Fallout Equestria: Insanity’s Flight
By Storm128

Chapter 6: Crescent Harmony

Nobody exists on purpose, nobody belongs anywhere, everybody’s gonna die… come watch TV.

Six Years Before The Destruction of The Cloud Layer

“Just broke the cloud layer,” our pilot’s staticky voice announced over the passenger bay intercom. “ETA to ground side is seven minutes.”

The vertibuck suddenly jolted upward, straining our safety harnesses and sending a reverberating groan through the hull. The turbulence set my heart hammering. My hooves grasped at my stomach, futilely attempting to soothe the roiling within. I sealed my eyes and breathed deeply, trying desperately to not show off such an irrational fear.

I really hated flying.

Certainly not the base act itself, I liked to stretch my wings as much as any pegasus. But the thought of a flying machine, my life completely in the hooves of its structural integrity and the prowess of the stranger piloting it? That turned my stomach in a way no midnight diner food had a prayer of doing.

“Yo, Doc Harmony, ya feelin’ alright?” Mist Glider asked as she moved to sit beside me. The squad leader was already outfitted in her full, jet-black power armor, the helmet coloring her voice in a subtle static.

I flashed a strained smile, “Oh I’m just peachy kee- *hurk*.” I doubled over, grabbing one of my personal stock of airsick bags and expelling my unwisely chosen breakfast. Shockingly, they weren’t standard equipment on pegasus-flown aircraft.

A comforting hoof began gently massaging my back, and a quiet, digitized chuckle began to underscore my heaving, “*hehe* An airsick pegasus, now I have seen it all.”

The laughter quickly subsided as Mist Glider leapt down from the seat and crouched before me, locking our gazes as I spat out the remaining sick. Unfortunately, instead of strong, reassuring eyes, her reflective lenses merely portrayed a royal blue pegasus with a long silver and white mane tied into a sloppy braid. A pegasus pathetically doubled over in her seat and trying not to vomit doing the one thing her race was best known for.

“You know, Doc,” she whispered, concern creeping into her tone, “down there things are gonna get a lot rockier than Steelwing’s exceptional pilotin’ skills.” She glared toward the cockpit, as if assuming the stallion on the other side could feel its intensity. “I know you’ve read the reports, but that ain’t nothin’ like meetin’ the wasteland eye-to-eye, feel me? Now I gotta admit that it's hard for me to wrap my mind around this whole cause of yours. I mean, I’ve met more than couple good souls just tryin’ to survive down here, good folk who could use your help. But I know they ain’t who you're lookin’ to run into. I’m talkin’ ponies that’re just as likely to shove a grenade up your ass as wave at ya.”

I smirked at the illustration.

“Ya seem to be under the incredibly naive assumption that I'm exaggeratin’,” she chided. “I ain't. In fact, happened just a couple weeks ago when one of my rookies was caught on patrol.” The Sargeant shrugged, “We actually thought they was lettin’ him go. Watched him walk kinda funny until he got halfway back to camp, then the lever dropped out his backside. Barely had a chance to scream before… boom.”

The smile vanished, and I suddenly felt compelled to finish filling the bag.

“There’s a lotta kind ponies in the wasteland. Maybe a’fore we go galavantin’ into some raider hellhole and askin’ for a polite lil’ sit down, we could fly to some quaint settlement and talk to a couple locals. That sounds nice, don’t it?”

I took an enormous breath, pushing out my chest and bulging my eyes to an impossible diameter before expelling the air in a relieved gush. “Thank you *gasp* for you concern *gasp* Sargeant.” My composure somewhat recovered, I straightened up in the seat and brought back the smile, “But I know what I’m doing. My condition is merely a result of my dubious decision to partake of last week’s leftover El Heno Loco. A poor choice on my part, but I woke up late and there was nothing else to eat. I assure you it is no indication of my current readiness.”

“Jumbo hayritto?” she asked knowingly.

“With extra pico de gallo,” I confirmed.

Mist Glider chuckled again, shaking her head as she headed off to speak with the rest of the squad, “Whatever you say, Doc.”

I kept up the grin, the edges of my mouth twitching painfully until she was out of earshot. Then I snatched the next bag and finished emptying my stomach. It wasn’t exactly a lie, but it would be if Mist Glider knew about my lead-lined stomach. No leftovers in the world were too out of date for a graduate student studying for her finals.

