckling aloud to herself. 

“What?” the man in question asked as he turned a dirt stained face toward her and raised a brow, his voice carrying a note of accusation in it despite the low and half-mumbled tone it had been delivered in.

Finders Keepers was about to shrug off the question when the man began to roll up the heavily stained under-barding that covered his forearm, revealing pale skin slick with fresh blood that was flowing from an uneven crescent of dark puncture wounds. She couldn’t help but take a quick intake of breath upon seeing it, the memory of Kiako pinned to the ground with a set of massive jaws clamped around his arm still sharp in her mind even through the haze that was already setting in at the edges of those memories.

“Far worse than I thought it was,” Kiako hissed, lips peeling back to reveal clenched teeth. 

The pony was already clumsily working buckles that secured the straps of her saddlebags to her, hardly noticing the distinct crack that sounded when the leather bags fell to the ground in a heap. Unbuttoning the flaps with her teeth, she was soon nosing her way through the dark confines of her saddlebags, picking through the mess of odds and ends that were her stock and trade in search of the one bit of merchandise that she never let herself go far without. The quiet clink of glass against metal clued her in on the location of the bottle, and a moment later he teeth found themselves clamped down on a slender glass neck of what she needed. 

Her face and muzzle left the cool confines of the saddlebag as she tossed her head back into the light of the afternoon sun, the dark, viscous purple liquid inside the bottle almost seeming to glow as light rays filtered through one side of the bottle and out the other, subsequently tinting the ground in a faint purple hue.

“He’er, tay’ th’as!” she insisted from around the bottle, spitting it out onto the grass to roll toward the bleeding man, who appeared to already be in the process of treating himself with a first-aid kit. “Oh. Don’t worry, you probably won’t be needing much of that.”

“What do you think I am going to do with grape juice?” the man asked irritatedly from between gritted teeth, giving the mare a flat stare as he ripped open a small paper package and poured what looked to her to be yellow flour into his wounds, whilst completely ignoring the healing potion within arm’s reach.

There was a faint rustle of grass as Finders Keepers drew back upon hearing the absurd comment, her face contorted into a look of bewilderment as her ears shot straight up. She couldn’t help but wonder if the man was serious, or just being rude and stubborn for the sake of some inner need to be petty at inconvenient times. Surely he knew what a potion was, right?

Her eyes dropped down to inspect the neatly ordered rows of medical devices tucked into leather loops and pockets of the open first-aid kit. Most of the objects were generally recognizable in some form, from the gleaming metal scalpel and forceps to the glass-bodied syringes sitting next to the bandages. Among the things she didn’t recognize though were several small glass bottles with unrecognizable squiggles of what was probably writing, but they hardly looked big enough to be used in quantities needed for a healing potion.

As Kiako plucked one object after another from the first-aid kit it occurred to her that there were far too many tools in the kit, looking almost like what she imagined a medical-pony might carry with them on house calls. 

“You’re not a doctor, are you?” Finders Keepers asked seriously, watching as the man continued to work on himself with practiced ease. “You wouldn’t need all of that if you weren’t, and it would be easier to just use the potion.”

Kiako was already halfway to administering some sort of fluid on his arm when he heard her suggestion, hand gently setting aside the syringe as the rest of his body went stockstill. What had previously been a perfectly neutral — if pained — expression on his face slowly shifted into that of annoyance, eyebrows drawing together slightly as he turned a pair of withering steel-grey eyes upon her.

Eyeing her all the while he leaned forward, plucking the healing potion off the ground with his wounded arm, a fresh wince of pain crossing his face as he closed his fingers around the plain glass bottle. 

“Am I right to say,” the man began as he presented the bottle, “that this will somehow help me? With the power of magic that you so continuously bring up?”

The earth-pony let out a nasally snort, narrowing her eyes as indignation welled up within her. Any previous desire to help the man fell away in the wake of his staunch refusal to trust her over something so minor, especially so soon after they had fought together against a pack of mutants! 

Does he think me a liar? Trying to poison him?  she wondered, the possible implications of Kiako’s refusal only serving to fan the flames of the indignity she was feeling at the man’s mistrust and scepticism whenever she brought up the topic of magic. 

“That’s right,” she ground out, exasperation leaking into her voice to give her words the rough note of impatience.

She didn’t get an immediate response, the man watching her with a wariness that made all too clear his distrust for her at that moment. His eyes flickered this way and that as he searched her expression, as though trying to find a trace of deceit that simply wasn’t there to begin with.

Kiako never broke eye contact as he finally caved in, the man giving a weary shake of the head as he let loose a sigh of resignation that sounded as sweet to the ears as any Velvet Remedy song. Finders Keepers couldn’t help but let a small smirk play across her lips as the man popped the stopper off the potion, the tension she felt leaving her well worth the dirty look she got as he caught her expression.

“So,” the man said plainly, picking out a large glass syringe with a disconcertingly sized needle. “Intramuscular, or subcutaneous?”

“You’re supposed to drink it!” she gasped, eyes practically bugging out of her head in shock on hearing the question. “Why would anypony try and inject a potion?!”

“How else would one use it?” the man asked quizzically, nostrils flaring.

She rolled her eyes, letting out a huff of annoyance at how much of a spectacle this was becoming. They were fortunate that the Kiako’s bleeding had stopped, the flour-like substance having apparently done the job. Leaning forward, she raised a hoof and tipped the bottle toward the man.

“Drink,” she repeated.

“I suppose you aren’t the type to follow recommended dosages,” the man drawled looking at her lazily as he ripped the stopper off of the bottle. “Just know that if this kills me, I will come back to wherever this place is and find you.”

“Can you just trust me right now? It’s not like I didn’t save your life or anything!” the mare replied, again pushing at the bottle insistently.

The man’s lips twitched in response to that, and she wondered if he was going to try and draw this out any longer. Thankfully, and without another word, the man tipped the bottle back as he brought it to his his mouth, much to her gratification. She watched as the man’s throat worked the liquid down, the conspicuous metal collar rising and falling.

While the man had curiously immobile ears and no tail, let alone a similar body, he had a face that was close enough to a pony’s that Finders Keepers had little to no trouble at all distinguishing his expressions, which seemed to mostly just be variations of annoyance and discontent. Still, she at times thought she sensed something else beneath the air of dourness that the man put out, the muscles in his face occasionally twitching just below the surface as though trying to get to the surface before being suppressed. 

Or maybe I’m just overthinking it, she mused. There was still a lot she didn’t know about the human, though that was to be expected with how long — or short — they had known each other, only for a couple of days.

