Collars

Hawker was an odd name for a pony born in the Wasteland. Partially because neither he nor his mother had any idea of what a hawk was, much less what to do with one. More confusion entered his life at a young age when his Cutie Mark appeared, a pair of wings bisected by an arrow. That didn’t matter much as, with all Cutie Marks, its appearance was more tied to a personal understanding of ability than to the image itself. Thus, for Hawker, the image itself was unimportant compared to his natural abilities: throwing.

Unfortunately, this did not save him or his little brother, Trip, from being captured by slavers. What the slavers didn’t know, and Hawker knew only in his heart, was that some birds weren’t meant for cages. A few years passed by before he found his chance.

The sharpened stick hit with enough force to pierce the slaver’s skull. His brain, unprepared for the sudden inclusion of wood within its confines, shut down. A dull thump was accompanied by a light clatter as his muscles went slack and his head meet the ground.

Brown spotted white hooves pulled the fallen slaver into the shadows.

“Nice shot.”

“Shush, and watch that cloth. The last thing we need is for one of them to see that damnable glow.” The sound of rustling followed, only for Hawker to curse. “Damn, he doesn’t have one. Come on, Trip, we need to find one of those controls or none of this will matter a whit.”

Stuffing the body into the dumpster’s shadow, the brothers slunk away from the slave pits. Other than the slight difference in height, Hawker being the larger, most ponies had a hard time telling them apart. Both carried the pinto coloration, and that’s all most ponies ever bothered to notice. Neither really understood why this was, Trip displayed a rather prominent brown spot on his muzzle and Hawker’s ears were both brown.

Poking his head around the first building, Hawker held up a hoof to stop his brother. Well trained eyes scanned the wide road. That it was free of slavers didn’t mean much. He still needed to figure out which way to go.

Escaping at this point wasn’t enough. Bomb collars were standard equipment for slaves captured by Razor’s gang. At the very least they needed to find a controller, a device that would allow them to flee the compound without losing their heads. A key, on the other hoof, would provide a far more permanent solution.

Hawker figured they had something like a half hour before anypony noticed their absence from the pits. As much time as that seemed, it wasn’t enough to search the entire compound. What he needed was a vantage point, somewhere to get his bearings. From there he’d hopefully be able to find where they kept the controls and keys.

Trip tapped his shoulder. “What’s up bro?”

“Just thinking,” he whispered back without turning.

Directly ahead of them was a wide open, four storey building. Only the second level showed signs of life, the flickering of campfires and moving shadows. Hawker guessed it was a barracks of sort, more likely a recreation area due to its lack walls taller than a pony. It was still the tallest building he could see, and if they could make it to the top then he could finally get a look at the compound as a whole.

All they needed was a single secluded stairwell that bypassed the second floor. It was worth a look.

Motioning his brother to wait, Hawker darted quickly across the open road.

Trip counted to ten before following. His hooves clipped softly over the paved ground as he crossed the street. He crossed into the safety of the shadows only to skid to a halt. The entire left side of the building was a ramp leading up to the second storey, and from it came a bright light and the clip clop of hooves heading to the first floor.

Panicking, Trip didn’t move. Just as the light reached the bottom with a clip of hooves, a pair of legs snapped around his neck and muzzle to drag him behind an ancient, rusted auto-wagon. Trip almost screamed, only stopping when he realized it was his brother’s hooves.

Hawker glared over the hoof stuffed into his brother’s mouth. Once he was sure of his brother’s silence, he peeked over the top of the wagon.

The slaver, a unicorn, was highlighted by the glow of his lantern. His gait was awkward, moving in fits and starts, but it wasn’t until he took five steps left for no reason at all that Hawker realized what was going on. He relaxed, between the night blindness from the lantern and his obvious drunkenness, the slaver wouldn’t be noticing much of anything.

To Hawker’s chagrin, the entire building appeared to be open air with only five other auto-wagons to provide cover. The entire structure was concrete with only barely intact ministry posters to break up the monotony. Muffled sounds from slavers could be heard through the holes dotting the ceiling. He only spotted his target when the drunk slaver wandered past it. A single door that he hoped would lead to a stairwell.

The slaver stumbled once before losing his balance completely and crashing to the floor. With his magic to hold it, the lantern followed him and rolled until it hit the wall.

