The air of the Stable wasn’t quite as dry or sterile as I’d remembered it from the morning. My hammer fell in quick, sharp strikes, and the blowtorch lit and warmed the room, driving back some of the Stable’s cold air. I found myself lost in my own rhythm, moving in regular patterns as I took a sheet of metal, measured it against the mannequin, cut, torched, bent, and hammered it into the shape I saw in my mind.

Another set of barding complete, I sat back and gave it a final inspection. Though the armor itself met with my standards, I hesitated, studying the blank plates of metal. This armor was going to be a uniform for the Stable’s defenders, so it’d be appropriate to have some kind of decorative design, wouldn’t it? I set the armor down and grabbed a pencil and sheet of paper from a nearby desk, holding them up to the chestplate and sketching out some quick ideas. My immediate thought was to place the number “15” right in the center of the chestplate, and so I started from there. Whatever I did would have to be simple, something I could replicate across at least half a dozen sets of barding. A gear, the shape of the Stable’s door? No, that’d be too tricky to be consistent, and would take too much time.

The insignia of Stable-Tec? That might work, but I wasn’t sure what it looked like. I looked up from the workbench and around at the room, trying to find any books or something that might have a good reference. But I had no such luck, and I couldn’t justify wandering the stable just to find a picture of the logo. I needed to think simpler. Maybe a glow, light coming off of the number? That seemed easy enough. I could just sketch some dark color around the edges, ringing the number. I scribbled an estimate of my idea, shading the edges of the paper in a rough circle.

But no sooner did I sit back to study this idea than I realized it was starting to look a great deal like the painting I’d found in that old house. The memory tugged at me, starting to replay in my mind; and with a slow, calm breath, I allowed it to do so.

Grit’d been polite enough to wait until Kyra was out of the room before asking me about my outburst. “So,” he’d asked, a bit hesitantly, “Y’okay?”

My eyes still felt swollen, and every now and then I felt my throat hitch, but I nodded. “Yeah, I think so.” I wiped my nose and muzzle with my foreleg, snorting in a deep smell of mud and wet hide as I did so. “Grit, I-” I paused, taking a deep breath. He was looking at me, with what I hoped was patience. “I’m sorry. For everything I’ve put you through.”

At first, he hadn’t said anything. I could swear I saw his eyes widen just a bit. He looked down at the floor and, for a long moment, stared at the remains of the moldy carpet. “I ‘ppreciate that, Alloy. I do.” He’d turned to face me. “But where’s all this comin’ from?”

I glanced back towards the painting. That empty center, surrounded on all sides by an encroaching darkness. Somepony’s life scattered around the easel. “Just had a lot to think about lately.”

Grit’s muzzle tightened, and he turned to get up. “Alrigh’, if you say so.”

“Look,” the interruption tumbled from my mouth before I had a chance to even think about the rest of the sentence. But it had stopped Grit as he was getting up to leave. After… after Copper, he’d said he wanted us to talk more, hadn’t he? And instead I’d dodged him ever since coming back to Four Shoes. My throat hitched again, jolting my whole body.

Time.

I just needed a little time. But after everything, maybe he was right. “Ask me again later, Grit. I just need…” I took a deep breath. I needed to sort things out in my head. Needed to have an explanation that satisfied myself. “I need some time. But ask me again later.”

He tilted his sandy-coated head at me, staring in… curiosity? Surprise? I had no idea. “Yeah,” He paused, sounding almost surprised at his own answer. “Yeah, okay. I will. Gonna be alrigh’ in here?”

I nodded, wiping my snout again. “I’ll be fine.”

A small, half-cocked smile crept up his lip, and he turned to leave the bedroom. At last, I stood up, giving the room one last sweep, taking in the settings and ensuring I wouldn’t forget this place. Just as I turned to walk out, my back hoof knocked against something. Glancing down, I caught sight of a paintbrush, about as thick as the end of my horn. The grip was in surprisingly good condition, though the bristles were splayed out in all directions, and some centuries-old paint was caked on the ends.

Still, I scooped it up in my magic, and stowed it in my saddlebags.

Now I stared at the same brush, lying on the worktable next to me in Stable 15. It shouldn’t be too hard to re-straighten the bristles, right? Or maybe it’d be best to just replace them entirely? I wondered what they were made of. I’d heard somewhere that it was actually pony hair, donated from manes or tails. Staring down at my tail, I cocked my head, evaluating how much I’d need to snip off. Not much at all, really. Something to research later, though.

I looked back at the pencil sketch of the glowing “15,” and crumpled it up. It would’ve been easy to replicate, but using a design inspired by that painting felt… wrong. Like I was trying to fill in the gaps its creator had left, to complete it.

It wasn’t mine to complete.

A yawn forced its way past my jaw, reminding me how late it was, and I set aside the idea of adding decorations to the armor. Three completed suits of barding lay on the table before me, metal plates fastened to the chest, haunches, and shoulders of each. In the end, Spark’d had some of his technicians cut metal off the walls of the Stable, down in the maintenance area. Kyra had found a cache of scrap metal, too. She said it’d been locked up in the back of a cargo truck, but hadn’t mentioned how she’d unlocked the truck. I suppose it didn’t matter much. The suits of barding they’d made weren’t pretty, but they were functional enough to deflect a knife or bat, and could stand up to a few gunshots. They’d probably fall apart under sustained fire, though I didn’t know of many suits of armor that wouldn’t, short of power armor.

More importantly, I didn’t think I could keep working without passing out at the workbench. The shadow of last night’s restless sleep still hung over me, dragging my eyelids down and making my muscles sluggish. I could easily finish up the rest of the armor tomorrow, but only if I let myself get enough rest tonight. An aching growl in my stomach reminded me that, along with sleep, I could use some dinner.

Putting away the grinding metal saw and blowtorch, and leaving the trio of completed barding folded up neatly on the table, I walked out into the hallways of the Stable to attempt to find my way to the cafeteria, hooves clicking on the metal floors.

It took me longer than I’d like to admit to get there. I tried following the signs, but on three occasions managed to find a dead-end instead. Finally, I asked a nearby Stable pony, who was more than happy to walk me the whole way up.

There weren’t many ponies there, maybe a dozen or so, conversing in pockets of twos or threes. A few of them looked up and smiled at me, waving their hooves in the air to greet me. With a flick of my ear, I raised a forehoof in their direction, which seemed to satisfy them as they went back to their meals. I quickly walked up to the counter to ask for a bowl of hot oatmeal.

“Great choice, little mare!” the cook behind the counter exclaimed, sweeping up a bowl in his silvery-blue magic. He was a unicorn buck with a pale coat and a nametag on his apron, but I couldn’t read it, the way he swept this way and that to prepare my order. Before long, a fresh, gently-steaming bowl of the beige mush settled onto the counter in front of me. “I put some apple pieces in today’s oatmeal, a rare treat!”

Gingerly, I lifted the steaming bowl with my own magic, offering the cook a tight smile. “Thanks.” I turned to walk away, but stopped after half a step. “Do you have any carrots?”

“Carrots?” the cook echoed, scrunching his muzzle. “Naw, I’m ‘fraid not. Next crop o’ carrots ain’t for another few weeks.”

“Ah, I see.” I nodded to him, and then walked off to find myself a table. The oatmeal smelled appetizing enough, and I could see chunks of something white mixed into it, what I assumed to be the apple pieces he’d spoken of. They didn’t add a great deal of flavor to the mix, but it did vary up the texture of the slop, and it was at least warm with a savory taste of oats, which was more than enough for me.

I ate slowly, in no hurry and with thoughts of the armor dancing in my mind. With the scrap I had left, there was at least four or five more suits of barding I could make. I couldn’t get an accurate assessment without the metal in front of me. But at the rate I’d been going, I could probably finish the rest of the barding off by afternoon tomorrow, assuming I got an early enough start.