The pony had no idea what actually went into the healing potions that ponies and others used, only knowing that the production of the lifesaving medicine was an alchemical process involving chemicals and certain types of plants. One thing that was known far and wide though was that as beneficial as healing potions were, they certainly didn’t taste it.

Kiako was finding that out for himself, and Finders Keepers was there to watch in amusement. As the man forced the liquid down she got to see the burgeoning disgust on his face, from the corners of his lips drawing inward as part of a grimace to the raised, spread eyebrows lifting up in surprise as the incredibly bitter liquid hit his tongue. With the man’s head tilted back she had a good view of his neck and jaw, and she should even see the muscle tensing up below the jawline as the man finally finished.

“See? That wasn’t so bad was it?” she sniggered, the hoof over her mouth doing little to prevent the laugher from leaking out.

Kiako’s disgust was gone, replaced with a pair of baleful eyes that shared none of her humor at his expense.

“For your sake, this better not have been a prank,” the man said icily, dropping his gaze on down to his arm. “You said it was a potion. A potion for what, exactly?”

“It’s a healing potion, what else would it do? It won’t fix bones or remove bullets, but it will heal flesh,” she answered, also keeping an eye on the man’s wound.

Kiako’s head shifted slightly, brow furrowing as he stared at his arm. No doubt that the alchemical formula was well on its way to beginning to repair the damage the canine’s had done to him. What would have taken weeks or months became a timelapse of tissue regeneration, skin around the puncture wounds first turning pink with inflammation, before the injury itself began to slowly knit itself closed. 

The scabs forming over the wounds were already starting to flake off when the man’s eyes practically bulged out of his skull, eyebrows reaching for the sky in surprise as his lips parted to let out a quiet gasp. Finders Keepers could already see the scarring lose its light pink hue and grow just a touch paler than the undamaged skin around it when the man brought his arm up to get a closer look.

Whatever doubts the man had voiced earlier were obliterated by the almost foal-like wonder that lit up the man’s face, an emotion far removed from the man’s usual iron cold stare and demeanor. Indeed, the human looked as though he had completely forgotten that she was even there, his attention focused solely on the impassioned investigation of his arm. After having to spend several days with the man, she couldn’t help but appreciate the sudden change.

“See?” she chirped, unable to help crack a wide smile of her own on seeing the human’s reaction to alchemical concoction. “I told you it would work.”

If it were possible for somepony — or someone in this case — to jump out of their skin Kiako would have certainly succeeded on hearing Finders Keepers’ words, the man’s body jolting with a jerk as his eyes flashed over to her in startlement as if he had forgotten she was even there.

Whatever wonderment the man had that wasn’t immediately swallowed up by his surprise began to fade away, expression dropping back into its usual dour countenance and his posture straightening as he squared his shoulders to fully face her.

"Well,” the man spoke softly, with a calmness that was obviously forced. “You have my apologies for doubting you.”

Finders Keepers nodded her head, ignoring the undertone of embarrassment in the man’s voice. She could have probably jumped on that and use it as ammunition to tease the man, but at this point in her journey all she wanted was to get to Stableside with a minimum of fuss, and that meant not stirring up any resentment in the human. Besides, it felt good to get that apology out of the man after all of the backhanded remarks and general callousness that he had shown her. 

Without another word the human began to pack up, putting away his medical supplies before rolling down the blood-stained sleeve of his under-barding over the now scarred over wound and then strapping back on his vambrace. She herself had several things to do as well, and she spun around to move about the bodies of  the dead canines.

The mare had lost her IF-22 earlier when one of those beasts had slammed into her, a weapon that her father had given her as a going away present when she had first set off to become a scavenger. It might not have been worth much, but leaving it behind was out of the question. Thankfully for her, all she had to do was find a specific beast and search around it for the weapon.

Even as she stooped her head low to pick up the shiny brass shell casings and toss them into her saddlebag, she kept a wary eye on the corpses around her, keeping an eye out for any signs of movement that went beyond the occasional death spasm. The dull ache of her bruised and battered body served as a painful reminder of how dangerous those things had been, and she had no intention of trying to go for a round two.

Amidst the collection of spent shell casings, Finders Keepers continued to search for a particular beast. All of them were intact in for the most part, the weapons she and Kiako had used not being nearly destructive enough to tear them limb from limb. Still, a lot of the corpses sported nasty wounds that were already attracting flies, and with the buzzing swarms flitting from body to body it was difficult to get a good clear look at what she was looking for. It was only when the earth-pony mare swept her hoof through a swarm of flies for the fifth time that she was met with what she needed, though it was certainly not what she wanted.

Being a pony, she was already blessed with a good sense of smell, meaning that she was bombarded everyday with both scents pleasant and repulsive. In some ways she wished she had the sense of smell of a griffon — that is to say, hardly any. Walking about the corpses had already made her stomach churn, but the fresh blast of fetidness coming from the demolished skull and exposed chunks of brain was something else entirely.

By the time her ears twitched at Kiako’s approach, the mare had already released her last meal back into the world, nothing at all coming out of her mouth save the empty retches of a stomach with nothing left to give. 

“There’s a reason as to why they are called blight wolves, you know,” Kiako noted from above and behind her, and even through the buzzing of flies the man’s tone made it clear that he held no love for the corpses around her.

“You’ve seen these before?” she croaked, wiping her mouth along a foreleg as she asked.

“Plenty. Rather hard to avoid them, in fact,” the man replied, taking a knee beside her and waving a hand over its mange-ridden body. “Notice the general patchiness of the fur and the sores all over its body, which you will notice is a commonality shared with the others.”

Finders Keepers had noticed that — it was impossible not to what with being in such close proximity to the “blight wolves”, as the man called them. She merely nodded her head as he continued to speak, her lightheadedness from the overwhelming stench making it difficult for her to concentrate on what the man was saying, as she was more concerned with trying to find her pistol.

“— heavily polluted and irradiated environments being their preferred hunting grounds, so you can see how they earned the moniker. Not only that, but they have adapted to these areas to such an extent that they are in some ways reliant on them. I think that even you can realize how unusual it is to find adolescent blight wolves in an unspoiled plain like this.”

At that point she was mostly ignoring the man’s oddly lighthearted commentary, the mare only picking up every third word or so as she continued her search. Something she would have continued to do had a particular word not caught her attention.

“Hold on a sec, did you say adolescent? As in young?” she balked, turning her head to face the man. “How big can these things get?”

Finders Keepers couldn’t help but shoot the man a narrow-eyed scowl as he casually held up the pistol that had eluded her searching for the past several minutes. What was worse was that she wasn’t sure if it was a trick of the light, or if there was something like mischief in the human’s eyes.