Hawker stared in disbelief. Closing his eyes, he counted to ten before opening them again. It did no good. The slaver had indeed fallen directly in front of the door, blocking their path and bathing the area in his lantern’s light.

He had to bite back a curse. His luck couldn’t possibly be that bad. Nopony’s luck could be that bad! A drunk pony taking an impromptu nap right in the middle of their path. It was absurd to the point of being unthinkable. Yet, there it was.

Perfect. Just perfect.

There was nothing for it. Motioning for his brother to wait, Hawker crept around the wagon. It was a painfully slow going as he moved out of the protective shadows and into the open half-light. Careful steps carried him over bits of concrete, old bottles, metal scrap, and other random detritus that covered the ground and threatened to trip him up and expose him. Slowly and steadily, with one eye on the twitching unicorn and the other pointed toward the path up, he closed the distance.

The slaver wore a common enough patchwork uniform, likely something left over from before the war. Hawker nearly coughed at the stink of alcohol and cigarettes wafting from the prone form. To his dismay, the slaver wasn’t carrying any obvious weapons, and Hawker wasn’t keen on digging through his cloths.

An errant snort caught Hawker’s breath in his throat. He froze in fear, his eyes like dinner plates. The slaver scratched at his barrel with a hoof and sighed in release. Hawker bit his tongue to keep from retching as the bitter smell of urine burnt his nostrils. Rolling over to his other side, the slaver curled up into a tighter ball, soft snores following quickly.

Hawker’s head drooped in relief. Letting himself breathe again, he scowled at the passed out pony. Even the worst of the slaves had more sense than to piss on themselves. His scowl turned into a smile when he spotted the knife sheathed at his side.

Dropping all pretense of sneaking, Hawker grabbed for the knife. His teeth found the grip, and in two swift movements he drew the blade only to deposit it lovingly into the slavers neck. Hot blood spurted from the severed artery to cover half of Hawker’s face. The slaver barely managed to gurgle as his own blood flooded into his lungs through his open windpipe.

Wiping the blood off as best he could, he flicked his tail to call for his brother. Together they dragged the corpse into the stairwell and stuffed it into the darkest corner they could find.

Hawker held his breath as a patrolling slaver passed barely a length from their concealing shadows.

He whistled, the slaver, a discordant tune that came halfway to a song before he lost it. Unlike the others, this one wore armour and carried a shotgun. The only thing keeping him alive was the magic playing across the trigger. One shot and every slaver would be on them.

From the parking structure's vantage point the brothers were able to identify the perimeter. It wasn't nearly as large as they'd feared. As a bonus, they also neared down their search to just two buildings. The first one, just across the way, was a small brick structure they'd witnessed being locked as a slaver left it. Nearer the entrance was another that had two armed ponies guarding. The latter may have been more likely, but the brick was closer, and the idea of backtracking was too much to stomach.

The brothers wasted no time once the last slaver disappeared around a corner.

Slipping from the inky shadows to the dull grey of open night, they crossed the road and pressed against the rough wall.

A minute passed. When no alarm sounded they let out a collective breath.

Hawker glanced at his brother. "You got this?"

"Yeah, I got this."

The knife passed easily, but when Trip reached for the bobby pin Hawker pulled back. "Are you sure? We only get one shot at this."

Trip began to respond, but bit it back. Giving Hawker a look that warned of a future conversation, Trip snatched up the pin and turned to the lock.

Hawker forced himself to look away as his brother worked the lock. Every click of the pin and scrape of the knife ticked in his ear and made his tail twitch. It didn’t help that they seemed to be surrounded by an eerie, unnatural silence.

Trip cursed.

“What did you do?!” Hawker whisper furiously, his eyes still scanning for trouble.

“The goddess damned pin broke.”

“What do you mean ‘the pin broke’?” Hawker’s head whipped around. “That was our last one!”

“It was a piece of crap! What did you expect to happen?!”

“I expected you to open the damned door! What are we supposed to do now?”

“Oh, so I’m the leader now?”

“No, I–”

Trip growled, his hoof twisting the knife in its grip. A muffled pop preceded another round of curses as Trip fell through the opening door.

Hawker didn't waste any time following his brother into the darkness.