Once my bowl was half empty, a sharp laugh shook me from my thoughts and drew my gaze to the entrance of the cafeteria. About ten ponies had just milled in, chuckling among themselves, followed by Grit, Pillar, and… Kyra?

What was she doing with them?

The griffon stood beside Pillar and Grit, said something to the two of them, and then trotted towards the counter, where the other ponies had already gathered to place their orders. Pillar and Grit got in line shortly after, and Kyra spotted me as she hovered in the air with a plate of something held in her talons. She nudged Grit with her shoulder, nodded at me, and then flew over while Grit got dragged into a conversation with Pillar. Kyra sat down across from me and dove into her bowl of oatmeal. “Sho how’sh it comin’ on yo’ end, Alloy?” she asked, beak full of mush. Kyra swallowed the mouthful and then hung her tongue out in clear disgust. “Damned pony food…”

One of my ears flicked at the air, and I silently swallowed my own mouthful. “I’ve got three sets finished,” I answered before taking another bite of my oatmeal, still wondering how she’d gotten back into Pillar’s good graces. Then, it hit me that I could simply ask. “I thought Pillar didn’t like you being around.” Luna above, what was that? I grimaced at my own phrasing, and then hid the expression in another bite of oatmeal.

Kyra didn’t seem to care one way or another that I could tell. “Shtill doe’n’t.” For all her distaste for “pony food,” she certainly was inhaling it briskly. “But Grit tol’ ‘im I could help train the ponies tha’ wanna defend the Stable, so I’m doin’ that.”

Part of me wanted to ask if she was being paid for the job. But I stopped short. Of course she was, that was how the Talons worked. The real question was, how did the Stable manage to scrounge up the caps to fund a Talon as a drill sergeant? “I guess you gave them a discount?”

The griffon gave a brief squawk of a chuckle at that. “Sure did. 50 caps a day, plus all of this I want.” She nudged the bowl of oatmeal with a talon. “Think they mighta ripped me off on that last part…”

I looked down at my oatmeal and scraped up the last of it into a hefty bite, trying to quickly mask the fact that my eyes were bulging out of my head. 50 caps? That was it? First Kyra offered to escort Grit and I to the Stable for free, and now she was working for the Stable to train ponies, which I assumed was an all-day affair, and doing it for basically a token gesture? For Celestia’s sake, each set of barding I made was worth more to the Stable than that! Once I’d swallowed my oatmeal and trusted myself not to have shock written plain across my muzzle, I looked up at Kyra again. “That’s… quite generous of you.”

“Eh, I’ve got nothin’ better to do ‘round here.” She ruffled her wings in a shrug.

Before I could say anything else, Grit set his bowl down next to me and dropped to sit on his haunches, starting to ask Kyra something about their training that day. With the moment passed, it didn’t seem like I should press Kyra any further on the subject.

* * * * * * *

By the time Grit and I returned to his father’s quarters, the hallways were nearly deserted, most of the Stable ponies having turned in for the night. I wasn’t really sure what time it was, but the weights on my eyelids meant I didn’t really care either. I was going to collapse onto that overstuffed red sofa and, if the Goddesses gave me a break, sleep soundly. As the door slid shut behind me, giving Grit and I privacy from the rest of the Stable, I suddenly remembered something. “Hey, Grit,” I began, and he half-turned, meeting my eyes. It suddenly struck me how weary he looked. For a heartbeat I wondered whether or not I should even ask, but I’d already started. “You overheard some of Kyra’s conversation with that other griffon, right?”

“Yeah, bits an’ pieces.” He tilted his head in a half-nod. “Didn’ really make a whole lotta sense, but th’ other one was tellin’ Kyra somethin’ ‘bout contracts. Sounded ticked ‘bout th’ whole thing, an’ I think Kyra told th’ other Talon she was workin’ a job already.” He shook his head, scrunching up his muzzle. “Not really sure what t’ make of it, an’ not keen on pryin’. She’s doin’ a lot t’ help with th’ Stable ponies at least.”

“Barely getting paid for it, though,” I muttered, still loud enough for Grit to hear. My tail swished as I looked towards the walls, trying to parse what the other Talon said. Had she wanted Kyra for a different job? Guess it really didn’t matter for now. “Do you really think they’ll be ready?” The idea of Stable ponies fighting against raiders--it just seemed ludicrous to me.

Grit looked away with a sharp breath, and I instantly wished I hadn’t asked. “I dunno,” he answered at last. “Got a decent plan, but I think th’ best we can hope for is that they don’t bring a whole lotta ponies an’ Malice loses interest.”

“What makes you think she’ll just lose interest?”

His deep-blue eyes met mine again, one of them cocked. “Well, she let you go.” I winced. Point taken. “But I dunno what we’re gonna do ‘bout weapons. Only gun in th’ whole Stable is Pillar’s.”

The hell? Only one gun? No matter how many ponies you recruited to defend yourself, if they didn’t have fucking guns it didn’t matter.

Where the hell were they gonna get guns?

* * * * * * *

Unfortunately, I found out the next afternoon.

The day had actually progressed well until then. I woke up early the next morning feeling more well-rested than I had in weeks, if a bit sore from the couch. Most of the day had been spent finishing the rest of the armor for Pillar and Studio, for a total of nine sets of reinforced Stable barding. I regretted that none of them would have helmets, but I didn’t have nearly enough raw material to make a practical helmet for nine ponies.

But I had narrowed the process to a fairly quick routine, getting accustomed to the use of the metal saw and blowtorch. I briefly wondered if Studio would consider selling the tools to me, or if they could even be transported from the Stable for that matter. Something to ask her later, after the immediate problem was over.

Pleased with the results of my work, I’d taken the barding to Pillar and Studio that evening, only to find them speaking with Grit on the very subject I’d been questioning the previous night. Apparently they wanted either Grit or I to go to the prison we’d previously visited and try to find guns there. And since Grit was needed to teach the Stable ponies how to fight, I was the only one who could make the journey.

“We already searched the guard barracks last time,” I pointed out. “Thoroughly. There was nothing there.” I couldn't forget the frustrating search, tearing open every locker and bunk in search of anything to sell to Stable 15. To say nothing of the desperate escape afterward… I blinked slowly, tensing to suppress a shudder.

Grit turned to me, motioning his head towards the door. I followed him out into the hallway, the door sliding shut ominously, leaving the two of us alone. “Might be somethin’ on th’ second floor,” he began. “We didn’t ‘xactly search th’ whole place after y’ found th’ bots.”

“That’s because of the fucking ghouls and robots that were attacking us!” I hissed back. “How the hell am I gonna get through there on my own?”

He recoiled a little at that. “Kyra’s goin’ with you, ‘course. B’lieve you me, I’d be shovin’ it back in Pillar’s face if he wanted y’ t’go alone. ‘Sides, th’ worst of it was ‘cause o’ that crazy ghoul in th’ admin office.”

“We don’t know that for sure,” I responded hastily, but I was more at ease. Closing my eyes, I took a slow breath, my ears standing upright again as my forehoof scuffed at the floor. Neither of us could be sure how much the delusional ghoul had been in charge of the prison’s operation. Certainly he had enough power to close certain doors, or at least just lock the prison down, and that had been the main source of our troubles. I suppose as long as we don’t go too deep into the building, it’ll be manageable... After an elongated few seconds, I opened my eyes again and met Grit’s. “Do you trust her?”

Grit cocked his head to one side. “I don’t distrust ‘er. Not ‘bout t’ tell ‘er any deep, dark secrets but I doubt she’d leave you high an’ dry. C’mon, Alloy, we need those guns.”

My jaw tightened and I took a deep breath. I owed Grit more than I could repay, and I couldn’t turn him down in his desperate hour. He’d offered to help me when I was backed into a corner, and this was far less of a commitment than he’d undertaken. Just there and back. Get to the prison. Look for weapons. Come back. There and back. I nodded. “Alright.”