“Large enough that if we had faced even one of them you would be dead and I would be back home,” the man said without missing a beat, features softening enough to deliver a rare smile that was empty of all comfort the gesture should have had.

“What in Equestria is that supposed to mean?” she asked incredulously, brow scrunched up as she watched the man get up and start to walk off.

What a mule, the mare thought as she glared at the departing human, her cheeks blowing out in a rush of air. She let the man wander off for another minute or so before he finally realized something was amiss and turned to face her.

“Wrong way!” she sang mockingly, voice carrying across the distance between them. 

Kiako didn’t have a witty response for her that time, and the pony could just make out the hint of a frown playing across the man’s face from where she stood. 

Just as well, Finders Keepers thought with a light chuckle, before turning to go the right way. If they were lucky, they might be able to get to Stableside the next day.



***  ***  ***



Much to Kiako Lalene’s chagrin, they did not get to Stableside the next day. Or the day after. Or even the day after that.

It was another bright and sunny day, the bright blue sky holding not a single cloud to shield them from the sun’s unceasing rays. Not that the temperature was particularly high, but it was damnably humid, a far cry from the dry heat that he was far more accustomed to the Plateau region of the Canyon. It had been like that for the past several days, and the only thing that kept the man from being boiled alive in his armor was the fact there was a light breeze to take the edge off from potential heat stroke. Not to mention that there were plenty of water sources — all of which were seemingly pure, for he had tested every single one — for him to dunk his head in and refill his canteen.

Since their encounter and ensuing running battle with the pack of blight wolf pups, the duo had come across very little trouble in the form hostile life, sapient or otherwise. In fact, save for the occasional small animal and flying bird, the man hadn’t seen anything that was worth his attention in the vast, grassy expanse that they had journeyed through. If it weren’t for the mountains in the distance — the humorously named Unicorn Mountain Range, he had learned — or the complete lack of infrastructure in the form of roads, monorails, or even the occasional dilapidated structure, he could easily imagine himself back home and walking through the Union Plains territory in the northwestern part of the Northfields.

Not that he knew exactly where home was, just that it couldn’t be that far if his body had been dumped out of the side of a biplane. That was the prevailing hypothesis at least, and he certainly wasn’t going to accept Finders Keepers’ claim that he had simply appeared from thin air and fallen to the ground!

Still, as logical as his biplane hypothesis was in the absence of any other explanation, it had a set of problems of its own. Having only recently been reinvented and put into production by the Union — and not at a manufacturing rate that inspired awe — the amount of operational aircraft in the Union’s burgeoning air force could be counted on both hands, and none were being sold for private use. While it was true that the Enforcers and Techs had worked in partnership to create a smaller version well suited for recon roles, they were specifically designed to be piloted by a single person, with the rest of the aircraft’s space taken up by the advanced electronics suite that made use of a variety of technologies that ranged from LiDAR, radar scanners, and whatever else the pilot thought they could cram into the airframe.

He wasn’t exactly what one would call a nobody, not after an illustrious career as both a troubleshooter and, well, a troubleshooter. The LifeNet collar alone made him very well-inclined to hazardous work, whether it required him to be a suicide-bomber or just another pair of hands to dispose of toxic waste. Plenty of clones were more famous than he, either due to their bloodthirstiness or raw intellect; whereas he himself was perfectly content with the niche he had carved for himself, that being an experienced technician who not only knew his way around a weapon but could actually hold his own even against the best of them.

As accomplished as he was, he still didn’t think that he himself was enough of a high-priority target for a kidnapping that ended with him being flung from a low-flying aircraft and dropped into hitherto unknown territory, especially with most of his equipment on him. There were plenty of ways to get rid of a troublesome clone, but nearly all of such methods never managed to stick, and most often it just resulted in the clone coming back angry. No, if someone had really wanted to get rid of him for any length of time beyond the time it took for him to undergo a technological resurrection, the only real option was to capture him — and not just lock him up in jail, for not even that could hold a clone determined enough for suicide — and make him undergo a chemical lobotomy before putting him away. 

Another nail in the coffin for his biplane hypothesis was simply a matter of logistics. While he himself wasn’t qualified to be a pilot, he had devoured every scrap of information he could on their construction and operation, which was how he knew that the farthest the current generation of biplane could travel was roughly 480 kilometers. That in itself was no mean feat, but given the fact that the areas beyond the Death Zones that surrounded the Province were just as hellish as the zones themselves, he highly doubted that someone had set up a refueling station for aircraft.

That meant the aforementioned operational range of 480 kilometers was cut in half to only 240 kilometers, and that was only if the pilot had maintained maximum fuel efficiency and wasn’t affected by things like unexpected drag or other variables during flight. The Province was nowhere near the technological level of radio infrastructure from before the Fall, but it was certainly not a dead spot when it came to putting out radio waves. His collar was an inordinately powerful receiver, capable of picking up radio signals from within deep caverns or the many long forgotten GlobalTech installations that dotted the Province, but from his current elevation he wasn’t even getting the faintest of human broadcasts, not even garbled speech.

Not that the airwaves were lacking, though: far from it in fact. The air around him — sensed neither by eyes nor ears but instead as an ever-present tingle at the base of his neck, beneath the collar — was inundated with that of radio waves carrying the broadcasts of the natives, their messages spoken in that same foreign, lyrical tongue that Finders Keepers had spoken when they had first met. There was unfortunately very little useful information he could glean from prying into the electromagnetic spectrum, the multitude of broadcasts unknowable in content save for the fact that most seemed to be a source of news or recreation. Still, at the very least he had a steady source of music to sample and enjoy as he traveled.

A stranger in a strange land he knew himself to be, that much had been made clear to him early on. The point had been driven home even deeper as they got farther from Haybale, and as the days dragged on after their encounter with the blight wolves the man grew more and more weary with being alone with the thoughts that swirled in his mind. Despite the uncaring and resolute facade he put out, his craving for knowledge dug at him like an itch that his mind cried out to be satisfied.

That meant talking with Finders Keepers, to go beyond the social obligation that small talk required of him and to actually initiate meaningful conversation on his own. He had long since dropped the “equinoid” categorization that he had placed Finders Keepers and the rest of her kind in, much the same way that he had in the past dropped the mutated Shiva’s Blessed and the apes of Monkey Town from their own dehumanizing categorizations.

Finders Keepers, fortunately for him, was relatively easy going when it came to him assailing her with his questions, all too helpful in answering them and almost seeming to take a certain amount of pleasure in doing so. He had little doubt that the pony was in similar straits as himself, having gotten the impression that she was more of a social animal than himself by a fairly wide margin.

