“What world do you live in? Out here in the real world, blood flows...”

It never stopped raining in this damn place.

My eyes wandered over to the omnipresent green glow in the distance to the north. The Core, the natives called it. The center of the ancient Old World city of Hoofington. Nopony ever approached it, for to go anywhere near that source of eerie light, was to invite certain death.

I'd never taken the time to verify the tales for myself. The Wasteland was dangerous enough without venturing into regions where even the most foolhardy feared to tread. Hoofington especially seemed to be rife with threats. Ponies around these parts were certifiable, especially the raiders. Never saw their like back west.

That wasn't to say that there weren't ponies out that way who would just as soon shoot you as look at you; but they had a method to their madness. They were after chems and ammo. Sometimes, they would even try and take you alive to sell to one of the local slave cartels or some such. Typical bandit fair.

But the 'raiders' here? They were complete psychos. Charge you full on with a pool cue or a tennis racket with the intent to beat you to death. If they succeeded, they didn't take your gear; they'd start gnawing on your flesh. I couldn't tell you what that noise was about. I'd seen ponies eat some odd things in my travels, but never other ponies; and certainly not while they were still alive and screaming.

My gaze returned to peering through my binoculars at the trio of ponies that I'd been following for the better part of the day; ever since they'd left Flank. Two mares and a stallion pulling a small cart. Each of them suitably armed and armored in anticipation of the routine perils that fraught any trek through the Wasteland. Their direction of travel suggested that they were on their way to Megamart. Fairly typical of traders. Buy up chems in Flank, sell them for guns and ammo at Megamart, then head back to Flank. Maybe a stop off at the Society for some of the food they grew there; it was expensive, but some of Caprice's clients were high rollers who enjoyed fine dining while they relaxed.

It was one of the more dangerous routes, but it came with a proportionally high profit margin. Which meant that these ponies should have quite a few caps in their saddlebags. Enough to set me up comfortably in one of Stable 69's suites for a few days at least.

The trio came to a stop outside of the crumbling remains of an ancient building. The faded remnants of a sign suggested that it had been some sort of school; Flankfurt Academy. One of the mares slipped inside, her shotgun hovering in front of her, wrapped in a faint yellow glow. She and the other mare were both unicorns. The lack of horn on the stallion and the carbine-rigged battle saddle on his torso suggested their companion was an earth pony like myself.

The unicorns would be problematic. Especially if I ended up having to face them both at the same time. Unlike earth ponies and pegasi, whose use of battle-saddles or mouth-held weapons meant that they had to at least be looking in your direction in order to score a hit; unicorns could swivel their firearms any which way they pleased with their telekinesis. Some of the more skilled unicorns out there could effectively manage several guns pointed in multiple directions simultaneously while still scoring an acceptable number of hits on their targets.

Made them damn hard to beat in a stand-up fight.

Not that I tended to engage ponies in stand-up fights.

I kept watch, occasionally flicking water out of my mane when it started dribbling in front of my eyes. The two ponies outside the building huddled in close to the walls, trying to get as much shelter as possible. Suddenly, their heads jerked towards the open door. A second later, I found out why, as the faint thunderclap of a shotgun blast reached my ears, muffled greatly by the pouring rain. A second shot followed closely in its wake, then a third. A long silence followed, and then a fourth, and final, somehow more poignant, shot rang out.

Less than a minute later, the shotgun-wielding mare returned and exchanged words with her companions. Whatever she'd found inside had apparently been dealt with to the satisfaction of the others. All three went inside, dragging their wagon with them.

Wonderful. Whatever they'd found inside, be it critters or raiders, would have them on alert for the time being. At least until the adrenaline left their systems. Which meant that I'd have to wait out here for a good while before I dared to risk an approach.

I tucked the binoculars back into my saddlebags and hunkered down on my overlook, casting a glare at the sky. The waiting was going to be unpleasant enough without this fucking rain. No help for it though. I wasn't about to move from this spot until it got properly dark, lest I be spotted by one of the trader ponies.

Invariably, without anything else to distract it, my mind began to wander back over the events that had brought me here. Not just to the small hill overlooking a dilapidated schoolhouse, but to Hoofington in general.

I wasn't a native of this place. I'd come here from far out west, and not entirely of my own volition either. Things had gone very wrong in quick fashion one night, and I'd been forced to make tracks if I wanted to keep my hide. Ten years later, and I still wasn't completely sure how things had managed to get so fucked up, so fast.

I'd been nearly on top of the world. I'd occupied a position of power and authority in our tribe. The heir apparent, set to assume leadership of one of the most powerful tribes in the Neighvada Valley. I was respected by my peers, beloved by my future subjects.

Or so I'd thought.

That night, when everything went wrong, I learned just how fleeting love can be; and how little somepony's 'undying loyalty' can be bought for. According to the one remaining loyal subject I must have had that night, all it had taken was the promise of a couple extra slaves, and my father's 'faithful' lieutenants had been more than happy to pledge themselves not to me, but to my sister upon his rather inconveniently-timed death.

In the course of an hour, I went from being the future ruler of the Neighvada Valley, to nothing more than a lone buck on the run for his life; doing all I could to stay one step ahead of the bounty that my sister, Whiplash, had placed on my head. Unfortunately for me, our tribe, the White Hooves, had a far reach; and the only chance I had at safety was to leave the Seaddle area entirely. So over the mountains and through the woods I ran, until I no longer recognized the names of any place I came to. Until names like 'White Hoof', 'Seaddle' and 'Neighvada' got me nothing but blank looks and quirked eyebrows.

Until I'd reached Hoofington.

For the umpteenth time since getting here, I heard a gruff voice in the back of my mind chastising me for giving up my birthright, and to a filly of all ponies. I bitterly reminded that voice in my head that the two hundred rifle and spear-wielding bucks willing to do that filly's bidding had put forth a very convincing argument as to why I had best make myself scarce. Perhaps, if the pony who had once owned that voice had been better about instilling a sense of actual loyalty into his guards, they wouldn't have been so easily bought off.

If you can't hold onto power, then you deserve to lose it.

Says the one of us who's dead.

I pushed the voice out of my thoughts. Arguing with ghosts from my past wasn't going to get me anywhere. Seaddle was a part of my life that was long since done with. Hoofington was where I lived now. The present was what I needed to be focused on. Especially since the day was ending, and the evening was descending upon the land. At least the rain was showing signs of letting up.

The binoculars came back out for one final survey of the academy before I made my way down from my perch. The coast seemed clear.

Time to earn my pay.

By all indications, this had once been a very well-to-do institution. What portions of the building's wall's and pillars endured featured elegantly carved molding and flowery stone reliefs. Time and weather had eroded most of the details of the work, but the evidence of their existence remained. An old marquise, which would at one time have announced to passing students upcoming events of note, had been long ago defaced to broadcast a rather creatively perverse message. Given that the only letters that they had to work with were those involved in the original pre-war message, I decided to give them a pass on their atrocious spelling.