Though her eyes were closed and breathing steady, Cross did not sleep. Her mind wandered through the small collection of books she’d managed to read over the years. Many were sorely incomplete, but that only meant that she could finish them anyway she saw fit. Selecting Hamlet, she began to read.

Boredom was her enemy, the lingering aches of her situation having lost all enticement. The strain of her limbs against the manacles meant nothing without her lover. All the many cuts and bruises that marred her vibrant red coat lacked the viciousness with which they’d been crafted. Even the cum stained blood still dripping onto the mattress between her splayed hindlegs held all the appeal of a Radroach sandwich.

She paused in her reading and opened an eye at the turning of the door’s lock. The stallion who entered did not interest her and she returned to her reading.

Silver Link let his eyes linger on over the slave’s body as he stepped into the shack. When Razor asked for somepony to clean her up, Link was the only one to volunteer. The others didn’t like being around her, made them nervous or some shit. Like she was anything more than another pathetic slave.

He knew the truth, Silver did. She was Razor’s pet pussy when he was horny and his punching bag when he was pissed– usually he was both.

Dropping the butterfly marked box on the dresser, Silver stepped onto the bed. His eyes traced her every curve, from the top of her blonde maned head, over her leather sheathed legs, and down to her bleeding and cum glazed clit.

Razor’s most recent visit hadn’t been nearly as violent as Silver had expected. He counted a mere five gashes that would need sewing, only one on her pussy. The rest of her injuries would only need a light bandaging.

Cross kept her eyes closed, continuing to ignore him as he sat back with his knees between her hindlegs and let his cock drop onto her clit. She didn’t so much as flinch at what should have been, at the very least, a painful prodding.

It was infuriating! She could have at least fought back a little. Any sort of reaction at all. A squeak, a twitch, anything. No, she just lay there like a doll as he slid between her blood slicked lips.

It was insulting in a way he couldn’t quite put a hoof on and he was starting to get angry. He knew she didn’t act that way with Razor. The psychopathic leader didn’t come away from his ‘anger managment’ sessions unscaythed. He’d sported a limp once or twice and always showed fresh cuts and bruises afterwards. But for Silver she was as lively as a log.

He thrust forward as hard as he could, growling as his hips slammed into her’s and shook the bed. For a moment he thought he’d finally gotten something, her head rolling to the other side and her body shifting beneath him. Then nothing. Again, Nothing! It was like he wasn’t even there!

Biting back the angry threats dancing on the tip of his tongue, Silver Link threw himself into his task. His forelegs dropped to either side of her barrel to support himself while his hips pistoned violently against her. The gash on her clit split wider and blood splattered with each impact. Still, she didn’t give him the slimmest of acknowledgments.

His hooves itched to strike out at the mare. To beat her and break her and hurt her. To make her flinch and scream and cry and beg him to stop. Each sound she made would only draw laughter, every twitch would only serve to drive him further until she was nothing but a bloody pulpy mess of broken bones and rent flesh. Then he would finish all over what remained of her face before spitting on her and stalking out.

His eyes clenched and his body quaked as he came, as much to the summoned up images as anything else.

Cross moved then, craning her neck to look at him through the fall of blonde mane. Her unimpressed expression said far more than any words ever could.

Having spent himself, Silver Link rolled off the bed and retrieved the first-aid box. He treated her no more kindly, muttering angrily to himself as he cleaned her up. A wet cloths wiped away the blood and cum from her coat. Needle and thread followed, sewing up the larger wounds where bandages alone wouldn’t suffice.

Finished, he left, locking the door behind him.

It was some time later, halfway through act three of the play, when Cross’ eye was drawn up once again. Hushed voices argued outside the door. She felt she should have been more surprised when a brown spotted white stallion tumbled inside.

Hawker snagged the knife before shutting the door behind himself. He almost turned to reprimand Trip on being more careful, but found his attention drawn to the room they’d just stumbled into.

“Goddesses…” His nose wrinkled against the heavy musk pervading the small building.

What light was to be had came from a myriad of tiny bulbs that hung from the ceiling in drooping cords. Barely large enough for the bed at its center, the room contained only two other pieces of furniture; a wooden chest against one wall and a chest of draws against the other. Blood stained every surface, ranging from ancient splotches of dark browns to splatters of bright red: fresh and wet.