Through his poking and prodding he learned a great many things, about ponies — or ponykind, as Finders Keepers called her species — and their lands, from the growing pangs of the emerging New Canterlot Republic to the species and subspecies that made up its growing population. Recent historical events also were made known to him, most of which seemed to involve a particular pony — a unicorn, much to his embarrassment at realizing that Finders Keepers had in the past been entirely serious in her statement about them — named Littlepip, who had apparently grown from being a technician to acquiring a seeming messianic reputation as the “Lightbringer,” whatever that meant.

A lot of what she told him couldn’t help but amuse him in some ways, even while he paid her serious attention whenever she explained something to him. He heard tales of incredibly destructive magic, and of dark magicks that had horrific results on those afflicted by them, all while realizing that in reality the mare was unknowingly speaking of nuclear and biological weapons that had been used in the many wars as the Fall went on.

Still, the mare — she was an earth-pony, so he had been told, no doubt the species baseline of ponykind — had told him some strange things that simply didn’t fit in with the actual history of the world, and couldn’t just be written off as interpretations her kind had been manipulated into believing. Then again, if the GlobalTech megacorporation and its many subsidiaries had uplifted and tinkered with genetically engineering a swathe of creatures and then created tailor-made infrastructure for them, he wouldn’t put it past the group in charge of the project to create a fictional history for them either. Many of the things that GlobalTech did were beyond him, even if he and his ilk were a direct product of their technological breakthroughs.

He wasn’t the only one to be asking questions though, and despite his misgivings in tampering with the grand experiment that she and her species had no doubt been created for — along with the society that had in the absence of human oversight developed — he realized that the time for scientific mindfulness for this particular experiment had long since died along with the rest of the old civilization.

So he reciprocated. He told her of a great dam that had become the last of known stronghold of a powerful nation, of the remnants of militaries and of the smattering of technicians and scientists and tradesmen that formed what would one day be the Enforcers and Technicians respectively, and of the atrocities committed against peoples outside of the Hoover Dam Garrison that lit the spark of a revolution from within and the invasion that came from without, and of the subsequent exodus that came after.

He told her of the factions that were deadlocked in a struggle not for something so simple and trite as living space or resources, but for the future of the Province and the war of ideologies that were either simply incompatible with one another or required too much compromise to be acceptable by those holding them. Spirituality, progress, conservation, freedom, rule of law, simple monetary gain, and everything in between — the ideals held dear to so many people simply ran counter to what others on the opposite side of the spectrum believed. Human beings had never much been known for their tolerance when they knew themselves to be right.

Still, despite the damage that the rampant ideological divide created amongst the populace there were still people who managed to stay independent of it all, whether they be the smattering of towns and villages who resisted all efforts of integration and subjugation, or the variety of organizations that served everyone impartially. It was because of groups like these that human civilization could continue to advance within the Province, rather than become the war-torn landscape that the factions would have made it were it not for neutral buffer zones to impede their rampant conflict.

Progress was being made though, and while this Equestria had its New Canterlot Republic, an experiment in self-government for a society that had supposedly once been run by a principality, the Union within the Province was taking a different tack, branching off from the United States’ hundreds of years of proven governance to move onto something else entirely.

Based at the heart of the Northfields in the city of New Flagstaff was where the Union began. Originally, the Union had simply been a group of organizers, who sought to bring the city’s population together in a unified organization, to improve infrastructure and general quality of life. In the years since, it had become an authoritarian technocracy, with streaks of kratocracy in its makeup.

Whether by force of arms, political subterfuge, or simply offering to “protect” a town from the very same bandits they hired, the Union had spread across the Northfields to swallow up those who were weak and could hardly defend themselves in order to expand its influence to areas beyond mere borders. All that while avoiding direct confrontation with the factions, who had in the past come together to form uneasy truces in order to deal with a larger threat, something that the Union would most certainly become if left untended. Already they had the largest air force of the Province, largest standing army, and the greatest population and resources to draw from if it came to a protracted war.

The New Canterlot Republic seemed to be the Union’s antithesis in a great deal of ways, offering hoof and claw to those who wanted to be a part of something greater while meanwhile respecting the wishes of those who still wanted to remain independent of it all, no matter how foolish and shortsighted such desires were. The fact that the Republic held elections in much the same vein as that of the old United States only amplified the man’s feelings that however earnest such a government could be it simply wasn’t ruthless enough to survive let alone thrive in a world such as this.

Even as Kiako and Finders Keepers asked questions and exchanged answers on their respective homelands and countrymen, the man took great pains in carefully steering around certain subjects of discussion, all while painting a picture of strength and solidarity in the face of external threats. The existence of LifeNet and its cloning facilities were things that - along with a few other choice bits of information - were not even mentioned, let alone hinted at.

It was a common assumption that beyond the monolithic Wall — itself a holdover from a near-forgotten time when the Grand Canyon National Park had been a corporate-feudal state — and the Death Zones were lands too blasted and disfigured for human habitation, an assumption only reinforced by the landscape immediately beyond the Wall itself.

To outsiders, that made the Grand Canyon Province and its relatively untouched lands a paradise beyond all others in known existence, and most of all a target for invasion. In fact, such an event had happened once before when peoples from the faraway land of Texas had banded together to put together a massive invasion force in order to take the Province for themselves and their kin.

It was only through the factions putting aside their differences and the fact that pseudo-immortal clones were able to live through multiple deaths per battle that the Province was able to survive despite the Texans’ numerical advantage and the massive amount of firepower they brought with them. Kiako himself had fought in that graciously short conflict, acting as a hopelessly undertrained shock trooper and — when desperation called for it — as a suicide bomber.

Despite his generally vague recollection of that conflict — perhaps a side effect of LifeNet having to churn out a new body and mind for him so many times every single day — he remembered with painful clarity the times he had joined the Texans in their foxholes and trench lines, and the looks of surprise that quickly transformed into that of mortal terror as they realized the end had come for them in the guise of a man covered in explosive belts. It was a look he had received far too many during that early period of his life, and he tried his best to wall up those painful memories and push them to the back of his mind.

The fact that Equestria was in far better shape in an ecological sense than his homeland was a bit of a swerve in common consensus in how other people thought about the world beyond the Province. Arable land was always in short supply with all the contaminants hovering around, but the fact that Equestria had actual sources of running water that lacked any trace of contamination would be enough to turn heads back home, and with it the eyes of both the factions and the Union.

In contrast the Province was rich beyond measure not necessarily in material wealth but in the infrastructure that its corporate masters had left behind; in the potential that the infrastructure had. Cities and towns and electrical grids were one thing, but immortality and nanomanufacturing were quite another: already accessible to a minority of the population, it would only be a matter of time until both were unlocked for the greater whole. One did not need to be human to want that sort of power, and were the Equestrians to ever find out what the Province had they would no doubt turn their own eyes back at the Province.

