“In every other song that I’ve heard lately, some fellow gets shot

And his baby an’ his best friend both die with him, as likely as not

In half of the other songs some cat’s cryin’ or ready to die

We’ve lost most all of our happy ponies and I’m-a wonderin’ why…”

These lyrics were the first stimuli to stir me back into the land of the living. As I struggled to open my eyes, they found it difficult as piercing sunbeams lanced in through a window behind me. I was laying atop a hay-cushioned mattress, wearing nothing but my holotags, and as I shifted I could feel bandages swathing my neck. Several of the wounds around my barrel and flank had been tended to, alongside fresh wraps encircling my wing stump.

“Let’s think about livin’, let’s think about lovin’

Let’s think about the boopin’ an’ the hoppin’ an’ the boppin’ an’ the lovey-lovey-dovin’

Let’s forget about the whinin’ and the cryin’ and the shootin’ and the dyin’ and the fellow with the switchblade knife

Let’s think about livin’, let’s think about life…”

The aches of sickness still permeated my joints and sapped my muscles. I shivered very slightly but it felt as though the worst of the fever had passed in the night. The bullet wound on my neck throbbed subtly, buried in healing magic, and my stomach… well, my stomach was the emptiest it had been in years.

I can’t make a habit of waking up in pain.

The room I had been laid up in appeared to be a principal’s office. Shelves of framed photographs lined the walls and across the room was a solid oak desk bearing a terminal, two tall trophies, and a worn but functional radio that belted out a tinny rendition of some rollicking song. Posters of fruit bats were lined up against the walls, and under one of the windows was Camphor’s Ministry of Peace bag, a thin tear dividing the cluster of butterflies on the front.

Next to my bedding was a bottle of large and circular white pills, a half-filled water bottle, and a scribbled note. Squinting, I shaded the paper from the glare of the sunlight, trying to decipher the messy scratchings.

“Kwilrite:
Wen you wake up, take 2 of these rite away.”

Ignoring the misspellings as best I could, I did as instructed. After clearing my throat as the large, dry pills worked their way down, I heaved myself up from a sitting position, wincing at my sore right leg. A clock behind the desk indicated that it was sometime past noon, though the second hand wasn’t moving. It seemed abnormally bright outside; I moved to the window, leaning down to squint upwards at the sky above.

The clouds. They were...

Parted. Wide open, the blazingly bright sun shining down through the lightest haze of mist.

My peaceful reverie was shattered as I dove beneath the desk and slid into one of its legs. One of the trophies was knocked off and smashed against the floor while I drew in my hooves and tail, ears frantically darting to and fro. I listened searchingly for the sound of gunshots, Raptor engines, or the roar of Shadowbolt wings tearing past overhead.

They must be hunting for me! I was going to be shot, or captured, or… or shot and then captured! The Enclave would drag my flank into the sky, parading the dirty one-winged Wasteland pegasus before the entire population, and then... maybe I’d be staked to a lightning rod atop stormclouds, or thrown from an edge of the curtain, or hung from the front of a Thunderhead to be eaten away by wind and weather until I was nothing more than a skeleton.

For half a minute I listened, not hearing anything out of the ordinary. That's what they want you to think! I cowered for a few more moments before I flinched as the door burst open. There was a brief moment of silence, and then hesitant clacking of hooves against the floor accompanied by speedy clicking.

"Quillwright?"

A furry shape suddenly appeared in front of the desk, startling me as it stuck its head in and started sniffing me. I relaxed upon recognizing Wick’s sad face and his rather unpleasant breath. "...Willow?" I replied, doing my best to fend off the dog’s tongue as he tried to lick my mane.

"Yeah?" The unicorn had halted, still out of sight. Slowly, I pushed Wick out of the way and clambered out from beneath my sanctuary. Sure enough, Willow stood just inside the threshold, once again dressed in her dark, oversized coat. Her head tilted slightly. "You okay? Were… uh... were you under...?"

"Just, ah..." My mouth opened to explain my reaction, but changed course immediately as I recalled my reason in the first place. "The sky?" My expression was one of bewilderment.

The awkwardness amplified tenfold as the guide simply stared at me, though I could practically hear her blinking in confusion at my words. "It is a nice day out, yeah?" she began. "Best to enjoy de moments when de sun shows itself."