It was good to finally get out of the rain. Judging from the empty cans and crumpled boxes, this old school had served as a shelter for many travelers over the centuries. I paused in the entrance way, listening for any indication of how deep into the interior those traders had ventured. Muddy tracks from hooves and cart wheels suggested that they'd opted for the increased safety that would be afforded to them by venturing far into the interior of the school's halls. It would mean a lengthy hunt for myself; though I was able to follow their tracks around the first two bends before the mud and water trail became too faint to see in the dark interior.

A few of the building's emergency lights yet endured, dim and occasionally flickering. The pony engineers of old had obviously built things to last. Not surprising, I suppose. Legends said that before the war, pony society had existed nearly unchanged for a thousand years. When you were building structures that needed to last on that sort of timescale, I guess you didn't cut many corners. There were certainly enough robots and automated turrets out in the world that still worked just fine after two hundred years of neglect. Well, if 'just fine' meant that they could still kill you before you knew your life was in danger anyway.

When I rounded the third corner, I came across the shotgun-wielding mare's handiwork. A pair of dead ponies. A white earth pony mare and a green unicorn stallion. Portions of their rib cages had been rather abruptly rent asunder by buckshot at close range. Nearby, I spotted a baseball bat with thick steel spikes driven through the head of it, and a length of rebar tipped with a misshapen bulge of concrete. Judging from the dried blood covering their hides that had nothing to do with their wounds, and the gnawed state of their hooves, I identified the pair as Hoofington Raiders. Psychotic cannibals that were only barely sentient by any rational definition. The trader mare had done the world a favor by killing them.

In the dim glow of a nearby emergency light fixture, I spotted several sets of bloody hoofprints leading deeper into the school. With luck, I would continue to find clues that would to lead me to where the traders had decided to bed down for the night and not have to blunder around in the dark searching for them. I followed the diminishing trail of raider blood to a three-way intersection, where the prints turned sharply to the left.

The hallway I was in was lined with old rusty lockers where students would have once kept their supplies. The double doors at the far end hung slightly ajar, and through them I could glimpse the flickering orange light of dancing flames. No sign of any ponies yet, but I had only the narrowest view through the crack between the doors. Hopefully, they would all be asleep by now. I started to creep slowly forward, my eyes locked on the door, watching for movement.

TWANG!

Oh, horseapples...

I shut my eyes tight, ready for the worst. A face full of buckshot. A blast of super-heated shrapnel ripping up through my belly. Whatever form my untimely death would take at the hooves of the trap I had just triggered. I'd had a good run, I guessed. Not a great one, but who in the Wasteland ever could lead a 'great' life?

My heart beat a couple more times. Wasn't dead yet. Grenade with a delayed fuse? Didn't make too much of a difference if I didn't know which way to leap for safety. The hallway limited my choices to either forward or back, but fifty-fifty wasn't exactly the best odds I could hope for. Besides, I'd already waited too long by my estimation.

Then I heard the resounding clink of metal bouncing on linoleum tile. Grenade it was then. My left eye shot open, and I saw the faint glimmer of distant firelight reflected off the brushed steel surface as the small apple-shaped orb rolled along the floor. A clear, visible, threat now before me, I seized my chance to stave off death. A quick spin on my fore-hooves, and a well-aimed buck with my rear ones, and I felt the satisfying sensation of steel being impacted by my hoof, and the clattering of the shrapnel-spewing ball of destruction as it was forced swiftly away from me before exploding.

It hadn't gone as far as I would have liked. Those three-to-five-second fused were notorious for lasting only two seconds, after all. I could feel a few slivers of metal slipping through my brahmin-skin barding and biting into my flesh at high velocity. Nothing life-threatening, I hoped, but painful regardless. What was far more inconvenient was the concussive pressure wave that played nick-knack on my eardrums. What had previously been a nearly silent corridor was now filled with a persistent high-pitched whine.

I really hoped that I hadn't just gone deaf.

No time to angst over that now though. That trip-wire hadn't set itself up, after all; and I had a fair idea about who'd strung it. Which meant that somepony would come to check out the rather noisy explosion momentarily. I scampered back the way I had come, whipping around the corner and coming to a stop.

The ringing in my ears was making itself rather unwelcome now. I was certain that somepony had to be coming to investigate the grenade detonation, but I could hear neither words nor hoof-steps. Just that monotone whine that saturated my world. I couldn't even risk a peek around the corner, lest I be spotted. I did prepare though. Bending down to the sheath strapped to my fetlock, I took the handle of my combat knife in my teeth and drew it out. Quietly, I hoped.

The pistol holstered at my withers might have conferred a more reliable kill; but I knew that there was a group in these ruins. With luck, only a single pony was coming to investigate their little 'alarm'. Which meant that I couldn't risk the sound of a gunshot alerting the others. If it turned out more than one pony was coming my way, then it honestly wouldn't matter what weapon I had ready. I'd get one of them, and then the others would get me.

Game over, Jackboot.

The ringing began to subside, and other sounds began to surface above the waning din. Hoof-steps. One set. Words. A mare from the pitch. Couldn't make out any specific syllables yet. What I could make out was the faint yellow light that was reflecting off the floor and far wall. It was steady and soft. Not firelight. Nor was it quite the right color for anything powered by a spark-battery.

A unicorn's telekinesis field, I surmised. Great. Likely levitating a weapon at the ready. Fighting unicorns was tricky. They didn't have to be looking right at you to get a good shot lined up. The really skilled unicorns didn't even have to be looking in your direction to train a barrel on you. I'd have to get in close, and strike fast.

The weapon was the first thing I saw. A dingy old shotgun with an over-under barrel arrangement. That would mess me up something fierce if she got a shot off. I could make out what she was saying now.

“...ly just a rad-roach,” she was muttering to herself as she scanned the hallway, “told him he set the wire too low...”

She reached the intersection where I was hiding and looked left, away from me. I had an opening to strike, but no clear way to get a kill. If I jabbed her flank, I'd just get meat; and she'd know where I was and blow my head off. I needed a shot at her neck or chest.

I needed her to look right at me.

The dandelion-hued unicorn mare obliged, turning her head and weapon to the right, looking right in my direction.

This was going to be my only chance to strike, and make a clean kill. So I took it.

She was understandably shocked when a shape from the shadows suddenly lunged at her. So shocked that she didn't even whip the barrel of her shotgun around to fire. She honestly wouldn't have had time to do it anyway. She had been so close to me that I hadn't needed to do much more than extend my neck to cut her.

And cut her I did. The toothy serrated edge of the knife clutched in my mouth sunk into her flesh, opening her throat like an overripe yukka-fruit. Blood gushed and bubbled from the wound as the air in her lungs that had been intended for a scream detoured out the improvised orifice. Whatever she had been intending to yell, it came out only as a strained gurgle.

The magical aura enveloping the shotgun faltered and soon evaporated, causing the weapon to fall from the air, unfired. I stretched out a leg and caught the weapon before it could clatter noisily to the ground.

The mare's fall was a lot less noisy, fortunately. She just sort of...slumped, desperately trying to choke down a breath of air that wasn't saturated with her own blood. The unicorn was drowning in...herself. Her pale amber eyes were glancing around frantically, her frightened pupils fixed into pinpricks. She knew that she was dying.