“Alright,” Steelwing announced over the intercom, “Touching down in thirty seconds.”

My eyes locked onto the sliding exit hatch. The rotors outside blurred to a near solid circle as the dust kicked up, blinding us from the outside.

“Get tactical, Trojan,” Mist Glider barked, addressing her squad mates. “Touch down in ten, nine-”

Maybe it’s not too late to back out. Surely nopony actually expects me to psychoanalyze some disturbed, violent, grenade sodomizing psychop- I mean wastelander. Just a quick peak outside for the posterity of the Volunteer Corps would be more than enough.

Right?

“-eight, seven, six-”

Oh Goddess, this is insane. I should put myself on the couch for thinking this was a good idea. I’m a fucking psychologist for Celestia’s sake. I’ve never even fired a gun. What am I doing here?!

“-five, four-”

We have to turn the vertibuck around. I can’t do this. I want my shitty apartment back, I want my questionable leftovers, I want to wake up and find out this was all just a bad dream.

I don’t want to die down here.

“-three, two, one,” Mist Glider finished as the aircraft jolted from the wheels contacting the ground. The apexing whine of the rotors finally began to die down, and the sliding doors crashed open. “Go, go, go!” the Sergeant boomed, beckoning her squad to exit.

They stampeded out the sides, taking aim through the blinding dust and beginning to sweep the landing zone. Before she joined them, Mist Glider turned back toward me and offered a reassuring pat on the shoulder, “It’s gonna be ok, Doc. We got this.”

I gave a shaky nod in return and followed her outside. The remaining members of Trojan squad continued fanning out, checking behind every nearby sand dune and rocky outcropping. We’d landed in a small canyon, barely wide enough to accommodate the vertibuck, but just high enough to hide us from outside view.

For the first time in my life, my hooves touched real dirt.

It was a very… gray morning. I’d never seen the underside of the cloud layer before. The oppressive, roiling gloom almost tauntingly withheld the sheer majesty of a sunswept dawn. The air smelled of rot and dust, and I could practically feel the tingling of radiation dance across my coat.

I nearly crumbled beneath the depressing sight. This is what the wastelanders faced every day? Had they truly never seen the sun? The idea felt so preposterous, and yet here was the proof right before me. Until that moment I had never appreciated how truly blessed were the circumstances of my birth.

In another life, this could have been my home.

My resolve began to strengthen. There wasn’t any room for self-pity on this crucial mission. This was why I was here. To understand the minds of the worst of the wasteland’s populace, find the commonality between our people, and finally reunite the Equestrian race.

I was here to bring the sun out again.

The earth collapsed beneath my hooves.

A surprised shriek escaped me as a fleshy, writhing mass dug its way out from the dirt below. It hissed in anger and clawed at my legs, collapsing us to the ground. In an instant my vision was dominated by mottled pink flesh, giant gnashing incisors, and beady red eyes. “Help!”

Instantly, every plasma rifle levelled back at me, trying to get a sight on the creature. “Shoot it!” I cried, hammering my hooves against the monster and trying to shove it away. “Shoot it! Shoot it! Shoot it!”

A piercing sound cut through the air as a green beam flashed in front my eyes. I immediately caught the scent of ozone… and burning mane as a few strands of silver and white suddenly turned to charcoal.

The creature froze mid-strike, its jaw poised to take a hunk out of my abdomen. Instead it flashed a solid shamrock, then fell apart into a jelly that splattered all over my legs and stomach.

My jaw quivered as shock settled in. Adrenaline fueled the jackhammering in my chest and my eyes felt cemented open. I glanced down at the creature’s remains, witnessing it ooze into every part of my clothes. I didn't even want to think of all the places I'd be washing it out of.

“... ew.”

Mist Glider started laughing again as she trotted up to me, offering a hoof. As I righted myself, she patted my back, “Welcome to the wasteland, Doc.”

“Alright, break’s over! Get the lead out, temps! I ain’t payin’ for y’all to be lollygaggin’,” Whiskey Stone shouted back toward us.