He smiled back, some of the tension leaving his eyes. “Thanks. Don’t forget t’ look ‘round nearby, too. Dunno if there’s much ‘round th’ prison, but wouldn’t hurt t’ check. Just get back ‘fore dark.”

“Right. I guess worst case Kyra could run back to Four Shoes and buy some guns from them. I’m not sure how fast she can fly there, though.”

“Maybe,” Grit mused. “S’ more’n a full day’s walk from here t’ Four Shoes. Might take her two days ‘r more t’ make th’ trip, an’ we don’t know how long we’ve got. Need those guns sooner, an’ Stable 15’s caps’re runnin’ low.”

A trip to the prison it was then. Riskier, but faster, at a time when speed meant everything. “I suppose you’ll want us to head out now?”

Grit nodded. “Yeah, soon’s y’all can. An’ be safe out there, alrigh’?”

* * * * * * *

Less than an hour later, Kyra and I were alone, trekking out into the Bayou towards the prison. Grit gave Kyra a rough description of the building, enough that she could help orient us as we walked towards it. As a backup, they’d found us an old, magnetic compass to steer by, pointing us roughly north.

“So,” she began, once we were on our way proper and out of line of sight of the community center, “you do this kinda thing often? Run around the Bayou doin’ odd jobs for weird ponies?”

I walked around a twisted mass of wagons, wrapped around a concrete pillar, rebar splayed out from the top. “No, actually. Up until a month ago, the only time I left Four Shoes was to go to Shipper.”

“Huh.” Kyra took to the air briefly to crack the knuckles of her talons before landing again next to me. “Just stuck around all day and ran your blacksmith store?”

“Smithy. And yes.” It was a quiet, peaceful life. No raiders shooting at me or threatening me, no nightmares of Copper running through my mind… I shuddered briefly. After a long, silent pause, I glanced at the grey-furred griffon beside me. “How about you? I expect being a Talon is usually more exciting than this.” Though I could stand for my life to be less exciting these days.

“Eh, it can be. Spend a lot of time sittin’ around, though. Kinda nice.” Before I could ask about that last comment further, her head snapped to one side, and we both froze in place except for the shimmering of my green magic around the hilt of my sword. Kyra began moving to grasp the handle of her shotgun seconds before a claw the size of my foreleg snapped out of the underbrush. It lunged for Kyra’s back legs, but caught only empty air as she flew up. The full-grown marshlurk rushed out of the cover of the underbrush, barrelling straight for me on its blur of legs.

I pulled my sword from its sheath, swinging wildly. It was closing fast. I turned to run. My random swipes bounced uselessly off its claw and shelled back. It was gaining! My eyes wide, I started to gallop away, abandoning the sword.

BA-BLAM BA-BLAM!

A pair of deafening booms split the air, and the powerful stench of guts and gunsmoke began to swirl around Kyra, who stood beside the corpse. Her shotgun had made a ruin of its face, and she casually popped the drum magazine out, shoving two fresh shells into it before locking it back in place and holstering the weapon. “Doing alright back there?” she asked, turning to me with a grin.

Taking a deep breath to try and slow my heart and work out the adrenaline that had only just begun pounding through my system, I nodded. I’d only ever been this close to a marshlurk a few times, and every other encounter had led to me galloping full speed away. The corpse was twice as long as a pony, with a dozen legs beneath an elongated shell ending in a horrendous face and two long claws. Relighting my horn, I scooped my sword up and wiped the bits of gore that had splattered onto it before resheathing it. Meanwhile, Kyra had pulled an oversized but well-made knife from her bag and began sawing one of the claws off the body. “Really?” I knew what she was doing. I’d eaten enough marshlurk meat to know it made for a good meal, but the stench that hung in the air and forced my muzzle into a disgusted scrunch ruined any dream of food.

She stopped her work to look back at me. “What? They’re tasty as hell boiled up.” How the hell she still had an appetite was a mystery to me, but she quickly finished carving, covering the end of the amputated claw with some kind of cloth and tying it off before fastening it to her side, just above her bag. She nodded briefly at my sword as she stood upright again. “You swing that thing around way too much. It’s wasted movement.”

One of my ears flicked at the air indignantly. What? “I’ve held my own enough so far.” Sure some of my more recent encounters had gone sour, but I had fought off a horde of bloodsprites and a trio of slavers only a few weeks ago, before all this started.

Kyra gave a low squawk. “Maybe, but if you’re up against anything faster than a brahmin on your own you’re in trouble.” Before I could object further, she checked our compass and turned to keep walking, presumably in the direction of the prison. “I could show you how t’ really use it, though.”

My protests died down in the face of her genuine offer. “Really?”

“Sure. Lemme see it.”

I pulled my sword out and floated it into Kyra’s waiting claw. It wasn’t quite the first weapon I’d ever made but close to it, and I suddenly felt self-conscious about its make, even though she’d already complimented it just a few days ago.

“Thing is,” she took the hilt firmly in one claw, sweeping it left and right rapidly, followed by a sharp thrust. “Just ‘cause you’re a unicorn and you can send the whole thing swinging doesn’t mean you should.” The sword came down in a quick slice. “Also, you can thrust it out faster an’ farther than a griffon or an earth pony.” A quick jab, out and in, faster than I could ever move. “Do that more often instead of just waving it around.” One last, wide sweep to her right. She landed and offered the sword back to me, and I lifted it once again in a cushion of levitation, returning it to its sheath. “I can give you some better training, but it won’t be free.”

Ah, of course. That’s what this was about. Admittedly I wasn’t nearly the best fighter in the Wasteland, not by a long shot, but I knew basic self-defense. I wasn’t going to just fork over my caps for some dubiously-effective training. “I’m not convinced it’s worth paying for,” I retorted. “Though if it’s as cheap as Stable 15 is getting away with, I might reconsider.”

Kyra chuckled, her tail curling and waving in the air. “How ‘bout I give you a couple lessons for free. If you think I’m worth it, then we can talk price.”

That was a good proposal. But I couldn’t capitulate so quickly, at least not visibly. I tilted my head and glanced skyward, mulling it over in my head. As long as it wasn’t too expensive, it was a good idea. “Alright. But let’s focus on Stable 15 first. I wouldn’t want to take time away from their training.”

“‘Course.”

A fresh silence began to grow in the air. Though I’d somewhat casually brought up the subject in my brief negotiations, my thoughts lingered on Stable 15’s training. “Do you think they have a chance?” I asked aloud, not entirely expecting a reasonable answer.

Kyra stole a glance back at me while stepping over and through a pile of rubble. “Depends on how bad this raider gang really is. Every town out there seems t’ think whatever gang is closest is the most unstoppable army there ever was, since they’ve only seen the one. Just a matter of perspective, s’all.” I… supposed that made sense. I’d honestly never thought of it that way. “Either way, the plan seems alright.”

I hoped Kyra was right about the raiders. In my mind, I saw Malice and about a dozen heavily-armed raiders marching into Four Shoes to threaten the town, and the dozens more that were with her at the harbor.

I hoped I was wrong.

* * * * * * *

The prison looked just as ominous and threatening as the last time, though with the addition of a few ghouls wandering around outside. One was sitting on its haunches, muzzle deep into the open guts of some unidentifiable chunk of meat. It may have been a bloodsprite once, but it was too mutilated to tell.

“Keep your head down,” Kyra tossed at me before leaping over a toppled truck and whipping out her shotgun. The ghoul in the middle of its meal never got a chance to even look up before its head was rendered a bloody mess. The others looked up and gave a snarl, charging straight for Kyra, but she careened over their heads, laughing between the booming shots. And… was she singing?

It was over in seconds.