Her horn sputtered with yellow light as she tried vainly to form a coherent telekinetic field. At first, I thought she was going for a weapon; maybe trying to arm another grenade as a final 'fuck you' to her killer. Then I noticed the other end of the magical aura trying to coalesce around a small vial of liquid that sat snug in a pouch sewn on her saddlebags. A healing potion. Couldn't have that.

I crouched over the unicorn, the knife still held firmly in my mouth, “nothing personal,” I mumbled around the hilt. A quick flick of my head, and the mare went rigid for a brief moment. Then, with a sigh, her body went limp. I drew the steel blade from her side and wiped the blood off on her barding. I'd give it a more thorough cleaning when I was done with the others.

One down.

I sheathed the knife and drew the pistol. I couldn't count on being able to get quite so close to any of the others. I just hoped that they had split up or something.

The ringing was gone now, and I could once more hear the quiet crackling of the fire coming from the room at the end of the hallway that I'd been creeping towards before I was so rudely interrupted by their trap. One of the doors was open now. I couldn't see anypony, but I did see the cart that they'd been pulling.

I didn't hear anypony as I approached the door. As quietly as I could, made my way to the end of the hallway and held up just this side of the doorway, listening. Still no indication that my presence had been detected. I poked my head into the room, looked to my left...and froze.

Then I relaxed.

The dark gray unicorn mare had seemed to be looking right in my direction. Except that she hadn't been looking. Facing me was a more accurate description. Her eyes were closed, and her head bowed. One might have been forgiven for believing her to be asleep; except that she wasn't. Not technically. Her horn glowed with a faint violet light, touching a small crystal sphere that was nestled in her forehooves. One of those mind...bubble...things.

I'd heard of them before. They contained thoughts or something, from other ponies that lived before the end of the world. Unicorns could see into them. What they saw, I had no clue. But, I had heard that, while looking into one, a unicorn had absolutely no idea what was going on around them. It was like being asleep, except that nothing woke you up. Not loud noises, not being moved around...

...and not a knife sliding into her heart.

I'd killed a lot of ponies before. It didn't bother me; never had really. But there was something...eerie about this time. The mare didn't react to the knife being thrust into her chest. She didn't tense, or gasp, or even flinch away. She just sat there, bowed towards the orb. Then her already slow breathing began to grow fainter, and less frequent. After a few seconds the unicorn just...slumped over, her horn no longer glowing.

It was unnatural. There was just a...way, that ponies were supposed to react to being stabbed. They tensed, and then gasped—gurgled if you garroted them—they'd curl around the wound protectively. They'd react. It's what anypony did when they were hurt, even those psychopathic raiders. But this mare...

A shiver crept up my spine. Had...had she even known she was dying? My eyes glanced at the glass ball that had rolled away from the corpse, and I had to wonder: was she even truly dead? I had no idea how the orbs worked. Did a unicorn's mind go inside the sphere, or did the memory go into the pony? I picked up the little globe and peered at it. I don't know what I expected to see. Perhaps, a tiny gray unicorn mare wandering around in the swirling clouded interior? What did an earth pony know about magic?

All I saw was a milky blue mist. No little mare, no hint of whatever memory she had been reliving.

Magic was freaky.

I slipped the orb into my saddlebags. These things were valuable to the right ponies, and on the off-chance it wasn't broken, I'd be able to get a nice sum of caps for it.

Two down.

That should just leave one pony left. My eyes darted to the other door leading from the room. That last pony had undoubtedly checked the other approaches in case whomever had tripped the grenade trap wasn't alone. A prudent precaution. It'd cost his companions their lives though.

The buck would be back, and soon probably. Which meant I didn't have to wander the corridors of the abandoned school looking for him. All I needed to do was pick out a good ambush spot and wait patiently for that last pony to come back. I chose to crouch by the cart, hidden from the doorway, but with a clear line of sight on the gray unicorn mare I'd just killed. She would be my bait. Hopefully...

I didn't have long to wait.

“All clear this way,” a buck's deep voice echoed down the hall, “you find anything, Sunny? Starting to think maybe I just set the wire too tight—” his words choked off into a gasp, “S-Star!”

The buck galloped into the room, heedless of any danger that might still exist. After all, something had killed the mare whose side he now ran to. The blue-coated stallion didn't seem to care. His attention was focused entirely on the gray mare that he was gathering up into his hooves. His mouth fumbled for a healing potion, emptying the purple fluid into the hole in the limp body's chest.

It was entirely useless. Those potions could cure a lot of ills; but no tincture existed that could bring a dead pony back to life.

“Come on, Little Star, say something! Say something for Daddy!” the buck blubbered desperately. His cracking voice suggested that he was well aware that his pleas would forever go unheeded.

My pistol was out. I lined up the weapon's sights on the back of his head, and squeezed the trigger. The buck crumpled, the unicorn mare still clutched in his forelegs. I stood over the pair, looking at the bodies for a few seconds.

It was a lesson that I'd been fortunate enough to survive learning: feelings were dangerous things. Especially love. Caring about ponies, even family―maybe especially family―made you vulnerable. You stopped thinking rationally, considered putting the welfare of others before your own. Stupid things like that. Case in point: this stallion might have stood a chance if he hadn't been so preoccupied with his daughter's corpse. Instead, he'd ended up becoming one himself.

I shook my head and holstered the pistol.

The buck was obviously the muscle of the group. His barding was reinforced with ceramic plates, and a bandoleer was slung across his chest, bristling with grenades of all types. A pair of carbines were rigged into a battle saddle over his sides. He'd have been one tough pony to take on in a stand-up fight. Honestly, I probably couldn't have bested him. My 9mm rounds would have done next to nothing against those thick composite plates that comprised most of his armor.

At least his head had been exposed.

I pawed through the contents of the cart, but it looked like the bulk of this haul's wealth was going to come from the buck's grenades. The two with the green bands would be particularly valuable. The carbines would fetch a decent price too. The cart itself was filled with chems. Bottles of Buck, ampules of Med-X, and canisters of Dash. All told, the contents of this cart would probably fetch close to ten thousand caps if presented to the right buyer. However, I was not inclined to trot through the Wasteland, a lone stallion hauling a wagon loaded with chemical wealth. It'd have been a far sight safer for me to shed my weapons and trot into a raider camp screaming “dinner!” at the top of my lungs.

Instead, I loaded down my small saddlebags with the grenades and what drugs would fit. The liquid wealth they had was quite small, a hundred caps or so. Enough for some food and shelter at any towns they passed through. Otherwise, most of the assets of these traders was wrapped up in their wares. As was typical, I had to admit.

The battle saddle was a little loose on me, and clanked when I walked. I was a horrible shot when it came to such contraptions, but the sight of such firepower just might make most bandits hesitate while I made my way back to Flank. Admittedly, it hadn't dissuaded me all that much, but I had been spurred on past the obvious risks of this robbery by the prize in the form of the loaded cart. A lone pony, with only what wealth was stuffed in his tiny leather satchels was another matter.

