Water. His itchy, dry-ass throat ached for it dangerously, having not been met with the welcome blessing of it for weeks. He'd, somehow and surprisingly to himself, saved a few cans of eCola and Pißwasser in his inventory to use for later. Though it was hard to completely pass up restoring his health and instead opt on saving up on healing items, the admittedly... shitty taste of both beverages served to goad him along just fine. He still wished he'd gotten his Egochasers and P's and Q's before being chased out of his cave by those fucking buffalo bitches. They were most likely long gone by now—eaten by those bitches—but at the very least he could still heal himself in a pinch if he really needed to. He could handle the taste. Its restorative effects were more needed than a bad feeling on his cracked tongue.

Thinking of the long-unused muscle in his mouth caused him to suddenly cast his blue eyes downward, the binoculars in his gauze-covered hooves lowering as his attention drew elsewhere. Going cross-eyed a bit, he hummed to himself and lightly stuck his tongue out, prodding the inside of his mask curiously. Catching a few telltale hints of blood, gunpowder, and what he assumed to be remnants of piss, he quickly shut his mouth back up and cringed at the contact. Fucking disgusting. Gunpowder tasted fucking horrible.

He shook his head dismissively, the now long black mane of hair on his head flinging about and whipping his ears like some kind of rabid animal. Raising his binoculars back up to his eyes, he rotated the windage adjustment, heard the nice little clicks that confirmed his action, and stared down the lenses once more. It had been a few days since he had infiltrated that last couple's house to steal their food, the baa-ing of goats and the swinging of windmills calling back to him like a Vietnam flashback. Whisperings of Kennedy's assassination and the caliber of Oswald's Carcano rifle bit at his eardrums, but he growled to himself from down his garbled throat and stowed himself.

This was just the way it was, and he accepted it. No... other real way to go about scanning adobe houses and wooden shacks with their frolicking ponies and their burning barbecue grills than sitting up on a hill twenty or so yards away out of sight and out of mind. If he saw anything that looked promising, he'd sneak in while they were asleep or make a distraction to get them elsewhere. It'd become a bit of a routine now; scan building, look for water and food in that order, sneak in, grab shit, and book it. Most of the time it was easy, but other times it was not. He'd learned to scavenge ammo and not waste it as soon as his Zentorno first crashed into that bush, and he hated to admit that he was proud to have not killed any innocent pony folk while out in this goddamn arid wasteland.

Though the rules didn't change—as much as he wished they would—the small building he was currently scouting out was neither an adobe house or a wooden shack.

It was a wooden house, a combination of the two, with a nice oak roof, a puffing chimney stack, and orange-blasted walls, most likely courtesy of the blazing sun still high in the sky.

What ingenuity.

There were five ponies relaxing down in the backyard, where he had set up his moment of reconnaissance. Though there could easily be more inside the house, he told and nagged himself that they would've come outside by now to join in on the obvious party taking place by the pool. Two of them were foals—one colt about eight and an angsty-looking filly about fourteen. The latter was hopping about the floor, speaking to what looked to be an old stallion in his sixties, with a big bushy beard and a straw hat. Hovering next to the elder was a glass, its contents unable to be completely figured out from the distance he was at. Good. Probably an alcoholic. Made it easier for scavenging. Adjusting his position and maneuvering his wings slightly, the Pegasus turned his attention elsewhere and looked at the last two individuals currently sitting in folded-back lawn chairs to the side. Holding hooves, they smiled at one another and listened to the elder as he presumably spoke about dumb bullshit like ribbon candy.

It took all of his manpower to not vomit or cringe on the spot. The least he did to react to his disgusting thought was move away from his taped-together rifle scopes, a dumb look on his face that told compelling tales of hurling and illnesses. Again, he shook his head. No time to fuck around. This house would be easy to go through if those ponies were distracted. As long as he didn't knock over a plate or take a loud shit in their toilet, he could get in and out unscathed and unnoticed. He suddenly shook his left hindleg absent-mindedly. He kind of needed to take a shit, now that he thought about it. If he couldn't make it to their bathroom, he'd have to take a shovel with him if he could find one. He'd totally be all up for just dumping on the ground and walking off, but the very idea of those buffalo suddenly appearing behind him once he turned away kept him from doing so.

He adjusted the blanket below him, groaning at the bits of sand that slid onto the stitched surface as he did so. He still hadn't really gotten used to the sensation of it yet, despite the fact that he'd rolled around in it countless times already in the past weeks or so. Even in Los Santos, he'd at least had shoes on and protection from actually touching the shit. Rashes and bleeding wounds had turned his avoidance of the substance up even higher than before. Watching as the ponies below continued to lounge by their pool, he rose to his hooves, took one last naked-eye look, and clipped his binoculars to his side.

Though he'd ignored the dark gray clouds above him expelling drops of rain and arcs of lightning before, he cursed inwardly and reminded himself that it would be an issue now. Hopefully he wouldn't get too soaked by the time he got down there. Sand and water didn't really mix, especially when it regarded his blue skin or his tattered cloak. A large explosion erupted from above. Looking to his right, he found the bolt of thunder crash down into a large pile of bushes, firmly setting them ablaze. Bending over, he reached for his Marksman Rifle and grabbed hold of it. Holding the weapon in his right hoof, he quickly retrieved his blanket and rolled it up with the other, placing it on his side once he was done.

