The calm yellow of twilight over Ponyville pierces through the patterned windows of its tavern, casting long shadows about its interior. The place is next to deserted, with just the bartender cleaning his glasses at the end of a long day, and a charcoal black coated stallion with an unruly mane leaning way back at a table in a shaded and somewhat sketchy corner, a glass of his traditional favorite and namesake drink, bourbon, swishing around in a glass in his hoof.

The stallion is singing under his breath, clearly a little less than sober as he pauses every once in a while to take a small, satisfied sip of the liquid.

"Ikh sota tu-shki, bpata rep , dva, tri, chetyrye! Paz, dva, tri, chyetyrye! IKH sota tu-shki, BRATA rep katu-shki! Paz, dva, tri, chyetyrye! Raz, dva, tri!-"

"Sir!" The bartender's sharp voice calls Bourbon from his tipsy haze. "Please, I enjoy hearing a drunk singing as much as the next pony, but keep it down, will ya?" Bourbon mutters something unintelligible under his breath again as he sits a bit straighter up in the worn, torn-up booth.

Suddenly, the door crashes inwards like somepony bucked it open, and a young mare walks in. She also has a dark coat, but with a much more in-control mane, with emerald green eyes. She simply walks across the space, motioning to the bartender about half-way across, and he instantly starts filling a glass with a strange mix of beverages. By the time she is at the end of the bar, the bartender has finished mixing, and has slid the glass to the end of the smooth wooden bar into her waiting hoof with practiced precision. Drink in hand, she walks over to Bourbon's table, and leans over it.

"You're in my spot," she says flatly, a hint of something that sounded almost like amusement in her voice.

"I'm afraid I must disagree," Bourbon says, his gruff, accented voice visibly surprising the mare, "I've been to half the bars in all of vide regions of Equestria, and in every one of zem, zis. is my. damn. spot."

The mare simply shrugs her shoulders and pushes herself off of the table. "Well, for that kind of commitment, I suppose I can let you sit there. But move over a bit." Bourbon, surprising himself, does exactly that with only a second's hesitation, moving over in the long, curved bench to make room for the mare.

"Fair enough," he says with a grin, "I've gotta respect a mare zat frequents a bar so much she has her own bench." The mare just chuckles and sits down, placing her drink down with a firm 'clap'.

"So what's your name, eh?" she says, leaning back like Bourbon was not a minute ago.

"You can call me Bourbon,"

"Mhm. Now what's you actual name?" Bourbon looks at her with a raised eyebrow for a moment.

"How do you know it's not my 'actual name'?" he comments with his best impression of the mare next to him.

"Well, for one, you said 'you can call me…' rather than just saying your name, and second, ain't nopony's called 'Bourbon', I don't care how drunk you are." Bourbon laughs, his shoulders shaking and causing a grin to form on the mare's lips.

"Clever mare," Bourbon chuckles, "Clever mare indeed… th' name's Mikhial." He stretches out a hoof, "Nice to meet you."

"Timber Oak, likewise," she says with a smile and a bro-hoof. They each pause for a drink of their respective drinks, one finishing, and the other taking the first sip.

"So I assume you're from around here?" Bourbon asks, turning his head to look at Timber.

"Yeah, why?" she replies with another sip of alcohol.

"I'm kind of new to the area, and I was wond-"

"Yet you've managed to find the bar easily enough," Timber cuts in with a warm laugh. Bourbon simply smiles.

"Of course! That's tradition," he says, motioning to her with his empty glass and letting out a laugh or two. "Anyhow, I was vondering if you could show me around a bit later?" Timber shrugs and nods.

"Yeah, I s'pose I could do that. Where d'ya wanna go?"

"I don't really know. What's interesting around here?" Bourbon says, realizing that he really has no plan for what to do or where to go.

"Hmm," Timber hums, looking down and to the side, biting the inside of her cheek as she thinks for a moment. Then, nodding, she pulls out a map of the town. "How's about we go to the town hall, then maybe to the park for a bit… Do you like Sambo?"