With the ghouls cleared from the front entrance and no sign of any more coming to follow the noise, Kyra waved in my direction, prompting me to hesitantly walk out from behind the truck and through the main door with her. “We already checked the guards’ lockers last time, but we didn’t look around in the offices upstairs,” I told her, nodding towards the side hallway and the stairwell that lay beyond.

“Sounds like a good place t’ start, then.” Kyra led the way towards the staircase, her wings ruffling at her side for a moment before walking up the two flights. At the doorway to the second floor, she peered around the corners before nodding an all-clear. “So what’d y’all come here for last time anyway?”

I glanced at her curiously. “Grit didn’t tell you?”

“Didn’t ask.”

“Oh.” Lighting my horn to bathe the hallway in a dull green, I immediately noticed the still-open door of the administrator’s office. That’s right, that ghoul did have a gun. Wonder if it’s still there. I led us towards the open door, answering Kyra’s question. “Well, I needed something I could sell to Stable 15. Thought I could scavenge something worthwhile here.” Rounding the corner into the office, I saw the body of the insane ghoul, still right where it had landed after I’d skewered its head with my sword. The stench made us both gag briefly. “Found a few broken spritebots, and parts to fix them deeper in, but this one,” I flicked my forehoof at the dead ghoul, “went crazy and put the place in lockdown. Grit got us out.”

“Looks like y’ took care of the ghoul there, too.” Kyra started opening drawers in desks, going through each one methodically.

“Mhm.” Is it still… aha! Sweeping the ground next to the dead ghoul, I found his pistol. A 9 mm, still in workable condition with a half-full magazine. I still remembered the last time we were in here. Barging in, at my wit’s end, I’d just attacked. “I don’t think Grit approved, or at least not without a chance to talk to him. He wasn’t feral, but he was nuts. Thought we were rioting prisoners.” Looking at the ghoul’s body now, I felt… well, it was hard to place. Regret? Then again, he was a delusional ghoul at the head of a prison full of robots and ferals, and the Wasteland was just a fraction safer for his absence. But maybe… pity? He’d been stuck in this place for 200 years, still lost in a past that had been washed away in balefire. Shaking my head, I turned back to Kyra. “Found his gun. Any ammo around?”

“Depends,” she answered, holding up a box of bullets with a promising jingle of brass. “Is it a 9 mm?”

A grin spread across my face. “Sure is.”

Moving to the rest of the offices, we quickly discovered they were all locked tight. Though covered by mostly-rotten wood panelling, the doors themselves were solid metal. Made sense for a prison, I supposed, but it meant we were never getting in. I looked into my bags at the filthy-but-working pistol from the administrator and let out a slow breath, tail swishing in the air. It was about what I could have expected from-

A soft click cut through my thoughts, and I spun around to see Kyra beaming triumphantly at me. “Good locks, but I’m better.” She put away some small, thin piece of metal, opening the door and gesturing flamboyantly with one claw. “After you.”

All told, the offices held another two 9 mm pistols in reasonable shape, plus one hunting rifle that was mounted on a wall rack alongside the snarling, lifeless heads of about half a dozen animals I didn’t recognize. But on the whole, the trip had gone surprisingly well. “I think three pistols and a rifle are about the best we could have hoped for,” I said, packing the pistols away into my saddlebags while Kyra examined the rifle. She slung it over her back and gave a low squawk.

“Well I vote we head back, pronto. Don’t wanna be out here after dark.” Without waiting for my agreement, Kyra began walking towards the stairs. My ear flicked at the air, but she was right. Following her out the door, I was surprised by the dwindling light. None of the offices had had any windows, so I’d frankly lost track of time as we searched the place. I swallowed, my throat dry despite the humid air.

We hastily started to make our way back to the Stable while the sky rumbled, threatening to unleash a downpour. We only had to stop a few times for Kyra to get her bearings, weaving through the rapidly-darkening underbrush and broken streets of the Bayou. At yet another rumbling of the sky overhead, I opened my mouth to suggest that we find shelter for the night, somewhere out here. Did she really know where she was going? A familiar landmark reassured me of that last question--the corpse of the marshlurk, though only a few pieces of it remained next to the hollowed-out shell.

I lit my horn as the last of twilight faded away. Kyra shot a glare back at me, but said nothing. Our pace became a canter, raindrops starting to patter on the road and on my mane. But only a few minutes after, we caught sight of the New Oreins Community Center sign, lit by something floating in the air next to it. The rains began in earnest, sheets of water pouring down from above as Kyra and I crossed the parking lot to the shelter of the ruined building, where we both immediately shook out some of the water soaking into our coats. I glanced back to see that the light had followed us in, belonging to one of the Stable’s spritebots. It quietly followed us down to the basement, and down the ramp into the Stable before turning around to leave again.

Grit and Meadow were just past the Stable’s threshold, and I could see the relief painted across his muzzle. “Alloy! Kyra! I’m glad t’ see y’all safe an’ sound.” He waved one forehoof in the air, turning to walk down the hallway. One of his ears flicked in the air, and his eyes darted between the two of us. “How’d it go? Didja find anythin’?”

“Sure did,” Kyra answered, while I stopped to furiously shake my head again, getting more of the water out of my mane.

I looked up to see Kyra and Grit both with matching grins on their faces. “Three pistols and a hunting rifle. Ammo for all of them, too,” I added. All in all, I couldn’t help but marvel at our luck. A cynical voice in my head reminded me that guns and armor would only get them so far.

But, I shot back at myself, at least now they were armed. Maybe they could hold their own, or at least turn back however many Harbor Raiders Malice sent. Maybe the raiders wouldn’t do much, figuring that some weak little Stable ponies would never fight back.

That cynical voice tried to shout over the rising tide of optimism in me, but my own muzzle parted in a smile all the same, wide enough to match Grit and Kyra’s.

* * * * * * *

The next two days passed in a flurry for everyone except me. No armor to craft and no willingness to make the trek back to Four Shoes by myself. I offered to make more suits of barding for the Stable, even for free since I had nothing else to do, but they said they didn’t have the spare metal, and there were only so many places they could afford to cut the metal off the walls.

With no routine to adhere to, I found myself pursuing my own set of goals. For one, I spent the bulk of my daylight hours in Stable 15’s library, looking for any books that might catch my interest. The size of it still amazed me, though I was sure the layout wound back on itself in such a way as to make it seem bigger than it was.

The first morning when I walked in, I was immediately greeted by the elderly, earth pony librarian sitting at the front desk, whose eyes lit up in recognition. “I was wondering if you’d have a moment to stop in, dear,” she said with a smile. “Please, help yourself. It’s been pretty empty in here the past few days.”

A pang of guilt struck me at once, and I nearly winced from the realization that I didn’t have the comic book I’d borrowed. Of course she’d have wanted it back. Why didn’t I think to bring it with me? I approached the desk. “Sorry, Miss…?”

“Page Turner, dear,” she said with a warm smile, looking up from her own book again.

“I’m…” I swallowed, taking a slow breath and composing myself. It’d been unprofessional of me to forget the comic book, so I needed to be sure to be professional now. “I owe you a sincere apology, Miss Turner. I mistakenly left behind the comic book you generously lent me. It’s at my home in Four Shoes.” The images in that book had been so compelling, I hated having to say the next sentence, but I knew the arrangement had been temporary. “At my next chance, I’ll bring it back here.”

The librarian pony just stared for a brief moment at me, as though a bit surprised, and then her face smoothed out into a smile. “Oh, don’t you worry about it. I’m just glad it’s in good hooves and you’re enjoying it.” She nodded her head out toward the collection of packed shelves. “And feel free to take anything you want to read back to your room for the evening if you’d like.”