My eyes snapped open, staring up into the darkened clouds above. The grayness was becoming ever so slightly lighter, signifying dawn was finally breaking for the scav crew. I sat up, rubbing the exhaustion from my eyes. We were supposed to just be catching our breath, but the rock I was seated on proved comfortable enough for nodding off. I was thankful for the alarm, though. I didn’t need to see the end of that dream again.

Had it really already been a month?

Whiskey was waiting for us with statuesque patience. The chestnut stallion rubbed a hoof through his scraggly, tan beard; eyes of judgemental disappointment glaring down from his rocky perch.

“Whiskey, it ain’t even the crack o’ dawn,” another stallion, Crosshair I think, snapped. He was seated with the rest of the group, five in all, still panting after the marathon march from Hoofsprings we’d been undertaking all morning. Huh, I guess I hadn’t been asleep that long. Dreams really are a peculiar thing. “What in tarnation could have you crackin’ the whip this early?”

The older pony hopped down and locked gazes with the defiant youth, “Maybe on account of the fact that in the last twenty-four hours I’ve had Tumbler’s scav team report findin’ a motherfuckin’ Stable nothin’ but a mornin’ jog’s away from Hoofsprings, then goin’ quiet just an hour later. Why in Celestia’s fine fuckin’ flanks do you think I’d take any o’ y’all rookies to go after ‘em? I need this done, and I need it done now.”

“‘Cause you’re worried ‘bout your daughter, or that she found something good enough to keep from ya?” Crosshair asked snidely.

“Pick one,” Whiskey answered callously. “Now will somepony please wake up the Goddess-damned doctor?”

“Doctor’s awake!” I shouted instantly, raising a hoof, and startling the closest scavvers. I trotted up to the pair, “Awake, ready, and eager to do her job. Wait, well I guess not eager since that would mean I want one of you to get hurt, which I obviously don’t… B-but which I could totally handle,” I laughed nervously. “Yep, no problems here. A-plus doctor, at your service.”

The two stallions each cocked an eyebrow.

“Um, I’m just gonna stop talking… and go over there to do some… doctor… stuff,” I murmured, awkwardly shuffling back toward my pack.

“Smooth,” a taupe, unicorn mare commented sarcastically. She took a long drag off her suspended cigarette before playfully tossing it at my hooves.

“Thanks, Cracks,” I answered, equally acidic. I checked over my belongings, making sure every one of the precious healing potions was stowed safely. If I actually had to go about trying to be a medic, they were all I could rely on. “I am just so fucking happy you brought me along that I could punch you right in that arrogant little mug of yours.”

“Is that how you talk to your patients? I can see why those birdbrains kicked your ass down here. Wouldn’t want you as my shrink,” she jabbed, only slurring a couple words. She took a swig from a rusty flask before lighting another smoke.

“Keep it down!” I hissed panickedly, barely restraining myself from slapping a hoof over her mouth.

“Why? I keep telling you it ain’t a big deal,” Cracks took a pull from the cigarette and blew the resulting cloud in my face. “Shit, I saw a pegasus over in New Appleloosa just last week, y’all are starting to get a lot more common down here.” She looked contemplative a moment, “He was a handsome fella. Maybe I’ll look him up next time I’m over that way.”

I waved the smoke away, “It’s just… advice somepony gave me once, ok? I trusted you since you’ve really been helping me down here. Please don’t let that make me look like more of an idiot than I already do.”

“Fine, fine,” she agreed, shooing me away. “But quit your bitching. You’re the one who said you needed the job.”

“I know, and I’m grateful for the opportunity, really,” I opined. “It’s just a little nerve wracking. I mean me, a medic? Was that really all there was? I don’t know if I can pull this off.”

“But you are a doctor.”

“Yes, but not that kind of doctor. I’m not a-”

“A useful one?” she interrupted, flashing a shit-eating grin.

“I… really hate you sometimes,” I stated breathily.

“Oh you know you love it. Somepony’s gotta keep you grounded, fly-girl,” Cracks replied, patting my back and standing. “Can’t afford to get a big head in your position.”

“Believe me, my ego has never been in more shambles,” I murmured. “Not even when I wet my costume at my school’s Hearth’s Warming Eve pageant.”

“Ain’t nothing to be embarrassed about,” Cracks said encouragingly, “that kinda stuff happens when we’re kids.”