At the mention of the martial art, Bourbon's eyes light up and he instantly sits up a bit straighter. "Do I like it? Ad da I like it! Third degree black belt, at that!" Timber's eyes now lighten as her eyebrows and head rise in admiration.

"Hm. Well then after that, we'll have to go to the local training facility and see which of us is better," she says, a wicked grin forming of her features, which is then easily matched by Bourbon. "So when do ya want to go?"

"How about now?" Bourbon's answer is immediate. Giggling a bit at his enthusiasm, Timber throws her head back and drinks the rest of the glass of alcohol. Slamming the now-empty glass on the table, she opens her eyes wide, and shakes her head quickly, blinking a few times at the liquids burning down her throat. She shivers with a small smile, then turns to a widely grinning Bourbon.

"Let's go!"

---

"Tri. Dva. Odin. Spar!" The 'ref' quickly retreats from the center of the ring as the two good-natured adversaries go at each other for the how-many-th time that night with all the friendly ferocity they had at the beginning.

Just as with every other time, the two launch at one another, and quickly go from a by-the-rules sparring match to an impromptu self-defense technique show-off. They had quickly attracted a crowd, their matches bearing a strong resemblance to an unscripted action movie, complete with ponies yelling insults at each other in English and Russian.

Timber manages to lock Bourbon's hoof behind his back and wrap an arm around his neck as a choke.

"Argh, ti SUKA!" Bourbon yells through a grin, "Ti nye dyelayesh', chto kak lyegko!" At the last roared word, he snaps his head back and clips her on the bridge of the nose. She lets go instantly with a yelp, half stumbling a few steps back before falling on her flank, her hooves flying to her muzzle in pain.

"Alright," she says through her hoof, looking at Bourbon, already back in his rather unique fighting stance, "I think I've had enough for now. You win."

The crowd reluctantly walks away with disappointed grumbles as Bourbon abandons his fighting position and walks over to Timber, kneeling beside her.

"You alright?" he asks, laying a hoof on her shoulder comfortingly.

"Heh, never better," she replies with a grin, "You've got some fight in you, y'know that?" She tentatively pulls her hoof away from her muzzle and looks at its blood-covered fur.

"Yeah, figures," she says through a sigh as she brings it back up to her bleeding muzzle.

"Ah, dyer'mo, sorry about zat," Bourbon says, guilt spreading over his face.

"Eh, don't be. Nothing that can't be fixed easily enough." Timber stands up shakily and, followed by Bourbon, walks over to a corner where a first-aid kit hangs on a wall. Opening it, she quickly bandages her little injuries and turns back to Bourbon, motioning to him and walking towards the door of the facility.

"Well, it's pretty late," she comments, smiling amusedly at her now-nasal-y voice, "Where are you staying tonight? Maybe I could show you there."

Bourbon just shrugs. "Eh, on ze ground, as far as I know." Timber stops mid-stride and turns back to him with a somewhat shocked look.

"What?!" she yells the question at him, receiving just a dismissive shrug in response. "Nononono, that's not happening. Come on, you're staying with me then."

"No, no I couldn't do zat." Bourbon says quickly.

"Well, you're not sleeping on the streets, so yes. Yes you could do that."

"I would be fi-"

"Come on, Mikhial, we've got a ways to walk." Timber cuts Bourbon's refusal short and turns to walk home. A satisfied smile spreads over her mouth as she hears Bourbon's hooffalls follow her.

---

Bright spears of sunlight jab into Bourbon's consciousness as his eyes crawl slowly open, forcing them shut again. He sits up, rubbing his head, willing the mild headache he had developed overnight away. Suddenly, he notices something in his peripheral vision. Or, more accurately, somepony.