Her complete forgiveness of the situation made me only feel worse for forgetting the comic, though after some hesitation, I did take her up on her offer of browsing their collection. It still held no books on blacksmithing, wartime manufacturing, or the like, but it could be a good way to pass the time. I sat down with a stack of books at one of the tables to begin reading, starting with “A Curator’s Guide to Equestria, Then and Now.” After briefly skimming over the table of contents (“The Crystal Empire’s Monument to Spike the Dragon,” “The Ruins of Everfree Forest,” “Coal in Equestria”) I decided to simply start from the beginning. The first chapter was just describing the founding beliefs of preserving history, and I ended up skimming over it until I reached the second chapter. That outlined various techniques for preserving or restoring historical relics one might find in the world, and even spent several pages detailing a spell that would undo metal corrosion. I pored over the spell again and again before asking Page Turner for some spare sheets of paper. Every word was transcribed faithfully, and then I carefully folded up my notes and stored them between the pages of my sales journal. I didn’t nearly have the time to learn how to actually cast it during those two days, not while I had another goal.

And especially not after Kyra decided to work me to the bone in our short training sessions with my sword.

“No, no, short ‘n’ quick, I told you,” she called from the armrest of the chair bolted to the wall of the Stable’s vacant gym and exercise room. Sweat matted my coat to my hide, even sticking my mane to my neck, and the mannequin in front of me was mockingly silent. The drill she’d decided needed specific attention was having me dash forward a few steps, thrust, then retreat. Dash, thrust, retreat. Dash, thrust, sidestep. Sidestep, thrust, sidestep. Sidestep, thrust, retreat. Over, and over, and over again the patterns continued. She would bark directions at me, randomizing the order, then if my form was lacking or my aim off, I’d repeat the single maneuver a dozen or more times until the action started to ingrain itself. All while she lay off to the side, doing nothing. “Wouldn’t this be more practical if we were… I don’t know, sparring?” I wasn’t entirely sure if that was true, but the sight of her just lounging on the relatively comfortable chair, munching on her hunk of marshlurk irritated me to no end.

“Naw,” she answered, chewing a small mouthful and then holding two of her claws in the air. “This way I can watch your movement better, an’ you don’t have to worry ‘bout stopping the sword.” Her tail gently swished on the seat behind her, and she stood her back legs up to stretch before lying back down. “Gotta get those motions hammered through that horned skull first before I ask ya t’ hold back. Which reminds me, talkin’ i’n’t short or quick. Hop to it, Blue!”

With an irritated flick of my ear at being called “Blue” again, I focused my attention back on the dummy. Sidestep, thrust, sidestep, repeat. Most importantly, this was at least getting me to work on my aiming while in motion, even if by the end of the evening all I wanted to do was collapse into bed.

Between browsing the library books during the day and sword training with Kyra in the evening, I had plenty to occupy my time. Staying busy was far better than just standing around scuffing my hooves, but more importantly, it occupied my mind. I was too tired to even have a passing thought to linger on Copper, Malice, or the fate of the Stable.

At least, not until Kyra struck up a conversation at the end of our second training session.

“You fought raiders before, Alloy?”

The question took me aback. Lacking any sort of preamble, and following a comment about my precision improving a bit, I hesitated for longer than I should have. “I,” A bottle of water hovered up to my muzzle in my magic, and I drank a deep gulp of the pure water. “Well, yes. I fought with three or four of them back before coming here for the first time.” It was three. Red Bean had run away, before I fought him later.

And then there was the time years and years ago. I shook my head, hiding the gesture as shaking my mane loose.

Kyra glanced at me, meeting my gaze with uncharacteristic intensity. “Killed ‘em?”

Slowly, I nodded, not certain what the griffon was getting at but giving her my undivided attention. We were alone in the gym, the repeatedly-stabbed mannequin silently perched in its corner.

“Me and Grit worked those ponies to the bone, gave em a rest today by just showing ‘em their assigned ambush points ‘long the trail t’ the Stable. But none of ‘em’s ever killed anyone before, except Pillar.”

I sharply inhaled through gritted teeth as an icicle pierced my neck, rapidly spreading through me. Kyra just stood there, silent, but her implications were not lost on me. No amount of training could brace somepony for their first kill. I shook my head, trying to dismiss the wave of dread that mounted. I’d already argued with Studio and Pillar over this. They knew the risks and had made their decision. “At least it’ll just be raiders,” I replied quietly.

Kyra’s head bobbed to the side a moment, then she snorted. “Well, ‘nuf of that. Want some grub? I’m starvin’, and tomorrow’s the big day.”

Despite the ache in my limbs and the lingering cobwebs of doubt that still clung to my mind, I nodded. “Sure.”

* * * * * * *

Grit was wide awake when I opened the door to Spark’s quarters, one of his pistols floating in his magical grip, and he looked up as I walked through the door. “Evenin’.” He slid the pistol’s magazine back into its grip and laid it down on the low table in front of the couch. “How’d trainin’ go?”

I’d mentioned the previous night about Kyra’s sword training. “Went well. I had my doubts, but I think I’m getting better.” I unstrapped my sheathed sword from my side and set it down next to Grit’s pistol before settling in on the overstuffed couch. Silence stretched out for a moment between us, and I again recalled our conversation in the ruined house. True to his word, he’d given me time, and hadn’t raised any questions since. But with the uncertainty of the next day looming, a voice in my mind reminded me I might not get another chance.

I’d had the time to sort out an explanation, but I had spent it reading and practicing with my sword.

Now I was out of time, and I still owed him something.

“Grit, about what happened a few days ago,” I began. My voice was calm, and it gave me a measure of confidence. “When we were scavenging for scrap metal.”

He looked at me, a bit of surprise in his face as he sat down across the low table, letting me speak at my own pace.

I mentally fumbled over myself. Where could I even begin?

Copper.

My attitude and growing impatience had made our situation tense as we crossed the Bayou searching for him, but it was with Copper that a wedge had been driven between us.

Drawn out from my last conversation with Kyra, the memory of my first kill came to me again.

My neck itched.

I shuddered, but it made too much sense to start there. I had to start there. “The first pony I ever killed was a slaver,” I told Grit, who still hadn’t said a word. I opened my eyes, unsure when I’d closed them. “I was maybe… 13 or 14 years old, and had gone out with my father to scavenge.” My chest tightened, as if my body was trying to choke the words in my throat, to stop me from talking about it. I pressed on. “I’d gone off on my own. The slaver cornered me,” in a truck, no escape, “and caught me.” Shackled me, collared me, the sharp metal scratching at my neck.

The next few days had been hellish. Physical abuse, ridicule, and threats of further violence or worse. Assessing my price. I shook my head, grinding my teeth so hard I thought I’d break my own jaw. “I had a chance to get away after a few days,” I forced out, my voice sounding much weaker. He’d finally grown tired of threats and was moving to act on them. “I killed him,” shoved his body off of me, “and ran. Made it back to New Appleloosa a few days after.” Still chained up. Tears were welling in my eyes, and I wasn’t sure when they’d started.

Grit was beside me on the sofa now, and I felt him sitting close to me, offering silent comfort. I let the tears streak down my cheeks for a moment before sucking down a deep breath. Another slow, deep breath, and I managed to slow my heartbeat. I hadn’t let myself even think about those memories in years, let alone recount them, in any form. My throat hitched, and I looked up from the table to stare at Grit.

“Y’don’t gotta say more ‘bout it,” he told me, concern plain across his face. I nodded, and wiped my eyes on my foreleg, composing myself.

I had to at least bring this back to where I meant to bring it. “So… with Copper, I…” I closed my eyes again, searching for the words to put to the explanation. I’d acted almost on instinct, feeling backed into a corner with no way out except…

“I un’erstand,” Grit interrupted, his voice low and steady. “Don’t matter anymore. Alloy, I,” he swallowed, “I can’t imagine what that musta been like. Bein’ put ‘n that position.” I nodded. “Look, don’t worry ‘bout it, alrigh’? I know I gave y’ a hard time, but don’t worry ‘bout it anymore. We’re friends, yeah?” He smiled at me.