Besides, I intended to make the trip back during the night. The only ponies likely to see me in the dark were those equipped with either a pipbuck or power armor. I wasn't certain exactly how those bits of technology allowed their users to spot targets in even the darkest places, but I'd seen the grizzly results. Thankfully though, such ponies were very rarely bandits or raiders.

Critters were another matter though. Radscorpions and bloatsprites seemed to be as apt at hunting in the dark as they were during the day. I'd need to keep an ear out for the sounds of any chitinous chattering that heralded their approach.

I cast my gaze about the room one last time, my eyes eventually falling to the pair of ponies sprawled out on the floor. A father, cradling his daughter in his arms. Had that other mare been the mother in the equation? I'd never know for certain, but trading did tend to be a family business, so the odds were leaning that way. I'd wiped out a whole family tonight. Dad would have been proud.

Me? I...

I was done here.

Ah, Flank! You will never find a more wretched hive of drugs and debauchery.

I loved this town.

Every kind of good time you could imagine was for sale here. Drugs, drinks, music, mares, bucks; whatever floated your boat was available for the right number of caps.

I sauntered up to the gate, flashing the two guard mares a warm grin, “hello, ladies!”

They glared back at me, “business in Flank?” one of them asked evenly.

“Pleasure,” I smiled, unperturbed. Their sour mood wasn't going to sully my good time. I had a saddlebag full of wealth, and every intention of using it to sample a little bit of every kind of sin that Flank had to offer.

“Ten caps,” the other mare demanded, sticking out her hoof.

Graft, the other Flank staple. Ten caps was easily twice what the toll actually was. I doubted that Caprice would see even two of those caps. I wasn't too keen on parting with any money I didn't have to either. Not everything I wanted to buy inside could be purchased in trade. So, instead of pulling a pile of caps out of my saddlebags, I withdrew a small red inhaler and tossed it to one of the mares.

“Oops! I am just so clumsy, and deaf besides. How many caps was that again?” I asked, innocently.

The first mare caught the Dash in her magical telekinetic field and took a small experimental puff of the chemical. Her pupils contracted slightly, and a smile touched her lips, “it's your lucky day, friend,” she informed me in a much more amicable tone, “head on in.”

I nodded and strutted through the gates. Behind me, the mare passed the inhaler to her companion, who took a hit as well. Addicts were another fixture here. Just about every pony in this town was hooked on something. Giving out a free hit of whatever scratched their itch was often better than trying to grease hooves with caps.

My first stop was an arms dealer. I unloaded the grenades and the carbines; the ammunition too. Got screwed on the price though. I was half tempted to argue and try to haggle it up to something I knew was fair, but I had noticed the way the pony behind the counter looked at the bandoleer. The chances were very good that he recognized those weapons; he'd probably sold them to the caravaners. He'd be hard pressed to prove anything, and I frankly doubted he was going to complain about being able to sell the same merchandise twice for a profit. Still, there was a fine line between lax morals and openly supporting banditry.

The last thing Caprice would want is the perception that Flank was encouraging the locals to poach visitors, especially since the vast majority of her business was very dependent upon rich ponies feeling that making the trip here was relatively safe. A visit here became far less appealing if it got out that she was arming the local robbers, instead of chasing them away from her clientele.

So I just took what he offered to me. It was at least enough to suit my own purposes.

My next stop was a scraggly little auburn earth pony who went by the name of 'Itchy'. I assumed it had more to do with his addiction-fueled fidgeting than with his lice problem, but the jury was still out on that. The gangly stallion was one of the 'friendlier' dealers in Flank. Small time, with only a limited supply. He wasn't so much an independent dealer as he was part of a sort of franchise setup for one of the larger barons. He also had an endearing tendency not to ask me a lot of questions about where I got my stock; and he didn't lowball me nearly as bad as the bigger dealers would.

I found the mangy little git as he was getting himself kicked out of seedy joint that brandished the name, 'Mistress Misty's Mare Menagerie'. I'd been in there a time or two. Had to admit, their prices were good, especially for Flank. Of course, there was a reason for that. The best looking mares in that place usually weren't mares. While I knew some stallions didn't mind that, I imagined that Itchy was simply too stoned to noticed. Drunk too, at the moment, going by the smell of him.

“I'm just s-s-sayin',” the brown buck whined in a stutter-filled voice, “if you allow t-tabs for booze, why not ones-s-s for gropes?”

The bouncer that had launched him out the door didn't bother with an answer, settling for simply slamming the door in the smaller buck's face.

“S-s-see you tomorrow, Brucie. Nice t-t-talk,” the drug fiend got up onto twitching legs and began to walk away. He stopped when I cleared my throat.

“Money troubles, Itchy?”

The scrawny buck wheeled around too quickly, nearly tripping over his own legs, “J-j-jackie! Wha's doin' b-b-bro? It's been like...like, forever since I s-s-saw you last!” he stumbled his way back towards me. As he neared, I was able to deduce that the buck was not stoned so much as he was drunk. Perfect, I thought dryly. As though he wasn't hard enough to deal with when he was merely high...

“Three days,” I corrected evenly. His apparent lack of funds on hoof didn't concern me as far as it related to him being able to buy the drugs I had. It would surprise nopony to learn that Itchy wasn't in charge of his own finances. There was simply no way that anypony who sampled his own wares as much as this poor sod did could ever last as a dealer in even a small quantity of chems. Itchy was just the 'face'. The harmless little buck who was so unassuming that nopony, especially other dealers, would feel threatened by him.

His partner, Scratch, was the brains, and more importantly the money, behind their little operation.

“Wow, that long, huh?” the buck went on, almost breathlessly, “months f-f-feel like minutes in this p-p-place, you know?” Did he even know how little sense he was making right now, or did he fancy himself as sounding genuinely profound?

He was going to be next to useless in this state, even just as a means to lead me to his cohort. I dug around in my saddlebags and pulled out a little aluminum tin. At the sight of the grinning pink pony on the cover, Itchy's eyes widened with anticipation, “I don't s-s-suppose you have enough to s-s-share?” he asked wistfully.

I pulled the tin back, just out of reach of the scraggly brown buck. He looked at me reproachfully, but I shot him a glare of my own in return. My greater size and bulk lent a lot more gravitas to my expression, “favor for a favor, Itchy. I have business with Scratch. Is he buying?”

Itchy hesitated, his eyes twitching about for a few seconds. Then he looked up at me, “s-s-sure, Jackboot. Always got time f-f-for a loyal supplier like y-y-you!”

Satisfied, I held the tin back out to the addict, letting him have the whole thing. I had plenty more where that came from, and I needed Itchy nice and level. I watched as the smaller buck popped three of the candy-colored tablets into his mouth and chewed them greedily. He was going to overdose one of these days. I just hoped that Scratch would find a worthwhile replacement when it happened. I didn't want to have to find a new source of caps. I'd lose out on the good prices I'd been getting as a result of my frequent business.

Itchy closed his eyes and sighed, a shudder working its way down his spine, “you're the b-best, Jackie,” he cooed as the Mint-als began to work their magic. He was motionless for nearly a minute before I cleared my throat in agitation.