A few cantering steps toward the incline of the hill later, he suddenly stopped and narrowed his eyes.

Grasping his rifle in both hooves now, he pressed his cheek against the stock and peered down the scope. Wobbling about slightly, he made loopy trails upward, leftward, and rightward until he once again spotted the house he was about to raid. The five ponies were still happily conversing, unaware of what was about to occur to their beings. He remained, watching them for five more seconds, before deciding that he would lower his gun and head in. His last sight being the elder sitting in front of the back wall, drink in hoof now, he groaned heavily until he heard a loud crack shoot through the air.

His breath caught in his throat as he raised the gun once more.

The elder stallion slumped against the wall, his entire head now smothered red against the wall he'd previously stood next to.

Dead.

The other ponies, having witnessed this, were scurrying about in obvious panic and dangerous fright. Screams of absolute terror echoed through the area, coming from whom he assumed to be the foals and the wife as they took cover and reached toward the elder pony.

Someone had done this, and they were nearby. Turning his head, he turned back around and fell to the ground in his previous spot, the sand and dirt flying into the air at the contact. Throwing his left hoof toward the end of the barrel from underneath the foregrip, he felt the bespoke bipod fling out and stab into the earth by his hooves. He tilted his head to look down the scope once more, gritting his teeth and straining a few muscles as he crushed his cheek against the side of the synthetic stock.

Swiveling his gun to the right a ways, he narrowed his opened eye and hissed.

About twelve ponies were sprinting toward the house, spears, crossbows, sticks, and swords protruding from their mouths, propped under their wings, or hovering in their magic auras. With devilish grins on their faces and crazed looks in their eyes, they practically flew across the desert terrain as their scrap-looking clothing rustled in the low wind fiercely greeting them as they went. He put two and two together. Bandits, and lots of them. Counting four Pegasi, three Earth Ponies, and five Unicorns in the group, he pulled the lever back on the side of his rifle, heard it click in place, and sucked in a quick breath.

He lined up his crosshairs on the leading pony's—a Pegasus'—head, and pulled the trigger.

The bandit went down without a sound, rolling around in the dirt and spraying a torrent of it upward that blinded the two ponies immediately behind his now dead corpse. Lining up another shot, he fired again and watched as the following Earth Pony's head flew backward from the new red hole in his eye. The third pony in line, rubbing at her eyes vigorously so she could continue her escapade, stomped on the floor and received a bullet to her Unicorn brain. He smiled. Three down, including what looked to be the leader. One shot each, so he had five rounds left in his Marksman Rifle. He cursed, realizing he'd have to reload at some point before they were all collectively burning in Hell.

His rifle barked as his scope lay over a Unicorn's head, but the bandit pony quickly fell to the floor with the rest of his friends behind a small dip in the sand, out of sight of the sniper trying to swiftly end their lives for the betterment of ponykind. He cursed as he got up to try and get a better view, doing so once again as the only sight he got on them was a few inches of their tails. He fired a shot anyway, one pony in particular suddenly flinching as their red tail found a new, large hole embedded in it. From what he could see, they were still approaching the house at a slow pace, but completely out of his line of fire.

He holstered his rifle on his back quickly, then frowned to himself as firmly as he could muster. There was only one real way to get down there as fast as he could, and he didn't like it one bit. Looking to his sides, he gave a short sigh and blinked.

His blue wings suddenly jutted outward like some kind of Space Ranger. Flexing them, he turned his head back toward the house, studied it for a split second, and nodded to nobody but himself. Taking a few steps back, he sprinted toward the ledge and stuck his forelegs out ahead of him, expecting a quick flight to the ground that would end in broken bones and dead ponies. Instead, miraculously, he felt gusts of wind flow from under his wings, efficiently guiding him toward the establishment. The rush of cold wind blew across his face, finding its way across the surface and stabbing at him through the various holes in his beloved mask. In the span of two seconds, he touched down on the sand and promptly thunked his head on the wall surrounding the house.

Dispelling the thousands of stars dancing in his vision, he shot his eyes upward and looked at the top of the adobe fence.

Fucking adobe.

How had he not noticed that before.

Jumping, he caught the lip of the wall and grunted, crawling upward with the effort of a small, dumb child.

At last, he vaulted over the top of it, receiving a few shouts as he got within eyesight of the scared ponies hiding within. His cloak fluttering in the wind, he hit the ground hard, tucked, and rolled, hoping that he wouldn't hit the mare currently gasping at his arrival. Successfully landing on his four hooves, he Tokyo Drifted and placed his ass-end against the ponies who now clip-clopped backward and toward the house. Craning his neck, he bit down on his Marksman Rifle and threw it into the air, hoisting himself back onto his hindlegs and catching the rifle as it descended back to the earth. Cocking the lever on his weapon back once more, he aimed it at the wall and awaited the bandits.

"Get inside," he finally spoke, apparently startling the ponies if their faltering steps on the floor were any indication, "they're comin' for me, not you."

He hoped they wouldn't realize that he was lying.