Leather stockings covered her legs just past her knees and a saddle that could not have been comfortable was strapped along her back and hid all but a single golden loop of her Cutie Mark.

Gorge rose to the back of his throat, and it took everything he had to keep it down. Alarm bells screamed in the back of his mind, warning him that something wasn’t right. Not that it took a sixth sense to figure that out.

Hawker met his brother’s gaze and without either saying a word the decision was made. It had been a hard choice to leave the other slaves behind. Leaving her, however, was not an option.

“Are you alright?” Hawker asked, taking a step forward.

The mare studied him as though she wasn’t sure what he meant.

“That’s the stupidest question you’ve ever asked,” Trip said, turning to the mare. “Do you know where the keys are?”

She nodded slowly. “Yes. It’s in the top left drawer.”

“Great, just give me a minute and I’ll have you out in the shake of a tale.”

While his brother went to work freeing her, Hawker asked, “Can you tell me your name?”

She looked lost for a second, her eyes moving between the two brown spotted stallions before answering. “Cross.”

“Well, Cross,” Hawker said, his confidence in their situation returning, “I’m Hawker, and that’s my brother Trip–”

“Yo.”

“-- and we’re here to rescue you.”

Cross looked up at her saviors as the last manacle fell away. Slowly and stiffly, she rose to stand atop the bed. She arched her back and twisted her neck in the same careful manner, eliciting loud pops as her joints realigned. Her gaze remained fixed on the brothers. The smiles that had started out wide and welcoming began to falter as the seconds ticked by without a response.

The warning bells that Hawker had ignored wailed for his attention and drew his eyes to her forehead and the horn poking through her mane. A weight dropped into the pit of his stomach.

It was all the warning he got before magic flooded her spire. Hawker dove into a roll, narrowly dodging her magic.

Hawker came to his hooves and jumped as a second burst of magic shot behind him. Twisting in mid-air, three of his hooves hit the wall. He pushed off, throwing his momentum back at the mare he’d just finished helping to free.

Cross grunted as he barreled into her with the knife aimed at her throat. The blade would have hit home were it not for the metal collar that adorned her neck the same as his. Still he pressed it down. It would only take a slight twitch to send it sliding off and into the soft flesh of her neck.

He glared down at her, their heavy breaths mingling between their muzzles.

“What is wrong with you? We were trying to help you!”

Cold blue eyes returned his angry glare with hot passion. Slowly, Cross shifted beneath him and brought a knee between his legs, coaxing his member. He froze, uncertainty washing over him as she purred.

A hoof touched his, patiently urging him to take pressure off the knife. Lightly, she guided the cold metal to her own cheek and adding her own weight until blood began to pool around the blade.

She finally broke their shared gaze, craning her neck until her breath danced in his ear. A soft pounding against the wall drew Hawker’s eyes up the wall until they found his brother. Trip’s face was already turning purple as he fought for breath against the blue band of magic pinning him to the wall.

“You and I are going to have so much fun together.”

Cross remembered their arrival at the camp. It was hard to forget such a unique pair of ponies. Like many new initiates, they had a hard time accepting their place. It was almost pitiable. It wasn’t their fault, after all. Everypony had lied to them, assuring them that the illusions of their life were real and that the realities were illusions. Letting go was hard, but that didn’t mean it couldn’t be enjoyable.

Cross pressed her lips to Hawker’s ear and purred. “You and I are going to have so much fun together.”

She could feel his muscles tense beneath his coat, readying for action. Oh yes, this lesson would be most enjoyable.

Hawker pulled back, pressing his free hoof into her sternum and forcing her back down. She resisted a little, but gave him the lead. A beautiful scream of rage poured between his clenched teeth as the knife swung in a vicious arc aimed at her horn.

That wouldn’t do. Her head tilted back, exposing the underside of her jaw to protect her horn. The blade skipped across her jaw, leaving a shallow cut in its wake. Cross’ pulse quickened at the sharp shock of pain.

Her turn.

With both forelimbs unhindered, she caught the knife on the backswing with one and threw her weight into a punch with the other. Teeth loosened under the blow. The hit compounded with his already precarious stance and made it a simple matter to throw him completely off balance.

Cross rolled with him and came out on top with a knee grinding between his legs. Dropping a foreknee on his fetlock flung the knife from his grip and brought them snout to snout.