Willow didn't seem to understand my hint. "How is it... how's the cloud cover open without the Enclave being here?"

" ‘Enclave?’ "

She wasn't kidding. "The... the Grand Pegasus Enclave? The ones who sealed themselves behind the clouds on the Last Day and kept them shut ever since?"

Willow finally ended our streak of answering questions with more questions. “De clouds here ain’t ever been ‘sealed.’ Any pegasi dat might'a once regulated de weat’er cut and run a long time ago, leaving us to get battered by rain and radstorms.”

I was more than a little confused at this information, but simultaneously relieved.

“Surely you saw dem part when you were on your way sout’? I mean, you were in an airship, yeah?”

“Well… I was inside for most of the trip,” I admitted. The amount of work I’d brought along to keep me occupied had relegated me to my quarters for a majority of the journey.

Willow gave a quiet sigh.

Looking to change the subject just as desperately as I actually wanted to be filled in, I quickly asked, “What happened last night?”

The unicorn beckoned me. “Best to show you.” I took notice that the PipBuck was now on her arm.

“Everypony’s taking a turn with it, aren’t they?” I mumbled.

Willow didn’t seem to understand until she saw me looking at the bracelet. “Oh…” she sounded a little embarrassed. “Yeah, it’s… been easier to wear it den to carry it.”

We exited the office into one of the school’s empty, quiet hallways. The place felt far less oppressive when daylight shimmered across the floors. As we trotted along the rows of lockers, I couldn’t help but ask Willow, “Is Camphor alright?”

“He’ll live,” she answered. “He’s got a bit of a wheeze when he exhales now, but de supplies saved him in time.”

“But... I didn’t make it back!”

Willow directed me out of the same fire exit Harvest and I had taken that evening. I had to shut my eyes against the glare, only able to squint and part my eyelids very slowly to adjust. The weather was beautiful as far as post-war days went; a soft breeze whispered past as the sun warmed my fur. The temperature was mild and a thin mist floated above us, glowing in the light.

There was a collection of old picnic tables at the back of the school, at which sat about a dozen ponies having conversations and lunch. As we neared, I found myself smiling as Harvest rose to greet us. He looked battered but still upbeat, his left ear heavily bandaged. “Quillwright!” he exclaimed. “Thank Luna, we were worried you weren’t ever gonna wake up!”

I groaned, massaging my neck tenderly. “Hey, Harvest! Can I...?” I indicated the various items of food on the tables.

“Oh, yeah, of course! Tribals had a little bit of farmland on the other side of the school that they’d had the slaves cultivating, plus all the food they’d stolen when they took me.” Harvest floated an ear of corn to me as the three of us took a seat at the end of the table. Wick went underneath and then stuck his begging head up and out between Willow’s legs, who reprimanded him and pushed him back down. Harvest’s genuine smile shone as he looked me over. “I knew you were tough.” He looked back at the others behind him. I expected to see Marigold, but she wasn’t among them. “Thanks to you we made it.”

I shook my head, “But I couldn't get the supplies to you! How… what happened?” I scrunched my brows as I recalled the last moments I could remember. “Did Wick find me?”

Harvest grinned as he called the dog, who popped out beside the stallion and received some bits of jerky. “He did, and he wasn’t alone.” He turned in his seat, inviting a mare sitting apart at a parallel table to join us. Her coat was a dreary blue, contrasted with her fetlocks, mane, and tail, which lightened into white at the ends. In her forelegs was the tribal foal, sleeping peacefully and swaddled in a blanket. She hesitated to move from her seat, but after further encouragement from Harvest crept to his side, avoiding eye contact. “Corona here finished the job.”

For a moment I didn’t understand, but as I reviewed the events of last night I recognized her face. Slitter, the slave who’d called our venture a suicide mission, had tried leaving with two other ponies, one of which was the earth mare Harvest was currently introducing. She fidgeted uncomfortably, and her quick glances at me still held some of the same guilt I'd observed when she fled with Slitter.

Willow helpfully explained, "Corona turned around and came back to town. She met Wick, who brought her to you, den she bandaged your wounds and got us de bags.” She planted her hoof on the table to emphasize her next sentence. “After dat, we all finished handing dose hoof-dragging dipshits dere own flanks, since dey were a whole lot less confident wid’out a leader.” After that, her voice grew softer. “We'd have lost a lot more if it weren't for de t’ree of you."