I returned his smile, and nodded. “Yeah.”

* * * * * * *

The morning had finally arrived, and the mood in the Stable was dour. Nervous smiles greeted me as I passed through the halls alongside Grit and Kyra, making for the entrance. Floating in the air behind us were the three spritebots, all of them feeding video back to Spark and Studio, though he still only had the one connected for two-way radio. I gathered that they meant to use the ‘bots for coordination and scouting, though one was going to stay near the community center, making sure none of the raiders slipped past. And behind the spritebots were the Stable ponies Grit and Kyra had been training, along with Pillar. Nine Stable ponies, three spritebots, Grit, and Kyra, versus an unknown number of raiders.

I wasn’t going to take part in the fight itself, instead settling in near the community center with the rearguard spritebot. Grit insisted repeatedly I didn’t have to join the ‘bot in rearguard duty, but I told him I didn’t have anywhere else to be. I had no desire to risk the journey to Shipper alone, and I’d been told what the final fallback plan was. If the raiders got through and got to the Stable, Studio was apparently standing by, ready to seal the door. Once our parade reached the parking lot outside, I turned to face Grit. “I’ll find somewhere to keep watch here.”

He stepped forward, and gave me a broad smile. “We’ll go give ‘em hell,” he answered, eliciting a low rumble of hooves stomping on the ground from the Stable ponies.

Suddenly it struck me that if things went badly, if the worst came to pass and Studio did close the door, that meant that Grit would… would be dead. Before I could think twice about the action, I stepped forward and pulled him close for a hug. “Good luck,” I muttered, then pulled away, taking a small breath.

Grit’s eyes were wide, but he returned my gesture with another smile, this one warmer. More genuine. “You too.”

Just as I was turning away, Pillar’s voice surprised me, stopping me before I could leave. “Alloy,” he called, his voice carrying a gentler edge than I’d ever heard it. “I just wanna say thank you. I know I haven’t always been th’ most agreeable, but… I’ve only ever had the Stable’s best interests in mind. You’ve been a tremendous help, and you’ll always be welcome in Stable 15.” He offered me a tense smile, and I just nodded in return, more than a little stunned, but grateful all the same.

The remaining ponies walked off into the Bayou to stand ready by their traps and ambush points, leaving me with one of the spritebots. And not long after, I found myself crouched in the husk of a bus, peering out the nearest window at the community center building. The robot hovered beside me, an utterly silent companion, but I was still grateful for its company.

Hours passed by in a crawl, and the only item I’d brought to occupy my time were my notes on the rust-reversal spell, which I couldn’t practice for risk of being spotted. As the day dragged on, staring at the vacant courtyard, my thoughts instead turned inward once more. I bit my lip at the memories of Copper, of Malice’s mirth at seeing him dead, and more pressingly, the decision to defend the Stable. And a single question surfaced in the forefront of my mind, unwanted, but this time I refused to flinch from it:

Had I done the right thing?

I couldn’t answer, to be honest. Not because I wanted to shake it from my mind, but because I didn’t know. Did it really matter? Maybe not, but with nothing else to dwell on, I kept my train of thought on the rails. Saving the zebras, killing Chainlink and his cohorts… that at least I surprised myself by not regretting. Maybe it would’ve been better to just move along, hide and pretend I’d seen nothing, but for once my memories tugged my focus towards the overwhelming gratitude that the zebras had shown. But of course, that resulted in Malice’s little visit, too. And… Copper.

A choking lump formed in my throat as that thought settled in firmly. I killed him, and I still didn’t know what I’d do differently. And as I pored over Malice’s reaction to having Copper’s body delivered, I realized how little I understood about her psyche. Maybe the “Sword Mare” hero from my comic would have saved Copper’s life at all costs, invading Malice’s territory to “slay the villainous fiend” as she put it, but I was no fighter, not really. If it’d just been Grit, maybe he would have turned Copper over. Maybe I would have too, if not for…

I shook my head. In hindsight, killing Copper ended up getting me off the hook with Malice. She’d had a drink with me, then sent me on my way, even dropped me off as close to home as she could manage. From a pragmatic standpoint, it worked out perfectly. So was that it?

Was pragmatism the “right thing”?

Maybe I was asking the wrong question.

So what was the “right thing”?

A distant crack pierced the thick air of the Bayou, snapping me out of my thoughts. A few more pops and cracks followed it, scattered and disorganized, ending in a muted peal of thunder.

A grenade? Even at the distance, I knew what was happening.

The battle had started.

I put away my spell notes and pulled out my sword, laying it down on the ground beside me. The glow from a unicorn’s horn was slight, but I couldn’t risk it. I wouldn’t risk it.

The distant percussion resumed again, just as sporadic and discordant as before, but I could swear it was closer this time, though I had no way to really tell. After that burst of gunfire, a long stretch of silence, punctuated by another rumble, then the Bayou was utterly still.

It felt like the entire world had frozen, even a breeze barely stirred the underbrush around me, though it did manage to send a chill down my spine.

Just when I thought the battle might already be over, a trio of booming shots echoed across the landscape, distinctly louder than before, but still some ways off. This time, the gunfire lasted for a few minutes. Movement caught my eye down the road. It loped and bounded over rubble, to the distinct sound of hooves on cracked concrete. I glanced down at my sword for a moment, reassuring myself it was nearby, just before the pony fully came into view.

A raider.

A lanky, mustard-yellow earth pony in patchwork armor, legs covered in mud and holding a pistol in his mouth. He spared a quick glance behind him before trotting towards… towards the community center.

Towards the Stable.

Before I could do anything, bright-red beams of energy lanced out at him. At some point when I wasn’t looking, the spritebot had left my side and started shooting. The raider dove for cover behind an empty planter box, popping off a pair of wild shots at the spritebot, which slowly started to circle around.

I grit my teeth and swallowed hard, tail twitching. It was what we were supposedly here for. Stopping raiders from slipping past. Worrying about the light from my horn was fairly moot at this point, but I could still sneak around maybe. With a decisive snort, I lit my horn and picked my sword up from the floor of the bus, turning to try and maybe flank the pistol-wielding raider.

Clack.

I froze.

In a brief lull of the combat, the sound of a hoof on concrete was unmistakable. And it hadn’t been mine. The exchange of fire resumed again from the spritebot and earth pony, and with a deep breath, I charged forward, erupting out of the bus’ double-doors in time to see a surprised unicorn raider, with some kind of larger gun hovering in the air next to him.

I ducked reflexively, an ear-splitting BOOM roaring above my head. Coals of fire raked my back and choked a gasp from me. No time. My heart thundering, sword floating beside me, I lunged. Like I’d practiced. Quick movements. Forward, thrust. Thunk. My sword caught on the unicorn raider’s shotgun, yanking it from his magical grip. Stuck. I dropped the sword to the ground and whipped my revolver from its holster, but a grey-blue field of magic struck the pistol along with my own green magic. Straining, the gun wobbled in the air between us, the two colors at war, swirling, clashing, sparking off each other. I could feel warm liquid running down my back. I sucked quick breaths through clenched teeth.

Our eyes met for half a second. I saw a war of desperation and anger in his. I don’t know what he saw in mine. With a bellow of rage, he reared up and tried to crush me underhoof. I dodged to the side, just enough for it to glance off my shoulder. My head swung to one side, and came down across his neck with a hard impact. He reeled.

The gun came free in my grip.

A single shot punctuated our fight.

I stood above his body, breathing heavily, still hearing my heart roaring in my chest. As the adrenaline faded, I felt staggering pain from across my back, and finally dared a glance.

My armor was raked by maybe three or four grooves that had swelling patches of red across them. Buckshot from the unicorn’s gun, I guessed. But already I was starting to feel a bit weak in the knees. I collected my sword--and the shotgun, after separating the two--and stumbled out into the courtyard of the Community Center to see the spritebot hovering near the corpse of the other raider, his body pockmarked with burns. Good. Wasn’t sure I could fight another one.