The last thing any sane individual wanted was another war the likes of that the Texan’s had brought upon his homeland, whether the aggressors were diminutive horses or otherwise. In a lot of ways it was people like Kiako and those at the frontier who had the unenviable duty of having to reign in their excitement over newly opened possibilities that lay in discovery, in order to ensure that those very same discoveries didn’t pose a threat to home.

But am I really the first person, the first human being to explore this place? Or am I some sort of guinea pig dropped off in a land of other, smaller guinea pigs? It was a question — no matter how unbidden it was — that bore further looking into it.

Regardless of how he had gotten there, he held very little doubt that he was the first human being to actually know of this place, this Equestria. It was only a matter of time until more humans came, or possibly that the natives’ Republic would catch wind of foreign noses being stuck into their business and decide to do some investigation for themselves. 

Kiako could only hope that future contact between whatever groups came should meet would be more amicable than his meeting with Finders Keepers had been. Unfortunately for him such considerations inevitably drew him back to a question that he couldn’t help but stray from, always serving as an anchor to lead his mind astray from the events of the present.

If I ever happen to meet the pilot who brought me here, the man thought with a faint frown, I am honestly unsure as to whether I will smile and shake his hand, or give him a black eye. 

Of course, compared to everything else that was a question, that ranked so far down on the totem pole that it hardly bore further consideration.

...Or maybe I will just flip a chip.



***  ***  ***



The third day or so of their travels had brought an end to the grassy plains, the terrain gradually changing into that of a more rocky and hilly environment that eventually led them to a set of railroad tracks which apparently belonged to the Galloping Gorge line, which in itself was part of a larger network. When the man had asked Finders Keepers where the eponymous gorge was, he was told that it was actually behind them in the opposite direction.

They thankfully didn’t have to contend with moving trains, the only obstacles being in the form of long rusted-over shipping containers sitting on their flatbed cars, a common sight even in the Province. Sometimes the cars were alone and other times they were still connected to one or two others, giving him the impression that sometime in the distant past they had once all been connected together to form a chain that had since been broken.

Of course, the railcars’ mere presence slowed them down even further as Finders Keepers insisted on checking over each and every one despite the obvious signs of already being broken into and scavenged. A laborious process to be sure, one that the man had to suffer through each and every time they came across a railcar. 

It was only ten-or-so cars later down the line and many kilometers after the first one that the broken chain came to an end in the form of a locomotive with yet another railcar attached behind it. Finders Keepers again insisted on picking through the rusted-over wreck, but for once Kiako hadn’t bothered to try and dissuade her exploration and instead actually joined her. Whereas though the mare was determined to search for items of value, his own search was of a more scholarly pursuit and dedicated to inspecting the locomotive itself.

It was a quaint little thing, a far cry from the formidable towers of steel that sat unmoving on the rails back in the Province and far less utilitarian-looking than he would have ever imagined a freight-hauler could look like. The base similarities were still there of course, the two machines obviously serving the same function and having an arrangement of wheels set below a metal platform that carried both crew and means of locomotion, but beyond that the two machines couldn’t be any farther apart in their differences.

His own knowledge in regards to railroads and locomotives was sorely lacking, having relied on a multitude of other forms of travel to get around without need for rails — a fact of life true for undoubtedly everyone in the Province considering that there wasn’t a single working train left to operate, and the specific knowledge to do so had long since been lost. That didn’t stop him from understanding the general theory and process of how they worked though, that being a diesel engine connected to an electrical generator that in turn powered the electric traction motors that propelled the entire assemblage down the rails.

That was an entirely different beast in comparison to the one he found himself clambering over, the machines in the Province always having the same general look of a steel block encasing the complicated engineering within. Not so much with the current locomotive, no boxy superstructure to hide the long cylindrical boiler that ran down the length of the machine and connected to a furnace that no doubt fed fuel directly into the steam engine. Were it not for the fact that Finders Keepers was busying herself in the crew cab located in the aft section of the locomotive he would have have happily gone and done a more hands on inspection, but as it was he doubted the pony would appreciate him trying to squeeze into the quadruped-sized crew compartment. 

Instead he contented himself with further exploration as he waited for the mare to finish her looting, the man walking the length of the locomotive to inspect the rusted pistons and cylinders that would have once served as means to get the heavy steel wheels turning and whatever cargo they bore to its destination. The very same attributes that made the locomotive interesting were the same ones that confused him however, not in their function but instead their purpose for even existing at all.

To call the locomotive before him primitive would have been a grave insult offered to the engineers and firemen who tended to its ilk in back in the Province, such machines often providing power to settlements with plenty of combustible material to spare but still lacking in more advanced equipment. The competence in its construction could not be denied, the joinings and fittings that brought it all together far too uniform to be the handiwork of a few knowledgeable ponies to come up with, and was clearly assembled in a factory elsewhere. 

Still, the longer the man stared at the rusted hulk the more it stirred within him a sense of unease that was difficult to shake off and served only to consider what was bothering him even more deeply than before. The locomotive was entirely anachronistic when put alongside everything he else he had been piecing together about the area at large and its uplifted population, like that of a warped puzzle-piece that just barely fit with the greater whole.

While not at all fitting the requirements to be a geneticist or mutagenicist, he had frequented enough of such circles himself to pick up on knowledge both common and more specialized, not least of which were certain tidbits of information that were of a more historical interest than practical. The age of steam had long came to a close by the turn of the 21st century, the approximate point when the human genome had finally been sequenced and scientists had begun to tinker with it proper before again doing the same with a variety of other animal species.

If the same scientists who had tinkered with equines to create a species worth uplifting — and apparently also created chimaeras in their free time — into sapience were also in charge of creating and providing infrastructure and tailoring human devices and equipment for their use, then why had they decided on an antiquated piece of technology when there were far more efficient and suitable alternatives already in existence?

He clearly understood the scientists’ decision in limiting the computational technology the uplifts had access to — the man remembering the rather primitive looking terminal computer in Haybale — and he could even see the reasoning in giving those very same uplifts firearms that were custom-tailored to fit their anatomy. No doubt that there were plenty of old and faulty firearms that GlobalTech’s GlobalArms subsidiary could retool to fit into mouths and talons, but at the very same time there were plenty of old diesel-electric engines sitting in scrapyards across the country that could have probably found a better use in the hands — hooves and talons after — of whoever was running the grand experiment.

It wasn’t as though locomotives — steam-powered at that — could just be left to sit around somewhere for a long period of time before handed off to the next generation like that of an action figure or other such toy. Things of that size and nature needed routine maintenance and repair if they were going to be in any way usable after a long period of disuse, whether that period be ten or even a hundred years.