“It was graduate school,” I admitted somberly.

Cracks shook her head, “Wow. For a shrink, you got a shit ton of issues.”

“You’re telling me,” I whispered to myself.

The scav team kept up the march until mid-morning. A small mesa crept into view through the dimly-lit dawn. It was pretty unremarkable, save for the trail of hoofprints leading right up toward it.

“Almost there, y’all,” Whiskey announced. “These are the last coordinates Tumbler sent before goin’ silent.”

I noticed several of the scavvers begin scanning over their various bits of weaponry, loading magazines, and ensuring disabled safeties. Gulping, I turned toward Cracks, noticing she too was inspecting the cylinder of her magnum and reinforcing the crude duct-tape job keeping her Pipbuck attached. As boorish as she might’ve been, Cracks often lauded herself as the best Stable-cracker in the Marejave.

“You don’t think Whiskey would actually have us fight his own daughter, do you?” I asked reservedly.

“He might,” she responded in laconic boredom.

“But they’re family,” I blurted, perhaps a bit too loud as Crosshair spared a suspicious glance, but continued feeding bullets into his hunting rifle. I lowered my voice, “Would they really kill each other over a two-century old bunker?”

“I don’t think you got the proper context to be judging the situation,” Cracks flicked the cylinder of her pistol closed and checked the sights. “For a scav team, a virgin Stable is more valuable than a Stable-full of virgin whores. We’re talking about caches of food meant to last for centuries. Water talismans that can provide for entire settlements. Perfectly preserved wartime technologies that everypony from junk vendors to the Goddess-damned Steel Rangers would kill to get their hooves on. A well-equipped Stable can mean the difference between running a podunk scav team, and a wasteland-wide enterprise. So do I think a father and daughter may have a bit of a falling out over who gets to claim it? As sure as the sun ain’t coming out tomorrow.”

“I guess I never thought about it like that,” I mumbled, disturbed by the sureness in her statement. “Back in Thunderhead, family was all we had. Everypony was so cutthroat and laissez-faire when it came to helping others, that your family were the only ponies you could really trust. I couldn’t even dream about harming any of them.”

Cracks snickered, “When I was a kid, and my Stable got cracked by slavers, first thing my dear old mama did was offer me up on a silver platter to save her own hide.” She finished her cigarette and stamped it into the dirt, “Family, friends, trust, it all don’t mean shit down here. It’s everypony for themselves.”

We fell quiet at that, finishing the journey to the mesa in a silence only broken by the loading and cocking of the guns around us. Even I took out the little .32 on my hip and checked the safety. But, just like the potions in my bag, I was praying to any deity that would listen for me not to have to use it. I highly doubted I’d be much help in a firefight anyway.

Finally we arrived. A small cavern stood on the side of the mesa, and the tracks all led inside. There were several rotten boards around the entrance, and a sign that had long fallen over lay half-buried. I swept some of the collected sand off, finding it read, ‘No Trespassing.’”

“Looks like a welcome mat to me,” Cracks jibed, jabbing me in the ribs as she stepped past.

“Ok, y’all. Here’s how things are gonna play out,” Whiskey stated, stepping in front of the entrance. “We head on in there ‘til we find the Stable, then try and make contact with Tumbler and her team. I ain’t sure what we’re gonna find in there, but whatever happens, I’ll be the one giving the orders, hear me? Nopony does a fuckin’ thing ‘til we get the full picture.”

“Whatever you say, boss,” Crosshair answered patronizingly. The rest of the team all muttered similar assents.

“Good,” the older stallion acknowledged. “Cracks, you’re up front with me. Riveter, North Star,” he said, addressing an earth pony stallion and mare. “I want you two guardin’ the doctor. She’s the only thing keepin’ us alive if shit goes south.” I cringed back from the undeserved assurity in his voice. “Doc, you’re in the center. Just try to keep your head down. Crosshair, take the rear. Keep us covered with that rifle of yours.”

The scav team got into position before we filed into the cave. Almost instantly the light from outside disappeared, leaving us reliant on Cracks’s horn and a lantern Whiskey pulled out of his gear. The echoey chamber seemed to stretch on for miles, and I began to wonder just how deep these Stables had to be.

After a time, Whiskey raised a hoof and the party came to a halt. “Hold up, looks like we got a couple bodies here.”