He scrambles in the opposite direction as he truly notices the charcoal mare sleeping peacefully on a soft straw bed. He looks around quickly, trying for all he's worth to take in his surroundings and answer that age-old question: What the hay happened last night?

Then, it all comes back to him. The walk here, the sparring, the town hall, the bar, the pretty mare, the- wait, what? Pretty mare? Bourbon questions himself, did I really just think that? He looks again at Timber. Am I really still thinking that? Yes Bourbon, yes you are.

"Oh, hey Mikhial," Timber says, rubbing the sleep out of her emerald eyes and sitting up.

"H-hey, Timber."

"Wanna get somethin' to eat?" she suggests, standing up from her bed and stretching a bit.

"Uh, sure, if you want to."

Timber starts to walk to the door and out of her apartment, followed by Bourbon. The morning air is crisp and fresh as they make their way into the commercial part of town, towards Sugar Cube Corner.

"So just how long are you staying anyway?" Timber asks.

"Well, until I figure something else out-" Bourbon is cut off by a high pitched whine that seems to fill the air and stop time.

"Timber? What the hay is that?" Bourbon asks nervously.

"That's… That's the missile alarm."

"I was afraid you'd say that."

Everypony breaks into hysteria. Some are running around, turning around every now and then as if completely lost. Some are taking to the skies and bolting off in every direction. Some are just screaming.

"Bourbon, I'm scared." Timber says, voice shaking and tears streaming down her panicked face.

"So am I."

"If I did something really, really stupid right now, you wouldn't blame me, would you?"

"N-" A soft, warm pressure on Bourbon's lips stops him short as Timber's hooves wrap tightly around Bourbon's neck, pulling him closer to her. Bourbon would give anything in the world, anything in the about-to-end world at all, to have that moment last forever. Just him and her. Then, somewhere between way too long and not nearly long enough after, the magic left and the two were plunged back into horrible, horrible reality.

"Thanks," Timber says quietly, looking down embarrassedly, "Now let's get to the Metro." Bourbon could only grunt in reply and follow her through the crowd.

---

"I'll be fine, Timber," Bourbon reassured his marefriend for what felt like the millionth time. "I've just got to go and help some ponies up near central deal with a bit of a bandit issue their dealing with, that's all."

"But what if you get hurt?" Timber said for what felt like the millionth time. " What if you get paired up with some noob that accidentally shoots you? What if you get locked on the surface and die of radiation poisoning? What if you get hit in the head really hard and forget me?!" She goes on and on, getting more and more frantic as she continues. Bourbon can't help but laugh at that last one, though.

"Timber, I promise, I promise, I will always remember. You. Us. This. All of it." He kisses her lightly. "I'll be back in a month."

---

Bourbon doesn't cry. Bourbon never cries. Ever.

Except now.

The ink on the simple piece of paper he held crumpled in his hoof ran with his silent tears, streaking the heart-crushing information contained within the useless little symbols printed on it. He grips his glass one more time, just barely finding the will to bring it to his mouth again and drink the magical relief of the alcohol within. He looks to his side, looking at his beloved Kalashnikov leaning against the wall of the bar. In the booth in the shady corner. His corner, and more importantly, her corner.

But duty calls. The metro isn't going to liberate itself. He stands shakily up, grabbing his AK and looking one last time at that little piece of paper before throwing it on the ground.

'Metro News', it read.

'Station Outreach Attacked by Mutants'

Recently, northern-most station, Outreach, was attacked by strange mutants. Casualties were high, and it is suspected by many that none survived the attack, as there has been no action from the station since, and the few traders that went there report to have seen "Nopony. Nopony at all, just a few corpses here and there."

Outreach. The place that housed the one single pony that had mattered in his life in the past fifteen years. And now it, and she, is probably dead.

Well buck you too, reality. Buck. You. Too.

---

So I was just sitting, minding my own business, when suddenly a small pack of plot-bunnies attacked me! And this is what they made! I hope you enjoyed it. Bro-hoof.