Everyone knew that quality — and quantity — of living and production before the Fall far exceeded that which was current, but even Kiako had trouble believing that someone would try and bring back an obsolete technology on the scale needed for that of a functioning railroad system. Perhaps if it were just the one train it would have been more believable to him, but the other set of train tracks set parallel to the current made that unlikely, and hearing what little Finders Keepers had to say about a Galloping Gorge route lead him to believe there were many others like it. He had walked through a wide variety of factories and refineries during his short life, and whether they were the humble cranking and creaking of dozens of men and women hand loading ammunition, or the ceaseless roar of powerful machinery in one of the newer automobile plants he could hardly even begin to imagine what the interior of a train factory might be like, and knowing how secretive GlobalTech was he had no doubt that it would be a factory. 

Singular. GlobalTech was just one corporation among many, having its fingers in weapon manufacturing, food production, and practically anything else that men and women might interact with during their day to day activities. Even if it were bigger than most, that wasn’t to say they had no enemies, and people who did even the barest research into old archives were well aware that the international megacorp had made a great deal of enemies, whether they be competitors or otherwise. Leaving a paper trail for people with an investigative nose was a problem even in the present, and from what Kiako understood the world before the Fall practically ran on paperwork and number counting.

The Vista had been one of those with an investigative nose, a group of eco-terrorists that had settled in a number of communes within the Province back when it was under GlobalTech control and sought to fight the megacorporation through sabotage and more direct means. Of course, they hadn’t been successful in stopping the corporation before the general fall of the world had, but their descendants carried on the name and creed of that same organization and had since become feared wilderness warriors who had become masters of rifle and blade in their mission to protect what little remaining ecosystem remained from the ravages they believed had caused the Fall in the first place. They were a group that were nothing if not determined, and they had a very long memory of other’s transgressions; the fact that the Vista had very little to say in regards to uplifting animals probably meant they simply didn’t know about GlobalTech’s secret project in the first place.

The entire situation he found himself in was the kind of puzzle that seemed to have no answer, becoming more and more frustrating the more one thought on it. With nothing new to occupy his time while he waited the man was driven to pacing back and forth impatiently, the lack of any real information regarding the locomotive’s reason for being only serving to gnaw at his mind even further. Fortunately for him and his sanity, Finders Keepers offered the distraction of her company as she poked her head out from the crew cabin, a smug and self-satisfied look on her face that went hand-in-hand with the bag of valuables she had pilfered during her search. While the question as to the train’s existence wouldn’t be going away anytime soon, he was all too eager to drown it out with inane conversation as they traveled.

And travel they did, twin strands of iron leading them through a long and twisting mountain pass of such uninterrupted length that it could be nothing but artificial in formation, the rock faces craggy and furrowed from where explosives had long ago been used to blast a massive stone corridor through the face of the mountain. The only beaks in that cut of rock were when the blasted walls opened up into the occasional narrow, enclosed valleys that offered a brief reprieve and a clear view of the sky before the train tracks continued on into another cut of rock.

Working train or otherwise, such a neat cut through the Unicorn Mountain Range — a name that continued to amuse him — should have made the route a hotspot for travelers like himself and Finders Keepers, but all the duo were left with were the sound of their own steps echoing ceaselessly off various stonefaces, with not another intelligent creature to be seen. The mare had at several points commented on that fact, but in Kiako’s eyes the lack of traffic was an unexpected boon, and with little to no merchants or travelers to prey upon he figured that their chances of suddenly being ambushed and robbed were far less than what he would usually have had to deal with. 

The rest of what little daylight remained filtered in from above the near-vertical cuts in the rock face bordering the sides of the railroad, uneven and protruding chunks of rock creating a queer edge that lent the shadows a sharp and jagged look to them as they bisected the tracks in darkness and light. Even that faded away to nothing, and soon man and mare were entrapped in a corridor of darkness that not even the strong starlight above could ease. It was there that the duo made their camp for the night, refusing to light a fire in favor of letting that same inky blackness that halted further travel be their cover.

Night became day, and with the rise of the sun so too did the man and mare awake from an uncomfortable sleep, a brief breakfast punctuated with little speech before they set off again. Like the afternoon and evening before the pair travelled in relative silence with only the occasional talking, the only sound other than that being of echoing boots and hooves against gravel and stone. It was like that for some time, the rocky walls flanking either side of them seeming to capture the early morning stillness and torpor and carry it on until the early afternoon when the sun finally rose high enough in its daily arc to banish the shadows entirely, at least for a time.        

It was during that brief period that Finders Keepers and Kiako came across a fellow traveler by the side of the rail, a clearly well-fed, chestnut stallion with a garishly blue mane that wore a double breasted vest that had clearly seen better days. There had been the start of a small panic when the stallion actually saw them the two of them, but Finders Keepers had managed to reassure the stallion enough between his bouts of obnoxious, high-pitched screaming to get him to calm down and introduce himself.

Like Finders Keepers herself, the stallion was of the earth-pony variety, sporting none of the phenotypical traits that separated the unicorns and pegasi from Finders Keepers’ own breed. Also like Finders Keepers, the other pony — who had quite nervously introduced himself as Steady Bit whilst avoiding direct eye contact — had an emblem or perhaps a family crest dyed onto the fur of his flanks, though whereas Finders Keepers had a spade stuck into a pile of multi-colored rocks Steady Bit’s was that of a generic coin sitting at the center of a wagon wheel.

Were the stallion not so clearly terrified of the man, Kiako would have asked the trembling stallion if his markings denoted him as a merchant or if it meant he was part of some larger organization. He was fairly certain that the markings were related to their names in order to share a theme, perhaps as part of a ritual when they reached adulthood. Such practices and rituals weren’t uncommon amongst the barbaric CHOTA, who sometimes ritually scarred themselves on reaching manhood.

Still, quaint as the practice of marking oneself was he couldn’t help but appreciate the simple charm and effort it took in order to create a unique and personal mark to show off to the world and he could honestly say to himself that he was looking forward to seeing what other markings awaited in Stableside.

While the stallion’s name had nothing at all to do with making money, the marking on his bare flanks were a good an advertisement as any for the cart full of goods that sat waiting to be perused by a potential buyer, an opportunity Finders Keepers leapt at with clear and unrestrained zeal that made him pause.

The stallion reacted as appropriately and predictably as any shopkeeper would in the Province at the prospect of a customer, though at a much higher intensity. Whatever nervousness Steady Bit had was obliterated the moment Finders Keepers asked to look over his wares, and faster than even Kiako’s good eye could register the tarp was pulled away with such flourish and grace that were he anywhere else he might have applauded.

