A map. That's what he needed the most. A scrap of paper with sloppy penmanship, an official document with topography, a bunch of fucking lines on the back of a 7/11 receipt for fuck's sake! It didn't matter. Delirious needed a map, and he needed one now. He'd been in the Badlands for who knew how long; if he used the mountains, hills, and the sun to his advantage, he could figure out exactly where he was, how far away civilization was, and where he could head to next. It would be a long haul, no matter the length, seeing as how the sun high above beat at his body and the cacti provided no real sustenance with their dick shaped figures practically twenty-four-seven. The weight on his back and the rocks deep in his gut were enough to slow him down anyhow. What he needed was a route. Through a tunnel, or an overpass, or through the cloud layer that floated like parted lilypads over his head in their scarcity.

Delirious needed a map.

This he realized really all too late. If he had figured this fact out much sooner—maybe even the first day he had crashed his Zentorno and killed those assholes—he could have made it back to his friends and gone off on their merry way. He could have easily journeyed back to Ponyville with his clothes on his body and his weapons in his scrotum, where he was sure that happy smiles and warm hugs would be ready for him, along with a long party and a familiar freckled face that was all too capable of implying the worst possible things. He could have done so if he had remembered, but he hadn't, and had only just done so as he was trotting through what he believed to be a dry lake bed, one that had once lay next to a large rock mountain all blue and wet, only for a landslide and the arid weather to fuck it up completely. Twists and turns, from the former, delayed his usual arrival back at his campsite he presumed to be still a few miles away, coupled with the latter that mixed in a horrible kind of stale element with the absolutely freezing temperature of the night.

He wouldn't usually be out at this late time of day, the very idea of the cold itself warding him from dawdling too long out in the shrinking desert sun. He knew what could easily happen to him if he remained out above ground for too long past seven. Violent shakes and hypothermia weren't things he really wanted on his list of preferences. He knew the stories of frostbite and the like; he knew how bad things could very simply become. He couldn't exactly blame himself, however. Today had been an honestly amazing day for him in terms of procurement. Tucked in his stolen saddlebags were small sacks of berries he'd picked from the nearby dubbed Shithole Rock, with its single large tree atop it and the looped rope hanging from its highest branch, the long decomposed body now lying buried beneath three feet of sand and bushes. A mangled bird, its neck sliced open like it were a goddamn victim of the Italian Mafia, bounced along his hip by the rope coiling around its relatively sound body. Though its left wing had been torn clean off by the rifle round Delirious had fired into it, it still had enough meat on its frame to sustain him for the night. He was a little disappointed he couldn't try out vulture wings as he'd been looking forward to, but the small Mindlirious in his head told him to shuch up and be a man.

He was, unfortunately, a small blue pony with wings, but the thought was all the same. He wasn't exactly sure why he'd been made a Pegasus, but he did like the benefit of being able to fly whenever he so felt like it. If he were particularly good at it, he imagined, he could quickly fly up onto a cloud and let it take him wherever the wind wanted it to. He had learned a little bit about flying while he was out here, and had even began teaching himself a few tricks from the caravans and bandits he'd spotted, but it usually led to flurries of curses and insults directed at the nearby ficus he'd stolen from that adobe shack a few miles east. Delirious' remembrance caused him to turn his head to the right, his eyes directly coming into contact with the head of the other bird he'd killed. He would've screamed, but the tiredness in his step and the fatigue in his eyes caused him to simply crane his neck back and widen his eyes, then narrow them before he quickly looked past the dead corpse.

Pursing his lips, he flattened his ears against his head and unfolded his right wing. He watched as it first shot through the middle fold of his cloak, then flung the top layer upward to allow room for its magnificence to shine. Or, well, the magnificence it would shine if it bore anymore, or really in the first place at all. It was a horrid sight to look at, with some of his primaries missing, crooked, or halved off. A few of his secondaries were stained with sweat, a consequence of his folding them by his armpits. His outer vane—he believed it was called—was bent in a few odd places and scarred beyond belief. A few patches of dried blood were caked on and around them. He had to admit that he'd used a few of his feathers to write shit here and there, usually warnings or penises or chocolate penises, but seeing his wings now really made him realize that he needed some well-deserved rest.

He hadn't finished his lessons back in Ponyville. With Rainbow Dash and Scootaloo.

He didn't really know how to fly anyway.

Delirious needed to get back home. Home, as it was to him, was nothing but a simple tree next to a tall, wide, sand-colored rock, where the tree provided shade and the rock provided cover. A lovely tag team, the loveliest he could hope for in the desert in case of any attempted raids or ambushes. He hadn't yet woken up to the sound of a crossbow cocking or a pony speaking stupidity to him, but he had to put emphasis on the "yet" and remember that some of these ponies were fucking crazy. He didn't really understand it, to be honest. How could these random ponies, out here on their lonesomes, succumb to bloodshed and de-evolve into monsters? It was like an entirely different, completely, utterly, and undeniably separate from the rest of its Equine brethren, where there was no law and everything quickly became nothing to everyone and everything.