“Scratch?”

“Huh?” the brown stallion glanced at me with his pinpoint pupils, seeming surprised to see that there was anypony else near him at all. Then his brain seemed to visibly kick into gear, “oh! Right...”

“This way,” he trotted off, gesturing for me to follow.

There were times when I was convinced that the only way that anypony could find their way through the maze of back alleys and narrow passages that honeycombed the large crumbling buildings around Flank was if they were riding a Min-tal high. Let alone somepony as burned out as Itchy.

The damnedest thing about it was that no matter how much I'd like to, there was no way that I would be able to have done this without the scrawny buck. The reason for this was that Scratch was never in the same location twice. Not during the day anyway; and I don't think anypony knew where he lived at night. Small time the pair may be, but they had quite the system going.

Eventually, we arrived outside an innocuous wooden door marked with a number that only would have mattered to whomever had built this building more than two hundred years ago. Itchy knocked lightly on the door and winced in anticipation of the answer he might receive.

“You'd betta have my caps, boi!” came the loud drawl from beyond the wooden slab, “or I'mma gonna have me a swanky new buckskin coat!

Wonderful, “he's in a good mood,” I commented aloud sardonically.

Itchy rubbed his hooves apprehensively, “just a little accounting s-s-snafu. Y-y-you can go on in.”

I quirked an eyebrow at the stallion, and then cast my eyes to the door. Whatever. My hoof pushed the door open with little issue. Inside, I surveyed where Scratch had chosen to set up his office for the day.

The hotel room had probably once been quite nice, back when it'd still had all four walls. The room had been cleared of nearly all the furniture that had once been in it, leaving behind only a couch and an end table; upon which was an ashtray containing a fair bit of fresh cigar ash. On the couch, sat a golden griffon with soot colored plumage. Scratch. He was sitting with his back to the door, looking out over the Wasteland that lay beyond Flank's borders. You might have thought he were a prince, surveying his lands.

The griffon's clawed hand went to the cigar pinched in his beak, tapping the loose char off the end, “I swear, boi; you ask me for one more extension, and I'll put this cigar out in your eye! You hear me...” the words died away as the griffon turned his head, intent upon staring down a scrawny brown buck so strung out on chems that he'd jump at the sight of his own hooves; and instead finding himself looking at me.

There was brief moment of confusion, but then Scratch schooled his features, his beak breaking out into a smile, “Jackboot,” he visibly relaxed, settling back into the couch and returning his gaze to the outside, “somepony who ain't never got no bad news. Come in, come in. Let's talk.”

I trotted around the couch, sitting on the other side of the little table where the griffon tapped his cigar. The feathered feline gazed at me with amber eyes that spoke of a great deal of animosity that the griffon's demeanor otherwise hid. I often suspected that Scratch had his talons in more of Flank than most would suspect; but I'd never actually asked around to that affect. Something about the way Scratch looked at you just seemed to suggest that learning more about the griffon than he wanted you to know could be hazardous to your health.

He bought my chems and gave me a fair deal. That was all that I needed to know; and all I really cared to know.

The griffon took another huff of the cigar, letting the smoke slink out through the nostrils of his beak, “got y'allself another little 'batch' you want to fence?”

Scratch wasn't an idiot. He knew that I wasn't a small time manufacturer. The infrequency and inconsistent assortment of my product suggested that I wasn't a lone trader either. Maybe I could have tried to argue that I was a prospector, looting the husks of Old World buildings; but that wouldn't have explained how my wares bore the maker's marks of Flank drug gangs. The griffon knew that what I had to sell had been pried from the hooves of dead ponies. Maybe he didn't know for certain that I was robbing honest traders, but I'd have to be stupid to pick fights with the local gangs directly.

That being said, the griffon had never seemed to be overly concerned that he was dealing with a murderous bandit. Probably because I wasn't robbing his regular customers and shrinking his client base. He gained quality product at a discount, and his competitors lost business. Meanwhile, if I got caught somehow, he would be able to deny any complicity in my actions by citing plausible deniability; since I'd never told him―and he'd never asked―where I got my goods.

“A few odds and ends I came across in an old office building,” I supplied by way of answer. I popped open one of my saddlebags and let Scratch get a look at the assortment of drugs within. The griffon peered inside absently. Once upon a time, he'd been far more skeptical of my stock, back when he'd barely known me. However, a dozen proven transactions later, and he'd become a lot more trusting. Though, I suspected that the scene I'd once walked in on of him executing a mare who'd tried to cheat him had also done a bit to ease his paranoia. He hadn't spelled it out, but I was pretty sure that a similar fate awaited me if I tried to pull one over on the griffon, “the other one's just as full.”

“Itchy! Get your sorry withers in here, now!” the griffon snarled over his shoulder.

I watched as the trembling buck poked his head through the door, “yes, s-s-sir?”

“Mister Jackboot has some product for us, tally it up,” the griffon growled, snapping his talons in quick succession.

The scrawny stallion winced but gingerly stepped inside. I passed him both of my saddlebags, and Itchy set about plucking out the pharmaceuticals. I instructed him to leave a bottle of Buck and a half dozen capsules of Dash for my own personal use.

“So how's life treatin' ya, Jack?” the griffon began, by way of conversation as his assistant tallied up my due.

“If I complained, would it matter?” I replied somberly, “I survived another day in the Wasteland. S'all that matters.”

“Posh,” the griffon grinned, “survival ain't enough, and you know it. What's the use of 'surviving' if you can't enjoy life a little?” another puff of his cigar, “s'what Flank is all about: enjoying life.”

Another job offer. That's where Scratch was heading with this conversation. He'd made this offer to me before: take up working for him as an enforcer of sorts, or personal guard. The griffon had been clear in the past to point out the doors that the position would open for me, and the perks that I could expect if I accepted his offer.

My good fortune is your good fortune, Jackboot.

I'd turned him down every time though. Not for moral reasons of course. If anything, I'd be leading a relatively more upstanding life under Scratch's employ. It was pride, mostly. That annoying voice in the back of my mind reminded me every time Scratch made his offer, that I was too important to merely be somepony's, or somegriffon's in this case, lapdog. I was the rightful heir to an empire, it would insist. I was above something as menial as guard duty.

That 'empire' would never be mine though, and nopony in Hoofington had ever heard of Steel Bit or the White Hooves. It's not as though banditry was particularly glamorous. However, it did mean that I got to set my own hours. Even though I was never going to acquire much in the way of fame or power in the Wasteland on my own, I still didn't like the idea of having to answer to a boss.

“I enjoy it well enough on my own,” I replied evenly, fixing my gaze on the griffon.

As though he hadn't heard a word that I'd said, and the not so thinly veiled meaning behind them, the griffon went on, “you're a pony that can get things done, Jack. That's a rare thing in the Wasteland. There's a lot of room in Flank for ponies that can get things done. A lot of perks, too.”

“Lot of strings.”

“Not as many as you'd think,” the griffon shrugged, puffing on his cigar.