Both ponies were already embroiled in their haggling to such an extent that the man couldn’t even get a word in to inquire about the stallion’s wares, the duo’s words going back and forth so fast that the translation device implanted in the medallion was already having trouble catching up with them, certain words becoming jumbled and nonsensical or otherwise sped up in order to keep in pace with the unreadable movements of equine mouths. The entire thing happened with such abruptness that the man was forced to stillness, the beginning of a headache forming behind his temples as complete and utter bafflement took ahold of him as he watched the surreal spectacle.

Finders Keepers was already stuffing a jar of some sort of vegetable into a saddlebag when Steady Bit turned his attention to the human, despite the fact that Kiako could quite clearly still hear the ongoing haggling. The male pony’s confidence undoubtedly took a hit when the man ignored him for a few seconds longer, the headache soon fading away with the conclusion of the haggling. Only then did Kiako actually reply, breathing through his nose to take a breath deep from his diaphragm to subtly regain his composure in the wake of what had just he had just experienced.

Unlike with Finders Keepers the stallion took a far more simpering approach when it came to dealing with Kiako, though whether it was due to genuine nervousness around the human or just a way to try and ingratiate himself to a customer Kiako wasn’t sure. He had fortunately enough presence of mind to notice earlier how the two ponies were using the caps to beer bottles as a currency, so he was spared the faux pas in trying to pay with actual money. 

Most of the merchant’s inventory hadn’t been particularly impressive, having neither the variety nor the abundance of stock an actual store might have had were it not set on a pair of wheels and pulled by muscle power alone. It was almost more trouble than it was worth in trying to find something that was both useful and affordable whilst also being doted upon by a pony that should have for all intents and purposes taken up an acting profession instead of hauling carts through mountain passes.

Kiako had about all he could stomach of the pony by the time his stomach settled on a purchase for him, a gloved hand drifting over to a jar filled to the brim with thick cuts of jerky. The apples and chicken noodle soup were the only bits of food that he had had in his backpack before getting dropped off near Haybale, and since having left that area he had lived on nothing but canned foods either too inedible for his stomach to handle — such as hay, of all things — or didn’t require a utensil to eat. To actually get to sink his teeth into something and chew was what he wanted most in a meal right then, and the jerky jar had more than enough to satisfy that gastronomic urge as well as that of the protein his body craved. 

Before Steady Bit got another chance to try and stroke Kiako’s ego — so patently obvious that the man could practically feel his last nerve fraying — on selecting such a delectable purchase the man immediately thrust a handful of water purity testing strips into the stallion’s face, much to his confusion. On explanation as to the strips’ purpose the male pony thankfully dropped the irritating sales-act and took on a demeanor far more befitting of his profession. It was only due to Finders Keepers helpful vouching and a brief showcase as to what the stallion was buying that the transaction even went through — the fact that a nearby puddle contained trace amounts of urea in the water was only proof that the strips worked, and that an animal had clearly been through the area earlier.

With an open jar of dried meat and the warm glow of getting something for a bargain — the test strips were easy enough to make, after all — they were well on their way again, Finders Keepers and Kiako Lalene having left behind a curiously flustered stallion. Haggling with the merchant hadn’t taken long or been worthwhile ultimately, but it did wonders to break up the monotony of constant travel and helped to improve his mood somewhat as he busily teared away on thick cuts of dried meat. Finders Keepers’ mood had improved as well, the mare’s storm of haggling seeming to have given her a bit of pep in her step that went along with the good cheer that she exuded.

They continued through the pass until they had the mountains looming over their backs and another, smaller set of mountains looming ahead of them, the train tracks leading them out toward a landscape of hills that rolled all the way into the grassy horizon. That was the route they travelled until the sun began to dip beneath that very same horizon, the skies taking on a beautiful multitude of warm hues that the man thought absolutely nothing of.

Once again they settled to sleep on the grass beneath a field of stars, a crescent moon giving them enough light to see some distance away even with the sun having long left. The duo didn’t bother with a fire, both realizing that the smoke and flame might bring unwanted guests to their location, and so they did as they always did and kept nearby but firmly separate from one another. When the moon dipped beneath the Unicorn Mountain Range that loomed over them still, both man and mare got up and went about their morning rituals before breaking their fast with a light meal, before once again getting underway.

Finders Keepers had told Kiako just as they readied for bed the night before that they would both make it to Stableside that day, and unlike the prediction she had made earlier that week she was right. Like with the mountains earlier the tracks cut right through the hills, earth and rock either pushed aside or blasted away when it wasn’t economical to go over the hills. Of course, the trains didn’t run on time let alone at all but it still gave the pair a straight shot to Stableside.

It was not long after noon had come that their destination came into sight, their travels taking them closer and closer to what he had learned to be a large valley set between a pair of wide, coniferous mountains that came close but not-quite to reaching the clouds in the sky. Kiako had asked the pony how the mountains had gotten the eponymous “Smokey” in their name, but the mare only looked at him and shrugged, apparently not knowing herself.

The tracks lead right into a valley forested with a curtain of dead trees that did a great deal to hide the settlement from view, but the man could see it clear enough even if the buildings were a tad on the blurry side and the figures milling around were indistinct blobs of color. 

“You can’t see it yet, but the settlement is up ahead in that valley, past the trees,” Finders Keepers piped up from beside him, the quiet creaking of wood occasionally heard between words as they both walked along the railroad ties.

“Is that so?” Kiako commented, intentionally straining some of the extraocular muscles of his right orbital — which contained what he liked to refer to as his “good eye” — to bring the vision in that eye back to normal.

“And you have never been there before, correct?” the man asked, nearly stumbling after a brief moment of vertigo when he had opened his left eye. “And you also know for certain that they have no tomography devices? Not even able to take a simple radiograph?”

“I still don’t know what that first one means, and I have no clue what the second is,” the mare replied with a note of annoyance in her voice, “Like I said, I haven’t actually been here before.”

“Perhaps I’ll be lucky, then,” Kiako mused. “Also, for your information tomography is a way of taking an image of something through use of penetrating waves. Have you ever broken a bone before and needed a doctor to take a look at where the break was?”

“Oh, you mean like in a clinic?” the mare replied with sudden understanding as to what the man was getting at. “Only once, and that was when the potion I drank healed the bone wrong and a unicorn had to open up the leg to fix it.”

The two continued to chat away as they got closer and closer to Stableside, their conversation beginning with the effects of the potions and from there went on to what kinds of injuries the two had received in the past. For Kiako, of course, the wild tally on injuries he had collected throughout his life was short and specifically non-crippling.