Slowly, I dragged myself back behind the cover of the bus, my back throbbing with every hoofstep. Once at least partially out of view, I peeled off my torn armor and opened up my saddlebags. Somewhere in my bags I knew I had a roll of bandages, though not the magically-infused variety of the Ministry of Peace. Didn’t matter. Had to take what I could get, had to stop the bleeding, even if it had slowed to an ooze. I could feel every shift in my weight, every motion of my legs, pulling, stretching, tearing the gashes open anew. With the roll held aloft in my own field of green magic, I pressed it against my side and made half a dozen or so loops around my back and under my belly, covering at least most of the gashes up in pristine-white. Stains of red quickly appeared on the bandages, outlining the silhouettes of the wounds, but they stopped shortly after. I felt a small tingle down my back and just took a moment to sit still, taking in deep, slow breaths.

After only a few minutes, I perked my ears up again. Had to stay alert. Taken too much time on this. Glancing at my partially-shredded armor, I decided not to put it back on. Chances of tearing the bandages aside, it would also worsen the gashes in the leather. I’d probably have to replace the entire section, and I didn’t want it tearing off and falling around my legs during a fight. A distant crack caught my attention again, followed by another chattering of gunfire.

The battle lasted longer than the others had, or at least longer than the first. I couldn’t be sure how long the second one had gone, since my own fight had stolen my attention. But after a few minutes, the Bayou went silent again. I tried to crouch low inside the bus, but ended up simply laying on the metallic floor, spears of pain in my back stopping me from holding the crouch.

Eventually, motion stirred at the edges of the clearing. My ears flattened and I clenched my muzzle shut. More of them? Did the Stable ponies lose? Would the raiders see me? I glanced towards the bus’ door. There was a squat building maybe five feet away. I could snake my way in. Slip away into the Bayou, but then what?

Was I alone again?

Shuddering, I bit down on my lip and watched the movement. The shapes I could make out were moving slowly, but quietly. Few words were being exchanged, and that gave me some hope. If it was the raiders, they’d be louder. Wouldn’t they?

And then, leading the way into the courtyard, were Grit and Kyra.

A smile split my muzzle and a tidal wave of relief crashed down on me. I immediately stood up from my hiding spot and trotted out to meet them, but my smile faded as I finally noticed the somber mood.

And as I counted the survivors.

Grit had, surprisingly, emerged unhurt aside from a few scrapes and scratches. Kyra had a bandage wrapped around her right hind leg, and she was hovering in the air rather than walking. Of the eight volunteers that had left that morning, only four now followed Grit and Kyra. They were splattered in a collage of blood and mud, and one earth pony was walking with a visible limp, foreleg held stiff in a splint. And bringing up the rear were the two spritebots.

There was no sign of Pillar.

I slowly walked up to meet Grit and Kyra, the former of whose faces parted with a tired smile--a shell of the one he’d left me with that morning.

I didn’t say anything, just fell into the procession back into the Stable. Once inside, the mood was a roiling mixture of emotions. A few older-looking couples paced back and forth inside the entrance hallway, and fell upon their children with streams of tears. Spark was at the door, too, his eyes watering as he and his son held their heads together. Relief and grief were palpable in equal measure, and a quiet, choked snort escaped my own muzzle as a knot formed in my throat and tears welled in my eyes. Looking around the room, I didn’t see any couples empty-hooved, waiting for sons or daughters that would never come home. Had Studio already told them? Nopony there stood alone, except Kyra and I.

And Studio.

Catching sight of her, I saw the smile she was forcing, wiping away her own tears before clearing her throat. “Y’all did… did us all so proud. Stable 15 owes… owes each one o’ y’all more ‘n it can ever pay. Heroes, each an’-- each an’ ev’ry one o’ you.”

Grit stepped forward first, holding his composure together. “Studio, we should…” he glanced around at the families, only some of whom were paying attention at this point. “We should talk, ‘n private.”

The Overmare nodded slowly, gesturing with her head as she turned to lead Grit away from the gatherings. I gave them a small head start before walking down the hallway myself. Only Kyra followed me, leaving the Stable ponies to themselves. The whole situation felt unreal. They’d won, hadn’t they? Then again, all the training in Equestria couldn’t prepare you for losing your friends and loved ones.

I glanced over at Kyra, wondering how to broach the subject, letting the silence between us drag on for just a little too long. Finally, I spoke up, in an empty side hallway leading to the atrium. “How did it go?”

She took a deep breath and bobbed her head. “About as good as we coulda hoped for, honestly. Raiders brought about half a dozen, so we had ‘em outnumbered, and everyone fought hard. First ambush went about as well as we’d planned ‘til the raiders chucked a grenade at us. Killed Skip and Nutmeg." She winced, looking away for a moment. "Things got a bit rough at th’ second ambush spot, too. Sunnyside an’ Drill got shot, and the rest got pinned until Pillar…” she shook her head, snorting in a mirthless chuckle. “That crazy sonuvabitch charged right at ‘em so Vignette could get away. I made a distraction for the last of ‘em, an' that worked out, but right at the end there was a... complication."

A slow chill creeped into me at that. I watched her expectantly, waiting for her to continue.

“Last raider t’ go down started laughin’. Said he’d sent one of his goons back to Malice to tell her that the pansy Stable ponies hadn’t realized who they were dealing with.” She paused, eyes staring at the ceiling in contemplation. “He said, ‘Malice don’t take well t’ defiance, an’ she’ll bring the hammer now.’ ”

No… oh no, no… All their work, all their preparation… There was a hope in there that Malice wouldn’t waste any more effort on the Stable, but… The picture of the army she had milling around the harbor surged to the front of my mind’s eye. If the Stable had struggled against only a few raiders, how the hell would they deal with Malice’s full might?

As if answering my unspoken question, Kyra continued. “Studio an’ Spark heard the whole thing through the spritebot. They’ve already decided.” My ears fell flat, and somehow, I knew how this would end.

“They’re gonna seal the Stable.”

* * * * * * *

Studio held a memorial ceremony the next morning for the ponies that died, in the atrium. Near as I could tell, the entire Stable was packed into the room, shoulder to shoulder both at floor-level and on the balconies. The Overmare had set up a podium, and a few volunteers had gone up to say their peace about the ponies who’d died. Tones varied between speakers, but they were all respectful, even the unicorn stallion who insisted that everypony join him for drinks later that evening in High Spirits’ bar, that it’s the kind of ceremony the ponies who died would have wanted, happiness for everypony in the stable.

The last speaker was the Overmare herself. She walked calmly up to the podium, referencing a few notes, before beginning. “I’d like t’ thank each and every one of you that volunteered to say a few words tonight. The true feelings conveyed through y’all’s words were nothin’ short o’ moving.

“And I must echo them. Stable 15 has always been a place of community, and family. We cooperate, come together, and support each other, through good times and bad. Pillar, Drill Bit, Sunnyside, Pebble Skip, and Nutmeg proved this above all, an’ sacrificed everythin’ they could t’ defend our home and our families. Whatever else may be said, I feel that it’s most important t’ recognize that they an’ everypony else who fought to defend our home carried th’ belief that they could make th’ Wasteland better. Their bravery and selflessness will never be forgotten, not ‘long as there is a single pony alive that wears our bardin’.”