He folded his wing back, realizing that it was forcing the dead vulture on his right to squeeze against his neck in an admittedly uncomfortable position. He didn't exactly look forward to getting his own neck grease and sweat on his catch for the day. He thanked the millions of people following his exploits that the left game was mostly okay still. Something to look forward to, at least. Coming back to, he let out a short cough from deep, deep down in his stomach and hopped over a thick log, it having most likely collapsed from the recent thunderstorm that had come a few days prior and had gone as fast as it had arrived. His four bandaged hooves elicited muffled clips and clops as he rebounded back onto the cold rock below him, helping his descent as it led a path down toward ground level. He weaved in and out through the sand and hardened earth, grumbling every now and then whenever the path before him went so much as a single inch back up to where he'd come from.

He needed to get home, and with the moon high up in the sky, wolves and lizards were sure to come out any second now. Something about the lunar object stirred something inside them, waking up something fierce, something animalistic, something brutal, that had to be let out and tested out on something, anything it could gets its hands on. Wandering ponies, bandits, home owners, meth cooks. They wouldn't care, and they would find and feast on whatever it was they chose to satiate the growing inside them.

...

No wait, that was his stomach. Something inside of him was growling, pretty fucking violently too. He was hungry.

A smile crested upon his lips, but he squashed it down a second later. If he dwelled on it, it would just get worse. Like a mosquito bite. Or talking to Nogla. Or playing that hockey game with Vanoss. Or playing with Nogla. Or Nogla.

Delirious swore he felt the taste of potatoes on his tongue. The very essence of there possibly being potatoes caused him to involuntarily salivate. Oh god what he wouldn't do for a few fries right now.

He about tripped over a rock, and was thankful to have noticed it before he could so. He was less thankful, however, when his ears shot as he noticed what had caused him to snap out of his thoughts and notice it. A voice, unlike the ones he'd usually speak to from within the confines of his head. One was distinctly female, a little high-pitched, while the other was a gentle male one, like butter against a bare baby's asshole. Noticing that he was currently walking into a four-way intersection in the middle of the rock, Delirious swiftly turned his head to the left and saw the bright orange glow of the lantern coming his way. He sucked in a breath and decided to hide, hoping that they hadn't seen him in the two seconds he'd been out in the open.

He pressed his back against the nearby wall adjacent to his soon-to-be-enemies' way. He wasn't really in the mood to start fighting. He was tired, he was hungry, his saddlebags were feeling like boulders along his sides.

Delirious still got his rifle out all the same, and clenched it in both hooves as he shoved his head backward and stared with beads of sweat pouring down his forehead at the constantly largening glow of the ponies' lantern. He could easily just scramble back where he came from, or vault over the wall and high-tail it toward camp, but movement meant noise, and noise meant notoriety. And not the good kind either. He realized all too late—a rehearsed habit of his—that he hadn't chambered the next round in his rifle, and cursed to himself as he found out he'd have to be content with just watching the passersby... pass 'im by.

The first hoof of his would-be attackers came into view, a dark color not directly influenced by the moon high above their heads. Delirious' glaring eyes went downward, finding the orange glow just mere inches from reaching his position. He inwardly hoped that they wouldn't try to turn his way, too caught up in their current conversation to really notice where they were headed. If Delirious knew caravans, they'd be dead within an hour as foretold by a bumbling futuristic scientist.

"I'm just saying, that pony back there..."

"Who, with the bandages?" The mare asked, a look of confusion on her face as she turned to her companion. Her mane was long, almost touching the floor to be tripped upon by the otherwise short-haired stallion pulling their cart full of supplies behind him.

"Yeah," said he, scratching his neck, "weird ass guy, I'll tell you that."

"I don't even know what he was talking about! Something about some book and something about some bulls–"

"The hell is the Bible, anyway?"

"I dunno," the mare replied, as honestly as she could possibly sound. A laugh escaped her mouth, which she quickly suppressed by way of a dainty hoof. The stallion as well let out a guffaw of amusement. Delirious almost smirked himself, but remembered he hadn't any bullets in his gun. A frown crossed his lips instead. "But I sure as hell know not to screw with some guy called the Burned Man–"

Something inside of Delirious twitched.

He sucked in another breath once he recognized his current intake wouldn't last long enough. Hopefully the hunger pains would go away. The ponies were close to getting out of the intersection...

He bit down and grit his teeth, involuntarily lifting a leg up as he about tipped over. His breathing was hitched now, accompanying short breaths that escaped his muzzle and deafened the blood in his ears. "Mother...fucker..." Something was wrong. He was most likely having hunger pains, as was usual at this time of day, but they were stronger. There was one in his left side, which disappeared and was replaced by one in his right. Then the left again, both now present. He didn't notice he was swallowing until the dryness of his throat caught his attention. He reached a thoughtful hoof up to his throat and traced its shape downward. He wasn't due for water for another few hours or so, so he shouldn't have been feeling anything...

What the fuck was happening...?

It was as if someone had stuck a vacuum down his gullet and sucked his stomach contents out. Delirious suddenly keeled over and threw his head downward, vomiting onto the floor.

He held his hoof over his mouth and wiped his lips, coughing into the appendage once he was sure he was done.

He felt sick to his stomach, contributing it to his now looking at the mess on the floor.

Blue eyes narrowed.

His mouth opened up, and he stared down his muzzle as he lifted his now shaking hoof from its position in front of his mouth.

Delirious tilted his hoof over, now mumbling incoherently.

A small patch of wet leaves was spattered against his soiled bandages.

Delirious didn't even notice he was hyperventilating.

"...what the fuck."

"Hey, there's someone over here!"