A lump lodged itself in my throat. While I’d seen an unfortunate number of corpses since I’d been groundside, it still wasn’t something I’d gotten used to. Whiskey and Cracks slowly crept forward, both his shotgun and her revolver levelled ahead of the bodies. They visibly relaxed after reaching them. “Eh, false alarm. Looks like these two have been here for a while.”

The party resumed its forward march. I desperately tried to avert my gaze from the sight, but a morbid force of curiosity locked my gaze onto them as we trotted past. They were very nearly decomposed, though I imagine the dank cavern may have been affecting the process. It looked like a stallion and mare, their heads turned toward one another. Enough of the flesh had rotted away to show a sharp break in both of their spines.

Don’t think about it, don’t think about it, don’t think about it, I chanted internally, sealing my eyes and trying to calm my breathing. Soon enough the musky, rotting smell faded from the air, plunging us back into disconcerting quiet.

Whiskey stopped our advance once again. “I think that’s their radio,” he announced, trotting forward and directing his lantern at a small, metal box. The stallion crouched before it and flicked the power switch. Instantly the needle on the front panel jumped to a particular frequency and a hushed static echoed from the speaker. Whiskey shook his head, “That’s our station. Doesn’t look like they contacted anypony else, and it’d mighty stupid of them to just leave this behind.”

“So what’re you thinking?” Cracks asked.

“That we need to get to findin’ my team,” he snapped sharply, turning and continuing on into the cave.

It wasn’t long before we were forced to halt again at the precipice of a steep incline. Further inspection found us a rusty metal stairway descending into the darkness. Whiskey poked curiously at the railing, a small grin spreading across his lips, “Yessiree, that’s Stable-Tec steel right there.”

Without another thought, the scav team leader descended down the steps. Despite the occasional creak, the structure held together without issue. Hesitantly, the party filed after him.

The bottom greeted us with an exhilarating sight. A monolithic wall of steel dominated the opposite side of the room. The only imperfection in the machined metal was an enormous, embossed gear that lay flush with its surroundings. Chipped, rusting paint in the center still clearly portrayed the lettering, ‘42.’

Crosshair whistled in awe, “Luna’s chapped tits, old man. You wasn’t lyin’.”

“I don’t waste anypony’s time,” Whiskey replied, not taking his eyes off the Stable and his smile only growing wider. He shook the expression off his face, “We ain’t gettin’ nothin’ done standin’ around. Cracks, let’s bust this thing open.”

“My pleasure, bossman,” she announced happily, practically drooling toward the console as she made her way forward. “Come to mama.”

The stallion nodded toward her, “Doc, you stick with Cracks. The rest of y’all, get into cover in front of the door. I don’t want no surprises, hear me?”

I followed the other mare up toward the door controls, fascinated as she began dancing her hooves over the unintuitive array. Cracks’s usual air of lethargy vanished as her eyes ignited at the challenge. It was always enrapturing for me to bear witness to a pony’s talent. Utilizing the most ancient, undefined secrets of our world to accomplish a task that destiny itself had granted them the ability to overcome. It was beautiful.

A series of beeps, boops and a final disheartening buzz were the awards for her efforts.

“Well,” she said sheepishly, rubbing the back of her head, “Somepony is definitely in there, or at least they were. A terminal inside set up the security.”

“Is that a problem?” Whiskey asked harshly.

“Naw,” Cracks rejected, fanning a hoof at him. “Just giving you a heads up that somepony in there may not want any visitors, that’s all. It’s just your standard eight-bit ESCII password protection. Betcha twenty caps I crack it before old Recursive in there did.”

“You can compare times when you get it open,” Whiskey barked. “Hell, if he was in on takin’ this place from me, you’ve got a permanent spot on the team.”

I watched over her shoulder, trying to follow the rapid commands she was hammering into the Pipbuck. Since I’d met her, Cracks had given me a couple tutorials on terminal hacking. I had taken a semester of programming in my undergrad, so it wasn’t the most alien thing I’d ever done. Still, the basics I had down didn’t compare to the rapid stream of information Cracks was feeding into the device.

After another thirty seconds of data entry, the terminal sprung to life.

Stable-Tec override, accepted.