She paused there, closing her eyes and bowing her head slightly, and many of the ponies in the gathering did the same. After a few slow breaths, she opened her eyes again. “Much as I want t’ leave things at that, there is somethin’ else that needs t’ be said, while we have everypony here. Rumors spread quickly through our community, an’ it’s my duty t’ head ‘em off. Yes, Stable 15’s door will be closin’. I have learned of another band o’ raiders headin’ our way soon, bigger than th’ last. Stable 15 has already paid a heavy price for its freedom from such evil, an’ I will not have that sacrifice squandered. With Chief Engineer Spark’s help, we have devised a method for communication t’ the outside, through one of our spritebots. We’ll be sendin’ it topside along with our very own Grit, who will keep us apprised of Malice’s movements best he can. When such a time comes that it might be safe t’ open th’ door once again, we will gladly rejoin the surface in rebuilding our Equestria.

“With that out in th’ open, th’ Stable’s door will close in three days. Spark’ll keep an eye on the river with our spritebots, but I wanted t’ give y’all some time, both for Grit’s sake, who will be leavin’ us behind once more, an’ for any o’ y’all who want t’ go with ‘im.” My eyes widened slightly at that, and murmurs washed through the crowd before Studio rapped a hoof on the floor to quiet them. “I know this won’t be an easy decision for anypony, but as I said before, a heavy price was paid for this Stable’s freedom. Please, weigh the options carefully. I don’t expect th’ Stable t’ reopen for years at least. Whatever you decide t’ do, don’t do so hastily. Grit has volunteered t’ answer any questions ‘bout the Wasteland outside, if you want t’ consider leaving with him.” She nodded toward Grit, who stepped forward from the front row to face the crowds. “That’s all I have for today. Thank you.”

The dull roar of conversation in a confined space quickly started up, with ponies nearest the exits filing away to go back to their homes. As the press of bodies thinned slowly, I waited until I could make a relatively-unhindered approach to Grit, who was already talking to a pair of ponies, looking as serious as I had seen him. I wanted to ask him about the Stable’s plan, how long would they stay closed, what would he do for the Stable ponies who wanted to leave, and what if that number grew to be dozens upon dozens of ponies, venturing into the Bayou for the first time?

No, I could wait on those questions. A longer look at his expression told me everything. He wasn’t going to sugarcoat the situation out there, and he was determined to suss out exactly the reason a particular pony wanted to leave, and confront them with their own reasoning. No, with Grit at the helm, I knew that anypony who walked out that door with us in three days would know exactly what they were getting into.

* * * * * * *

The ponies of the Stable didn’t get a whole three days. At around late afternoon of the third day, Grit came bursting into the library, where I’d been studying. Spark had spotted a large group of raiders approaching, coming up off the river. They’d be at the Stable in a matter of hours.

I didn’t need any more encouragement.

Kyra and I were ready to go immediately, but Grit and the Stable pony couple that had wanted to leave with us took markedly longer, saying their goodbyes and receiving bags full of food and medical supplies. By the time they’d shown up, I could see that they’d each requested a suit of armored barding and a gun. Smart. Maybe they’d do alright in the Wasteland.

Spark and the spritebot were the last to join us, though only the latter would be leaving the Stable. “Grit,” he began, meeting his son’s eyes. “I know you always do, but you take care out there, okay?” He stepped forward and put his head against Grit’s, their ears flopping down as their eyes shut. “And no matter what, remember that I couldn’t be prouder of you.”

By the time Grit’s eyes opened once more, they were glistening with tears. “I’m proud o’ you too, dad. We’ll be in touch.”

Spark nodded with a forced smile. “Go on then. No time to lose.”

Our small party cantered up the ramp in the basement of the community center, while harsh klaxons blared behind us, accompanying an ominous grinding of gears and metal. Sparing a glance back at the base of the stairs, I saw a huge arm on the opposite side of the Stable door pulling a huge gear across the ground and heaving it into place.

Once out of the community center, Grit lead us for the cover of the nearest buildings to the north. “No tellin’ how close Malice is. Move from buildin’ t’ buildin’ until we’re far ‘nuff away.”

Keeping to this plan, the five of us plus one spritebot maneuvered our way through overgrown buildings and broken cars, winding a path north, vaguely in the direction of the prison. It was already far too late in the day to make it to Shipper; we’d have to walk all night. It was a sound plan, and Kyra and I’s visit there just a few days ago made me feel confident that it was safe.

We’d slowed to a walk after losing sight of the community center, and had been moving for maybe an hour, maybe less, when the spritebot’s speaker crackled to life, startling us all. “She’s here,” came Spark’s voice over the radio. “I’m watching through one o’ the spritebots, sittin’ on the ground in the basement. They’re… doing something in the community center, I can’t tell what.”

I froze in place, simultaneous to Grit. We glanced at each other, minds racing. “Is she trying to break in?”

“Can’t. But she’s got something big set up in the basement above us, but the shortest distance between the roof o’ the Stable and the ground is probably still ten solid feet of concrete an’ metal, plus whatever dirt’s above that. Looks like… ponies connecting somethin’ to the pillars?”

“What’s she got in th’ basement, can ya tell?” Grit cut in immediately.

“I can see th’ shape of it, but it doesn’t make sense. Looks kinda like a huge bullet, with something small and glowin’ on top.”

Frozen in place with fear, despite the thick air of the Bayou, I was torn between wanting to help whatever idea I was sure now ran through Grit’s mind, and wanting to run far, far away. I didn’t want anything to do with Malice’s raiders anymore. Then again, I’d already gotten myself entangled here.

Silence hung in the air, Kyra eyeing Grit and I inquisitively. “So if they can’t bust down the door, doesn’t matter what they do. Let’s keep movin’. I don’t mind sleepin’ outside, but I expect you ponies want a roof over your heads.”

Before Grit or I could answer, Spark said something first. “There’s somepony messing with the door panel outside, getting on the intercom.”

The next voice I heard was tinny, harshly filtered through the speakers of the intercom, and once more through Spark’s radio connection to the spritebot. But I could still make out the words. I could still identify the speaker.

Malice.

“I must say, y’all disappoint me. Way I heard it, y’all decided y’wanted t’ fight. Now I’m not one t’ judge th’ poor decisions of others, but this here door bein’ shut tells me y’all don’t even wanna play anymore. No talkin’, no fightin’... so what’re y’all good for?”

The intercom fell silent for a while, a pause as though she was waiting for an answer to her question. None came. “Well if that’s how y’all wanna be, fine. I got more import’nt things t’ deal with, an’ I don’t have time t’ mess ‘round with Stable ponies. So if y’all wanna live underground, then be. My. Guests.”

The intercom speaker squawked harshly, then died. After another minute, Spark came back over the radio. “They’re leaving. It looks like they’re leaving the building. What was that all ab-”

Static erased Spark’s voice half a heartbeat before a thick, booming rumble echoed across the Bayou, rolling over the landscape. Even at this distance, I could feel the explosion in my bones. All of us looked south at the same time.

A plume of smoke and dust rose up from the skyline, tinted with green.

Grit was the first to take off, full gallop, heading south. Back to the Stable.

The rest of us took off after him, Kyra flying rather than running. Grit bounded ahead, leaping over cars and craters in the ground, abandoning any sense of stealth. Behind us, the static cleared from the radio, and Spark’s voice came back through the spritebot, saying something about losing visual on the basement. But we could still hear him. Then what had Malice…?

The community center.

The Stable was under a building--a building that had mostly withstood the centuries.

By the time we reached the now-familiar parking lot of the community center, I already knew what to expect.

Though the sign still proclaimed this the site of the New Oreins Community Center, only a few small pieces of wall still stood. The rest of the building was just a mound of smouldering rubble, collapsing inward. Even now, rebar groaned and snapped under the strain, adding more chunks of concrete to the pile, burying everything underneath.

Burying the Stable’s door.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - -
Footnote: Level up!
New Perk: Precision Swordsmare - Swords may be unconventional in the Wasteland, but you’ve learned your way around them. Accuracy with all melee weapons increased by 25%.

Alloy Shaper’s Smithy
Sales Journal

Author's Notes:

On the bright side, now the Stable is definitely closed.