Itchy let out a hesitant cough, “it w-w-works out to thirteen hundred caps, boss,” the buck ventured carefully.

“Make it an even fifteen,” the griffon leered at me, “think it over. I'm sure I can make it worth your while.”

If I said that I wasn't tempted, I'd be lying. Scratch may have seemed small time, but I felt confident that was the point. When nopony saw you as a threat, nopony made an effort to work against you. Few ponies in Flank knew that Scratch was involved in the drug trade at all. Which made me wonder what else the griffon was involved in that I hadn't heard about. Did this griffon have his talons in guns and flesh too? He might run a string of brothels for all I knew. I could well envision the sorts of perks that a patron like Scratch could provide for me.

All I would need to do was swallow enough of my pride to let myself get bossed around.

Itchy held out a bag of caps to me. Maybe I wouldn't be strung out on chems, but if I took Scratch up on his offer, I wouldn't be much further up on the social pecking order than this poor buck. No thanks.

“I'll think about it,” was what I said aloud as I took the caps, “pleasure doing business,” I headed for the door before I remembered one last little bauble I hoped to pawn off, “out of curiosity, you know anypony interested in a memory orb?”

The griffon puffed, pensively, “what's on it?”

I frowned, “hell if I know. I ain't got a horn.”

“Memory orbs are tricky things, Jack” the griffon informed me, “the price depends on what it shows. The racy stuff sells well here, obviously. Even the mundane can fetch a decent price from a unicorn looking to 'get away from it all'. Then you got your cryptic orbs. Those ones the Ministries left behind. They ain't worth shit to most.

“I ain't a gambler, Jackboot. You find out what's on it, then we'll talk.”

That was fair. Without another word, I left the griffon's office and began making my way out of the building. I didn't remember all of the twists and turns that Itchy had taken, but that didn't mean that I couldn't find a way out eventually. As long as I headed in a generally 'down' direction, I would be able to make my way back to the streets of Flank. In the end, I only had to double-back twice.

I may not have sold the orb, but I at least had a generous pile of caps nestled warmly in my saddlebags. I wasn't certain who else I could ask about buying it though. Maybe Saffron would like it? I mused as I made my way towards Stable 69. Might get me some gratis 'quality time' with my favorite mare-of-the-evening.

A sultry song by the long-dead Sapphire Shores was being piped throughout the converted stable as I wandered inside. The large open atrium that housed the brothel's bar was as crowded as it usually was. Some were here to drink, but most were negotiating with mares and stallions that were dressed in garments that would only be described by an odd few as 'practical', or even 'functional'. Though, I guess that depended on what you considered their 'function' to be...

I took a seat at the bar. I didn't have long to wait before a pink pony stepped up, “what'cha drinking, honey?”

“Flaming Sparkle Cola,” I requested, slipping a small pile of caps onto the counter. I knew the price of that particular drink and had included an appropriately generous tip. Never alienate the pony who handles your food or drinks. Besides, alcohol wasn't going to be what sucked up all my wealth anyway. The caps vanished almost immediately as the pink mare's tail brushed across the bar's surface. Impressive. I wonder what else she could do with with that tail? Though, from what I'd been told, an hour with that particular mare would cost as much as a week with most of the other professionals in this place.

Might be worth the caps just to find out if you got your money's worth...

The drink appeared on the counter a moment later, faint blue flames licking up into the air. I puffed out the small fire and took a quick sip. I'd never had a real carrot before, so I had no idea if this was what they tasted like, but I had drunk Sparkle Cola before, and for a drink that didn't have a drop of that soda in it, the taste was nearly spot on. Wonder how they did that?

The last long note of the song wafting down from overhead faded into silence, and a buck's deep voice crackled over the speakers, “Ah, Sapphire Shores, reminding us all about that first, cruel, heartbreak...And now, the news! Trouble's brewing out Fillydelphia way, children. Looks like slavers are moving in. Don't seem to be connected with the group down in Old Appaloosa, but slavers is slavers. I advise caravans to consider alternate routes for the foreseeable future. I'm also getting reports of a mare causing a stir around Fetlock. Might be a link to the sudden reduction in bandit activity in that area. I'll keep you all updated as I learn more, children. In the meantime, stay safe out there in the Wastes.

“This is DJ PON3, bringing you the truth; no matter how bad it hurts. Now, Sweetie Bell with a tune to warm your heart during the cold night...”

A pair of velvety soft hooves slipped over my shoulders and a sultry voice whispered in my ear, “back for another rodeo, cowbuck?” I turned around, a smile already plastered across my lips as I looked into the magenta eyes of a violet unicorn mare. She wore a lacy white satin bridle on her face, and matching sheer ivory stockings on her delicate legs. The scent of lavender wafted into my nostrils.

“Told you I'd be back,” I murmured, nuzzling the mare, “just needed to address a small financial issue...” I jostled my saddlebag, jingling the caps it contained. Saffron immediately warmed up to me more adamantly. I chuckled to myself. I knew all too well that the mare didn't give a radscorpion's bunghole about me. She was interested in only one thing: my caps. The moment they were gone, I'd be lucky to get the time of day off of her.

Which was fine. I was only interested in one thing from her too. The moment her legs closed up, I wouldn't piss on her if she was on fire. Our relationship was just business, and we both knew it. It was the way we both preferred things.

“I believe that last time we discussed the possibility of a crop?” I continued, my hoof caressing her shoulder, and wandering down towards her nethers. She intercepted it coyly, but I jiggled my cap-laden bag once more and was allowed to continue venturing south.

“An extra twenty and hour,” she purred.

“And the hoof-cuffs?” I leaned closer to her ear and nipped at it.

“Another twenty...”

“Ball gag?”

“Call it an even fifty for the package,” Saffron breathed.

My smile broadened as I did some hasty math in my head. I'd have more than a enough for an...entertaining evening, “clear your schedule until morning.”

She drew back and turned towards the stable's rooms, her eyes beckoning me to follow. I slammed the rest of my drink and tapped my hoof on the counter hurriedly in order to get the barpony's attention, “bottle of Wild Pegasus delivered to Saffron's room,” I tossed another pile of caps onto the counter and trotted after the elegantly braided brown tail that was swaying in front of me.

If I was going to be completely honest, Saffron wasn't the best looking mare in the place. She was pretty, but in a very specific way. She was getting up there in years, and some of her age was starting to show. She covered up the signs of the advancing time with make-up and ribbons and glittered bows meant to distract the eye. I'd seen her out of those things often enough though. The unicorn was probably old enough to be my mother, or close enough to it, but I'd never been crass enough to ask her for confirmation of my estimate. Wasn't really important. Well, not important enough to be a deal breaker anyway.

The fact that she was reaching the point where her client list was beginning to be poached by younger fillies coming into the business was what I considered to be a point in my favor. It meant that her nights were free more often than not; so I didn't need to worry about booking any appointments and have to hang around Flank a few days at a time just to get in a night with her. I knew that there were whores around here that had those sorts of scheduling requirements. Young things with the sorts of nubile forms that many of Flank's patrons craved, and rates that would bankrupt most.