A buzzing alarm echoed from the door as a red warning light panned around the room. The enormous gear shrieked in protest as the slab was pulled into its recession and began rolling to the side. Fluorescent light spilled around the edges, and every pony in the room strained their necks to be the first to witness the treasures within.

What a mistake that was.

Looks of eagerness and greed withdrew before horror and disgust. One could be forgiven for thinking an amateur painter had set out to give the entry way a bold new look by sloshing paint buckets against the walls. Splotches of red dripped across every surface, pooling together on the floor, or drying into hideous mosaics across the steel. Even several of the light fixtures above were splattered in blood, their light still shining through and further cloaking the room in its scarlet shroud.

However, it all paled in comparison to what lie in the dead center of the space. As the gear finally cleared the way, it revealed five pieces of rebar jutting vertically out of the floor. The four flanking the center were each crowned with a severed pony head, tongues lulling from their maws and horror frozen in their eyes.

The center of the horrendous gibbeting was what drew the eye. A tan mare, not dissimilar to the tone of Whiskey Stone’s beard, was left somewhat whole. The crude pike was lodged between her rear legs and pierced out the right side of her neck. A piece of paper appeared to be stapled to her chest and, in admittedly fine penmanship, somepony had boldly written a warning.

‘Please Stay Out’

As if the appalling scene couldn’t get any worse, the mare twitched and wheezed what might have been a cough. A spurt of red jetted out of the neck wound.

Oh Goddesses above, she was alive.

“T-Tumbler?” Whiskey stuttered, his eyes widening.

The impaled mare shakily raised her head, the small motion causing her to sink just a bit further down the bar. Her eyes shot open as she let out a sodden, gasping shriek. As her cries began to quiet, Tumbler locked onto her father. “P-Pa… it hurts… p-please… m-make it stop.”

“No,” the stallion said breathily, the expression on his face showing nothing but disbelief. “My lil’ girl.” A sputtering noise, somewhere between a sob and a gag, escaped him before it morphed into an anguished howl. “TUMBLER!”

He galloped forward, stopping just short of the macabre spectacle. Whiskey reached out a hoof, but quickly withdrew it. Obviously experience was tempering his actions. Instead he whipped toward me, “Doc, get the fuck down here!”

“I- bu- wha-?” I stuttered, the shock of our discovery not quite having sunken in. This wasn’t happening. This was, literally, the worst possible way things could have played out. I can’t do this, we’re not just playing doctor anymore. Tumbler needed real help. How could I have been so stupid as to sign up for this? How stupid was I to get myself stuck down here in the first place?

I started hyperventilating, my eyes cemented onto the eviscerated mare, “I… I ca-”

“GODDESS-DAMMIT, DOC!” the hysterical father shrieked. “PLEASE, HELP HER!”

Finally snapped from my traumatized trance, I shakily approached, “H-hi there, m-my name is Doctor Harmony.” I tried to smile as convincingly as possible, but I couldn't shake the feeling it was coming off fairly psychopathic.

Tumbler was rapidly gasping short, strained breaths. Her eyes moved to meet mine, but that was all.

“S-so what brings you in today?” I joked nervously, instinct forcing me to laugh in the fakest possible way.

It didn’t exactly dispel the tension like I’d hoped.

“What in the shit do you think you’re doin’?” Whiskey barked venemously. “My baby girl is dyin’ and you just tryin’ to make light of it?!” Furious snorts gushed from his nostrils, and he looked about one more bad joke away from bashing my skull in.

“Don’t waste your time, Doc,” Crosshair stated boredly. “You’ll just be throwin’ away potions.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Whiskey snarled, his fury redirecting at the other stallion.

“‘Xactly what I said,” he replied patronizingly. “Anypony with a lick o’ sense can tell she’s a lost cause. Whatever did this to her is still in there, and by the look o’ it, we’ll be needin’ them supplies a hell o’ a lot more than lil’ miss pole dancer here w-”

The older stallion slammed a hoof into Crosshair’s jaw, sending him tumbling to the floor. He didn’t stop there as he stood above the supine scavver and began hammering blows against his skull. “You mouthy lil’ shit! That’s my! Fuckin’! Daughter!” he shouted, punctuating the last three words with their own individual punches.