Blood dripped from her cut under her muzzle, splashing on his nose and dribbling between his eyes. Her loins warmed at the sight. He struggled beneath her, straining to find an ounce of leverage to free himself. Ever so slowly, she leaned down, extending her tongue to lick at the crimson streaks from his face.

Hawker saw the opening and took it, slamming his forehead into her muzzle.

The pain was exquisite and Cross roared in excitement as she fell to her side, gripping her bloody gushing snout. Oh, the pain: sharp and crisp, like the scent of lilacs on a warm spring morning. Viscera poured into her mouth and she savored the hot metallic flavor of life. Writhing in sweet agony, a moist warmth seeped from the torn stitches between her legs.

She’d only just opened her eyes when Hawker’s hoof came down. His iron shoe struck her horn, snapping her head back. Backlash from her disrupted magic ripped through her body. Searing pain wracked her from head to dock, every muscle contracting, trying to tear themselves apart. A cry tore itself from her throat as juices far too slick to be blood matted the fur of her bucking hindlegs.

When the convulsions stopped and she could open her eyes, she was greeted by the sight of Hawker sitting on his haunches, rocking back and forth. Trip’s head held tightly to his chest. Her hearing returned to the sound of Hawker sobbing between unintelligible mutterings. Legs quivering beneath her, she stood and watched silently until her voice was strong enough.

“Why are you mourning?” When he didn’t respond she repeated herself, louder and with a hint of command.

Hawker froze, his head slowly turning until their eyes met. Tears carved rivulets down his muzzle, dripping into his brother’s mane. His voice faltered twice before he managed to whisper, “He’s dead.”

“That is not what I asked. Why are you mourning?”

“He’s my brother.” The muscles in his face grew taut and his jaw clenched tight. “You killed him.”

“I gave him what he desired.”

“You murdered him!”

“I freed him.”

Hawker stared at her in disbelief. “You… freed him?”

“That is what you both desired. To be freed from the chains that bind. He walks now in the fields of Elysium, where–”

“You murdered my brother!” Hawker screamed, letting go of Trip and launching himself at Cross.

His charge was sloppy and awkward, leaving Cross plenty of time to react. She didn’t even flinch at the stabbing pain from her horn as it lit up. The wide band of magic caught Hawker’s barral and slammed his back against the wall. His head cracked the drywall, sending a spray of white powder into the air.

Cross sat back on her haunches and waited while his futile efforts to escape slowly came to an close. His screams of rage faded into nothing and left him panting for breath. Only once she was sure she had his full attention did she speak up again– though the murder in his eyes remained.

“You have not answered my question. Do I need to repeat it?”

“You took my brother from me!”

Cross was quiet as she mulled over his words, her eyes lingering on the corpse in question. Finally turning back, her eyes lit up with understanding. “You are selfish.”

“I’m what?” Hawker shouted, renewing his futile struggles for freedom.

“You claim to want freedom, but when your brother has been freed your only thoughts are of yourself. Instead of rejoicing, you mourn the loss the leash you carried and he wore. You are selfish… and a liar.” Four new bands affixed themselves to Hawker’s legs as her aura grew brighter, pinning them in place. Cross stepped closer, her eyes softening. “I am not selfish. You have given me a gift, and I would be ramiss to not return the favor.”

Hawker tensed as her nose pressed tenderly into his exposed stomach, leaving a vibrant streak of red across his white and brown coat. She licked the soft hairs and sensitive skin, relishing the mixture of his sweat and her blood. Her breath played across his sheath as she brought her muzzle down, tenderly nipping and kissing as she went. He moaned, bit his lip, and utterly failed to repress his bodies response.

The tip emerged only for Cross to cover it with her lips. Softly, tenderly, she teased it out. Loose blonde mane danced along his groin as her head slowly bobbed up and down along his shaft. Her tongue stroked its length, flicking the head when she briefly pulled back before diving back in.

Helplessly, his body responded to her every touch. He cried out, tears streaming down his sobbing and gasping muzzle when he came.

Cross did not retreat, instead lapping at the slowly receding member.

Looking up at him, she smiled. “Now the real fun begins.”