Sure, you could find a mare somewhere in the city that would clop you for a cap, but you'd be walking away from those sorts of encounters with a souvenir that would stick with you for a long while. The sorts of ails that only a very uncomfortable visit to the local clinic would have a chance of curing for a hefty price. In the end, you'd be out nearly the same number of caps, but with a lot fewer fond memories of the experience. Premium mares meant doling out premium caps; and that meant a visit to Stable 69.

I'd checked on the possibility of getting in some time with Caprice, purported to be the best lay this side of the Wasteland; but the waiting list had been months long; and I didn't meet her standards anyway. Caps weren't enough for a romp with the mare who pretty much ran all of Flank; you needed status, and I had zilch in that department. 'Deposed heir to the White Hoof Tribe' didn't mean a drop of spit to ponies here. Little did. I'd determined that around these parts, you either had to be a shareholder in the Society, or one of Big Daddy's high-profile Reapers to be on the radar of anypony who mattered.

This all meant that I had to settle for lower hanging fruit. Which was where the mare I was currently following came in.

Saffron was also well aware of how much her list of regulars was shrinking. Which made her very accommodating towards those few loyal clients she still had. Rich stallions weren't exactly beating down her door in droves. Five years ago, I'd never have been able to talk her into cuffs, let alone take a crop to her; but these days she wasn't willing to risk that I'd go asking around about any of her coworkers that would. I figured that, at this rate, I'd have her willing to let me choke her out by next year. I didn't actually go for that sort of thing, I was just curious about exactly how desperate she'd get to make caps. I enjoyed testing limits where I could.

We got to her room on the next level down. Some of the mares in this place had garishly colorful places that were adorned with posters showing all sorts of erotica. Amenities to help set the mood and get things going faster. After all, the quicker a client finished, the sooner he could be pushed out the door and another ushered in.

Saffron was a mare from an older time. A more refined one. Which was something else about her that I appreciated. There were still faded pictures of long-dead mares on her walls, but they were posed tastefully. Suggestively, but not engaged in anything explicit. They were there to tease you. They were mares that you couldn't have, and wouldn't let you touch them even if they were there; but Saffron, you could have. She was there, and she was more than willing to let you touch all you wanted. And after three days tracking down a caravan fit to rob, I was very eager to touch her.

The color palette rested on the yellow and cyan ends of the spectrum. No personal effects though. None that were visible. The room had a wardrobe that was always locked, and I'd never seen her go to while we were together. I knew where she kept her toys and costumes, and those places weren't ever locked. I'll admit that I was curious what a mare like this kept secreted away from everypony.

The red-tinted unicorn strutted to the bed and began tugging at the sheets. I dropped my saddlebags and began shucking my thick leather barding. Once she'd set up the bed, Saffron was at my side, helping to strip away the armor. I saw her nose wrinkle slightly. I couldn't blame her. Life out in the Wastes tended to make things get pretty ripe, and my armor wasn't the only thing that could use a good wash.

“Send it to the cleaners,” I told her once it was off, “I'm going for a soak,” and I made my way to the room's lavatory. Behind me, the unicorn depressed a button on the room's intercom and called for somepony to come by and collect the soiled barding. In the meantime, I drew up a warm bath, letting the water from the faucet cascade over my hoof. The little luxuries...

I'd only ever been in a stable one time before arriving in Hoofington. I don't know what prompted the residents to open their thick steel cog of a door, some sort of malfunction in one of their environmental systems or something. Whatever they had thought they would find out beyond their subterranean shelter, I doubt very much that it had been anything like a hundred armed White Hoof warriors lying in wait. They certainly hadn't seemed prepared for an attack. The few guards they'd had went down quickly in the opening volleys of our ambush. The rest surrendered in short order.

Steel Bit had ordered the stable searched for weapons and other useful equipment. Useful to us anyway. Weapons, ammunition, medicine; everything else was destroyed. After all, none of what made that stable work could be useful to ponies in the Wastes. Look how soft stable living had made these fool ponies we'd captured. If we had availed ourselves to things like warm showers and soft beds, we'd become soft too. Then the Commonwealth soldiers would come by and route us from our homes.

Since leaving them, I'd come to very much appreciate those 'weaknesses' like hot showers and long warm soaks in bathtubs. If it made me 'weak', then so be it. I'd much rather be considered weak than heed to echoed advise of an overbearing ass who was taking a well-deserved dirt nap. Steel Bit could have done with a good soaking. Of one sort or another anyway.

I selected the least flowery scented perfume from the nearby shelf an added a couple of dabs to the filling tub. I wanted to smell nice, not like potpourri.

When the water had reached a sufficient depth, I crawled into the tub and let myself sink into the warm, scented, fluid. The sigh that escaped my lips was almost orgasmic. It had been three days since my last visit to Saffron's quarters, and by extension my last bath. Saffron could soak in this thing every day. Maybe I needed to look into becoming a whore...

I snorted. Oh, if my father could see me now...I had never even had a bath before my first week in Hoofington. Before that, the cleanest I ever got was on the days that it rained and I felt like going outside. Taking a perfumed bath in a suite where I was paying a mare for the privilege of having sex with her; my father would have castrated me...and then raped Saffron for daring to ask for caps for something that a pony like him was entitled to by right.

Steel Bit hadn't exactly been the nicest of ponies.

The water rippled and I felt another pony snuggling up to me in the tub. Her auburn mane draped down her neck, now free of the glittery bows that had distracted from the wisps of gray that were creeping in. Her tail was now unbraided. A brush began to run its way along my back, ripping the grit of the Wasteland out of my coat. Two made the tub a little crowded, but I wasn't about to ask her to get out. The whole point of the evening was for us to be intimate, after all.

“Somepony had a rough trip,” she observed, by way of prompting conversation. Another good thing about a pony as experienced as Saffron, was her skill at relieving emotional tension, as well as sexual.

“It had its stressful moments,” I agreed, sighing as she began to simultaneously massage my withers with her free hooves while she continued brushing me with her magic. In my mind, I recalled how close I'd come to buying it when that wire had snapped under my hoof.

One of her hooves gently traced itself over one of the fresh shrapnel wounds that had been inflicted by the exploding grenade, “and it's dangerous ones too, I see.”

“The whole Wasteland is one 'dangerous moment',” I pointed out with a wan smile.

Saffron was kind enough to chuckle. Not because what I had said was amusing, of course. I was a paying client, so she was supposed to suck up to me. I felt the brush pause in between my shoulder blades for a brief moment. A frown touched my lips in anticipation of what the subject of her next words would be, “I've asked around,” she began tentatively, “and I still haven't been able to figure out what gang this tattoo's from.

“I'm starting to think you were just pulling my leg.”

My lips twitched momentarily, “I told you, they ain't from around here.

“And don't bring it up before a rutting,” I reminded her, a slight growl creeping into my voice, “throws off my mood.”

The unicorn took my hint and moved the conversation on to local gossip about Flank, and the juicier news stories that Manehattan's DJ PON3 had related over the radio while I'd been away. I barely paid any attention to what she was saying. I was simply focusing on trying to calm myself back down. It hadn't been her fault. She didn't know, and I hadn't told her. She'd just been trying to draw me out a little to put me at ease, which was part of her job. She hadn't meant to upset me. Unfortunately, the damaged had already been done.