Crosshair struggled beneath Whiskey’s weight, but finally managed to leverage a leg and knock the older stallion off balance. He aimed a kick at Whiskey’s jaw, forcing him to retreat. With the space he’d bought, Crosshair turned and unholstered his rifle, working the bolt action, “You know it’s gotta be this way, think about it ol’ man!”

BANG!

The sudden, blaring crack echoed around the small space, forcing everypony to turn toward the Stable. Cracks stood still, listlessly taking a drag off her cigarette as she held the smoking .44 aloft, “If’n we’re all quite finished with this incredibly impressive display of dick waving, mayhaps we can actually figure out a more amicable plan of action?”

I rubbed a hoof against my hear, praying that the piercing ring would eventually stop, “Thanks for the tinnitus.”

Cracks snorted, “What, so now you’re a real doctor?”

I narrowed my eyes in retort.

Whiskey and Crosshair glared at each other, but neither made a move to continue the confrontation. The younger stallion casually wiped a drip of blood from his lip.

“Good,” Cracks began. “Now that we’re all acting like adults again, let’s figure this out.”

“What’d you have in mind?” Whiskey asked. “Unless you missed it, we ain't exactly blessed fer time.”

The mare nodded, “You’re right, but so is dipshit here.” She motioned at Crosshair, and he returned the comment with a curled lip. “Ain’t a doctor in the Marejave that could save Tumbler in our current setting, and there ain’t even a prayer of getting her back to Hoofsprings alive.”

The impaled mare whimpered pitifully at the woeful declaration.

“It’s rude to interrupt, darling,” Cracks rebuked, sparing a glance at Tumbler before continuing. “However, that don’t mean there ain’t some hope.”

“Then what in the hell’re you waitin’ fer?” Whiskey snapped angrily. “Out with it!”

“A lot of these here Stables were equipped with Auto-Docs,” Cracks answered. “Robotic surgeons that could damn near bring somepony back to life, the pinnacle of medical science during the war. If there’s any chance of saving your daughter, it’s gonna be us clearing a path to the medical bay.”

“Then let’s find it,” Whiskey commanded. He drew himself back up, the usual sense of calm determination returning to his demeanor. “Doc, give Cracks a couple o’ them potions and stay out here with Tumbler. Just… just do what ya can. The rest o’ y’all, form up around me. We’re findin’ that Auto-Doc, but if any o’ ya’ll happen to come across the walkin’ cadaver that did that this to my lil’ girl? Keep ‘em alive until I get my hooves on ‘em.”

A short round of agreement (a bit less from Crosshair) answered Whiskey before the party grouped up and began marching into the Stable. I breathed a sigh of relief, thankful I wasn’t deemed necessary for this excursion.

Cracks turned toward one of the mounted heads as she passed through the entrance, an older stallion’s with a grey coat and an aged, white mane. I had a flickering moment of recognition, remembering the stallion as one Cracks often went drinking with back in Hoofsprings. The few times I’d joined them resulted in an unending tirade of optimal hacking strategies, neither ever conceding the inefficiencies of their own techniques, but always finishing the night with drunken laughter and camaraderie.

The mare smiled weakly as she patted his head, “Recursive’s patented cryptographic hash function, my ass. Betcha my trojan cracked it in half the time, old man.”

Just as Cracks stepped into the Stable proper, a soft bong echoed from an unseen PA system.

‘Good morning citizens of Stable 42. Please stand by for an announcement from your Overmare.’

A crackling static replaced the audio, laying another layer of disconcertment over the scene. After a few seconds, a young, raspy, and (surprisingly) stallion’s voice broke through.

“I told them to leave.”

A few deep breaths followed, almost like the speaker was trying to compose himself.

“This is my home. I didn’t want to hurt them, but he made me. He’s always there, watching, waiting. He doesn’t care, he wants you to suffer, but I don’t. They didn’t have to die, and neither do any of you.”

Everypony in attendance turned toward each other, offering looks of utter bewilderment.

“Leave now, don’t come back. This is my world, I am its master, its god. NOT. HIM. But that’s only true if its just the two of us. You CAN’T exist here, and I’m begging you to believe that is what’s best. Please…”

The voice trailed off, a round of sorrowful moans greeting us until finally-

“Please don’t make me kill you.”