Razor slid his key into the door’s lock. His already annoyed expression darkened when the key stopped at a half-turn. The foal had left the door unlocked. Considering himself a reasonable boss, Razor didn’t demand too much from his ponies. Respect, loyalty, and locking the Goddess damned doors! If Silver Link couldn’t remember something so imbecilicly simple, then he had no business being on the outside of a collar.

Kicking the door in with far more force than he’d intended, Razor went from severely annoyed to teetering on the edge of anger as his eyes zeroed in on the bed.

Cross lay curled up, asleep with her nose buried beneath her forehooves and her messy blonde mane covering her face. The manacles attached to the bedposts were cast aside, open and very much not secured to her hooves where he’d left them. That meant one of two things, either she’d freed herself– something she’d never done before– or Silver Link was a dead pony walking.

Three long strides brought Razor to the edge of the bed. Snapping his teeth into her golden locks, he yanked Cross from the bed, throwing her bodily to the floor. Her surprised shriek was cut short by a grunt as she hit. Her head bouncing against the wood..

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”

Cross grinned up at the raging stallion standing over her, his mane falling about his head nothing so much like a fountain of blood. “Hello, master.”

Razor stepped on her collarbone, the tip of his hoof pressing into her throat. “I asked you a question.”

Cross reached with a forehoof, petting the thick muscles under his silver chest. “Waiting for you, of course, master.”

He snorted, adding more weight to his hoof. “Why aren’t you in your chains?”

She shivered, her eyes dilating in pain. Pointing to the far wall, she whispered, “I had visitors, master.”

Razor whipped his head around, taking in the entire room for the first time. The weight upon her collar receded, much to her chagrin, as he spotted the other ponies. Stepping away from Cross, he approached the bodies. The first was obviously dead, an unmoving lump of flesh and bone. He ignored it.

It was the second that interested him. Long iron nails pierced the pony’s fetlocks, pinning him to the wall. Unconscious, his breath came in irregular, wheezing gasps. Large patches of his coat were missing, carefully cut away without damaging the muscle beneath. A quick glance at the floor found the cast off pieces of brown hair. Two ears were pinned to the wall, outlining where his head would have been had it not hung listlessly against his chest.

Razor sighed, his anger and annoyance slipping away like a ghost on the wind. When he spoke his voice contained all the patience of a weary parent. “Wake him up.”

Cross smiled, rising to her hooves and sauntering up to the wall mounted pony. She ground a hoof into some of the exposed muscle.

Hawker moaned softly as he came awake, his eyes blinking in pain and confusion, too tired to muster anything more.

“Hello… whatever your name was.”

Hawker responded with weak sobs and pathetic whimpers.

Razor tsked lightly. “Why do you make these things so difficult? Why? None of this wo–”

Trying to speak, Hawker fell into a bloody fit of coughing. Razor waited patiently for him to finish before continuing.

“Is it really so terrible? I feed you, I cloth you, I shelter you–”

“Beat–” Hawker managed to spit out.

“Shh, shh, shh. Don’t strain yourself. The beatings? Yes, but only when you misbehave. Was it really so different before?”

“–reedom.”

“Freedom from what? From oppression? From rules and laws? I have not added one ounce of either to your life. Perhaps, then, it is, ‘Freedom to’ that you desire? Freedom to choose? To decide when to eat and sleep? To do what you will with your life? Those are not freedoms, my colt, they are burdens. Burdens that have been dressed up by those who use you so that you accept them without question. What do you gain by making these choices for yourself? Hmmm? Certainly not happiness.”

Hawker tried to speak again, but without success.

“Don’t you see? I am showing you the truth. Stripping away the illusions to reveal the invisible chains that others have used to bind you to their will. Theirs may be a little less… physical, but no less real. The only thing I have taken from you are the lies.

“Save your energy,” Razor sighed again, shaking his head. “I do not blame you for this, it is a hard thing to swallow the truth. We will speak more once you are healed. For now… well, for now you’ve cost me, and there must be a penance.” Turning to Cross, he said, “I believe the saying goes, ‘An eye for an eye’.”

Cross nodded and, rearing up, planted her forehooves on either side of Hawker’s head. He whimpered and tried to pull away, but there was no where for him to go. She nuzzled him, kissing his cheek and whispered tender, comforting words. Working her way up his muzzle, she stopped at his eye. Her lips parted ever so slightly, urging his eyelid to open.

She inhaled.