Ironic, I supposed, that something that was suppose to fill me with a sense of pride and belonging instead simply reminded me of how much I had lost.

“Never forget who you are,” were the words my father had spoken when the fire-heated brand had completed its work. Mission accomplished, Dad. Mission fucking accomplished.

So much for a relaxing bath, I seethed. Without warning Saffron, I stood up and left the tub. The unicorn mare looked after me in concern, “is everyth—”

“Get on the bed,” I snarled as I strode out into the bedroom, not even bothering to dry off. Time to relieve some stress the old-fashioned way, “I'll get the crop.”

“You stupid son-of-a-mule!”

Oh, Celestia, forgive me for I have sinned...

My eyes scrunched closed tightly and I groaned as the loud exclamation did rather unkind things for my hangover. I rolled over, smothering my ears with the pillow in an effort to muffle the sound of the irate mare. What the hell was her problem anyway? She'd been paid, and those welts would be gone by tomorrow morning...probably. I sure didn't recall any complaints last night. Though, I suppose the gag would have made it hard for her to voice them at the time...

“Get up, you moron!” Saffron yelled again.

A moment later and the bed heaved in a violet hued glow, ejecting me onto the floor with a rather uninspiring thud. My eyes shot open now and I glared up at the reddish mare, “the hell?! I paid you, damn it! Time and a half, as I recall,” I growled, “and I don't remember paying for the 'dominare' treatment...”

“You paid me, alright,” the unicorn snorted, “with blood money!”

Was that seriously the issue? She didn't approve of how I got the money I'd paid her with? I couldn't help but feel that a whore didn't have much of a moral leg to stand on when it came to quibbling over how ponies made a living. She wasn't exactly the most upstanding of citizens...

“So some ponies got hurt—” wait a minute...

I narrowed my eyes at her suspiciously, “how the hell do you know where that money came from?”

“Because there's a bounty on your head, numb-nuts,” she jabbed her hoof in the vague direction of the surface, “somepony let on that the stuff you hocked looked familiar. The Finders don't take kindly to ponies hitting their friends' caravans.”

My eyes widened, “they were Finders?!”

Horseapples.

“You have exactly two minutes to get out of here before I let it slip where you're at,” Saffron warned, “the payout for information leading to your capture is only ten percent, so you lucked out there...”

I scowled at the mare as I gathered up my freshly-laundered barding and supplies, “nice to see our relationship counts for something,” I mumbled under my breath, though loud enough for the unicorn to hear me.

“Our 'relationship' is the only reason I'm warning you at all, Jackboot,” she narrowed her eyes at me.

Fair enough.

“You best leave the Hoof entirely,” she suggested, “the Finders themselves are backing this note. They have a way of getting word out, and everypony knows their money's good.”

Fuck! I threw on my gear and rushed out the door without looking back. This had to be when 69 was at its deadest. Early morning. Most ponies were still sleeping off their hangovers. The unlucky few who had reason to be up this early we drinking water or partaking of some 'hair-of-the-diamond-dog.' Me? I was running for my life.

Finders. They had to be Finders! Of course they were Finders. They'd been too easy to take down to have been anypony else. Stupid. Stupid! Stupid! Every less-than-legit pony in the wastes knew that there were two groups in the Hoof that you did not fuck with: Reapers, and Finders. The former would hunt you down and kill you. The latter would pay everypony else in the Wasteland to hunt you down and kill you.

Fffuck!

“Leave the Hoof,” Saffron had said. No shit. The question was: where in Equestria was I supposed to go? Literally! Fillydelphia had just turned into a slaver den, if PON-3 was to be believed—and he always was. Manehattan was crawling with Talon mercenaries, who made it a habit to be up on all the latest Wasteland bounties; and they frequented the Appaloosa area too...

My list of 'safe places to hide' was growing depressingly short, and I hadn't even made it out of Flank yet...

“There he is!”

Oh, for fuck's sake...I'd just made it outside!

“Drop your weapons!”

Under the most ideal of circumstances, I might have actually been inclined to cooperate. Seriously. Surrendering was a viable option here. Give up, let them take me to MegaMart, and then wait for a chance to make my escape during the trip. I'd done something similar before when a bunch of slavers got their hooves on me with the intent of selling me to the Society.

But, it seemed that there was more than one group of bounty hunters on my tail; and it soon occurred to me that I didn't know the details of the contract; and how it related to the qualifiers: dead versus alive. At least one pony—or band of ponies—seemed to think that the bounty for 'dead' was worthwhile enough and opened fire on me before I could take the first group up on their offer of capitulation.

I'll admit, I hadn't expected that. Flank, along with every other Finders stronghold in Hoofinton; and most towns in general, was supposed to be a 'no hunting' zone. This was because not every pony with a bounty on their head was a criminal, and it was bad business to encourage running gun battles through your main thoroughfares. It made tourists and clients rather uneasy. However, it was looking like that particular restriction might not apply to contracts put out by the Finders themselves.

Dust and slivers of asphalt puffed up around me as rounds skimmed the pock-marked road. I cringed and continued my charge forward towards the front gate. It sounded like automatic fire of some sort and, generally speaking, if you missed with the first few rounds, you were going to miss with the rest of them. Especially where a very fast and very motivated target was concerned.

Judging by the outraged protests coming from directions other than the gunfire, the shooters weren't endearing themselves to the locals with their wild spraying.

Within seconds, Flank found itself saturated with gunfire as it seemed like everypony was shooting at everypony else. Seriously, it was pure chaos!

It had started with some hunters shooting at me. They missed, and pissed off some local Flankers; who were inclined to return fire on the bounty hunters that had disturbed their breakfast. Then there were the hunters who wanted me alive to capitalize on the likely higher prize, so they started shooting at those hunters too. Then the local guards got involved; since their job was to keep anypony from shooting anypony else within city limits. Of course, some of the locals were gangers, and they dressed awfully similar to hunters, so...

In the end, you had hunters shooting hunters. Gangers shooting hunters. Hunters shooting gangers. Guards shooting hunters. Guards shooting gangers. Gangers shooting guards. Hunters shooting guards...

And nopony left to shoot at the rust colored earth pony galloping for his life out the front gate. Oh, sweet Celestia, thank you for trigger-happy bounty hunters!

The gates of Flank and the sound of gunfire fading into the background, I allowed myself to slow to a hasty trot. I'd made it! I was so giddy with adrenaline fueled elation that I was actually giggling. I couldn't believe that I'd made it out of there in one piece; and free besides. I was free and clear!

“There he is!”

Oh, horseapples...

Footnote: Level Up!
Perk Added: Awareness -- Examining a target shows health, weapon, and ammunition count.

Thank you so much for reading! As always, a thumbs up and comment are always greatly appreciated

I've set up a Cover Art Fund if you're interested and have any bits lying around! You can see what I'M capable of, heh; professional assistance is clearly needed here!