As they entered the valley proper they were immediately swallowed up by a forest of dead, stunted trees, the railroad tracks like a spear piercing nature’s bosom. Kiako himself had walked through far more livelier valleys that were rich in flora and game, but to say that the one he was walking through then was lifeless would be wrong. While dead trees sagged and tilted at precarious angles, their roots exposed to the air due to rains that had long since washed away the uppermost layers of soil and created an unnerving patchwork of roots that looked very much like that of veins creeping out of the earth in search of sustenance, the area was still very much alive.

Whatever had happened to the forest in the past, nature was already well on its way to make a triumphant return to what had once been barren. In a reversal, where there had undoubtedly once been a lush canopy among the treetops, it was the ground that was the greenest in the area. Hardy weeds and scraggly bushes fought with the tangled roots of trees that even still maintained a death grip on the forest floor, life trying to find purchase in soil already choked with the dead.

Amongst the gnarled roots and precariously tilted trees were other signs of life as well, fauna having already made a home for itself amidst flora that was either struggling or already dead. The man caught glimpses of movement going in and out of small burrows, curious eyes looking back at him from dark little holes, some of which had slick red trails leading into them. There were no large animals that he could see, none of the snuffling boars, rabid porcupines, or any other of the wide variety of animals that would have lived in this area were it back home in the Province.

The steady, rhythmic knocking of axes biting into wood brought their already petering conversation to a full stop, their attentions focused more on what lay ahead than on anything else. The tracks continued taking them for some ways before they suddenly ended with that of the forest, a field of stumps marking where there had once been a great many trees standing before the entrance of the settlement. While there were no stables that Kiako could see outside, what he saw certainly gave credence to the other definition of the word. 

One look at the walls surrounding the settlement itself told him where all the lumber had been going. Made up of large trees used wholesale and driven deep into the ground before being piled over with dirt, the stockade was a formidable defense against any bandits or marauders that tried to get into the settlement itself, but maybe not so much against explosives. The ponies within had obviously thought of that weakness themselves, the space that had been left behind after the dirt had been removed to create the earthen embankment being filled with sharp wooden stakes to prevent anyone from getting too close.

Add onto that by having ponies and the occasional griffon patrol the ramparts above — those very same blobs of color he had seen earlier from a kilometer away — and one had a formidable as well as stable fortification that also served to hide what lay within from prying eyes. 

As far as eyes went though the man was already drawing plenty, some of the guards atop the walls and a couple of woodcutters having stopped to gawk at him. Kiako gave each and every single one of them a polite nod before making a show of where he had his weapons, and then disarming himself. He turned to look down at Finders Keepers beside him.

“And here we are, Miss Keepers. I will admit that our meeting was more rocky than I would have otherwise liked, but in the end you did save my life and bring me here, and for that you have my gratitude.” As he said that the man took a knee and began to undo the straps of his backpack.

“I think that’s the only time you’ve ever actually thanked me for anything,” Finders Keepers said with an amused snort. “I’ll admit that the first few days you were a real pain in my rump, and even after you nicked that medallion off of Rosewing I was thinking of just ditching you.”

“Well in that case I am glad that you were able to tolerate me for just a few days more,” Kiako remarked wryly, the faintest quirk of a smile playing over his lips before quickly suppressing it. “Interacting with you has been a most enlightening experience, and to help repay your help in not only saving my life, bringing me here, and telling me about the land, I have this for you.”

From within the confines of his backpack came his hand, the fingers uncurling to reveal a pair of small metal bars that were pale in tone and gleamed in the afternoon light. He offered both of them to the mare, holding them out in front of her.

“Unfortunately I cannot pay you in chips, my people’s currency, but I might be able to do you one better in regards to repayment.”

The mare accepted the proffered bars with the underside of a hoof, the man obliging the gesture and letting them slide out of his palm. 

“Is this…” the mare’s words trailed off for a moment as she squinted at what she held, ears perked up before a smile played across her face and she turned a pair of radiant pink eyes up at him. “This is silver, isn’t it?”

“An order of magnitude better,” the man said with a purposeful sly smile. “Platinum, actually. I just so happened to have them on me and was supposed to hand them over the next time I visited the University, but I feel that they will just have to do without them until I find my way back home.”

If Finders Keepers’ face had been one of pleasant surprise before when she had thought she had been offered silver, then the one she bore when learning the bars were made of platinum was that of genuine joy. The mare was already hurriedly tucking them away into her saddlebags, the edge of a wide smile planted on her muzzle visible even with her head turned mostly away from the man.

Brushing some dirt off of his kneepads the man turned to face the gate, hoisting up his backpack and bringing the straps over his shoulders. He took several forward to make clear his intention to enter, and raised an arm to wave up to the silent guards who had been watching him with equal parts confusion, curiosity, and caution.

“Greetings! I mean no harm and only wish to enter your settlement!” he called out loudly and concisely, the sudden volume of his voice causing a stir among the guards up top and even a couple of nervous, startled jumps. 

One of the more skittish guards popped their head up from behind the wall, their head and neck having an odd smoothness to it as a pair of goggled eyes sitting beneath a large helmet sought where the voice had come from. Kiako rocked back and forth on his heels, unable to help but take some amusement from the stir he had caused all the while hoping that none of them were particularly jumpy enough to shoot him dead right there.

It was only when the aforementioned guard directed its face and bore its eyes on him that the man felt that something had gone awry. The man looked right back at it, the inner corners of his eyebrows tilting inward ever so slightly as he made note of what he had once thought a pony being something else entirely. He had spent enough time with Finders Keepers to get a sense of how their heads were formed, as they certainly were not as bulbous as what he was looking at. What had previously been mistaken for a mask turned out to be entirely metal, unpainted bits marking where screws held the plates to the thing’s skull.

Kiako was only beginning to think the guard up top was not a pony at all when its eyes suddenly began to glow an ominous, incandescent pink that bathed the rest of its metal-plated face in an almost demonic aura of light. Was it some sort of camera or another type of scanning device?

He was about to ask what was going on before the device’s eyes began to flash on and off in unison with blaring words that were harsh and tinny to his ears. Had the man been wearing the medallion from the very start of his arriving into this land he would have simply chalked up the machine’s voice as gibberish or some sort of flaw. That wasn’t the case though, for while he could clearly hear and understand the cries of alarm coming from the ponies nearby, he also knew that what the machine was blaring out at him was the ponies’ raw and unfiltered language.

Whatever the case, he knew that somehow and in someway he was in danger and his instincts screamed at him to run. And run he did, managing to move several paces before twin streaks of light shot forth from those brilliant pink eyes and struck him dead in the chest in an explosion of heat and fire that sent him to the ground.