Corona looked out towards the field, where my eyes caught sight of disturbed earth. Several makeshift grave markers could be seen poking above the edge of the grass, fashioned out of metal plates that I recognized were pried from the sentry bot. My heart sank. “How many…?”

“Thirteen,” Harvest answered, his smile flatlining. “Still have two recovering. Everypony else got patched up fine once Camphor was back in the game, but...” He scratched just below his bandaged ear and sighed. “Still sore as hell.”

Finally, I locked eyes with Harvest and asked, “And… Marigold?”

The husband’s spirit lost whatever happiness it had gained from seeing my awakening. “We…” he began, trying multiple times to pick his phrasing. “We just don’t know. I… we searched the whole town twice over and haven’t found her… her...” His lips began to make a “b”, but couldn’t finish the sentence.

“Hey…” Willow placed a comforting hoof on his shoulder.

Harvest seemed on the verge of breaking down as he looked at his friend. “How am I gonna tell Pleasure?” he whispered desperately.

“Hey.” The guide’s voice was firm. “She’ll understand; you bot' knew de risks of living on your own.”

I heard Corona’s gentle voice for the first time as she soothed, “I still think your first theory’s right, Harvest.”

“Even…” Tears were welling up in Harvest’s eyes. “Even if they took Mari away, or… to Neigh Orleans... how am I supposed to find her?

“Maybe…” Willow swallowed. “Maybe once I get Quillwright to de border, I can help you track her down?” she suggested. “I'm sure we could find somepony in Buckwater willing to help, too.”

Corona stroked Harvest’s back, who seemed to calm down a little. “Thanks, Willow.” He sniffed loudly, wiping his snout with a fetlock. “Sorry, I just…” He swallowed and took several deep, quaking breaths. “She's just all I can think about right now…”

“Don't apologize,” said Willow, firmly. “You’ve got every right to focus on your wife.”

Harvest nodded, sniffed again, and in a few minutes was more or less back to his upbeat self, rejoining conversations elsewhere down the table. After I'd had my fill of the available food, Willow addressed me.

“C’mon. De doc wanted to see you once you were awake.”

“Camphor’s been sorting t'rough everyting we pulled from de pharmacy.” Willow told me as we trotted down the road that cut through the grassy field. Wick had stayed behind with Harvest and Corona, playing fetch with them using leftover corn cobs.

“It was stocked after all?”

“The back room still was, since it was locked behind a cloud interface. T’anks to you we could get it open.”

“But… wasn’t I unconscious?”

Willow gave a quick nod. “Yeah, we, uh…” She cleared her throat in an attempt to make her next sentence sound less strange; it failed. “We carried you in and used your hoof to press de keys.”

I couldn’t resist a short giggle at how bizarre the scene must have looked. “Well, I’m glad I could still help somehow.”

In the middle of the day, St Mare's felt much smaller and less maze-like. Now reflecting the light of the sun, the buildings revealed colorfully-painted walls. Despite the amount of refuse and the decayed state of the streets and structures, there was still a kind of vibrancy and life to be found in St Mare’s: plant life was everywhere. We followed patches of moss and ivy that carpeted the road to the pocket park, the town’s fount of flora which was spilling with greenery.

I foraged around inside and was able to reclaim a grimy Riptide. When I exited the grove, I found that Willow was offering the disconnected PipBuck back to me.

“Here, you oughta take dis back,” she told me. It wasn’t hard to tell that she would miss getting to use the bracelet, but I thanked her as I accepted it and clipped it back onto my own leg. I rebooted the PipBuck and allowed it to scan me while we continued onwards, finally returning to the pharmacy.

The front door was now propped open, so the two of us were able to enter without having to kick our way inside. Even in the light of day I felt a chill pass through me as the nightmarish encounter with the tribal hunter still haunted me. Specks of dried blood across the floor and a flattened shelving unit were stark reminders of my near-death encounter; thankfully, the tribal’s body had been removed.

Willow guided me down the bare aisles to the rear, where behind a secure glass-and-steel counter we could see Camphor sitting on the floor with his back to us, sorting through all manner of labelled boxes and pill bottles. To the right was an unlocked door with a terminal and cloud interface inset next to it.

Ministry of Awesome technology wasn’t particularly common outside of the Enclave, usually installed as an extra layer of security. I’d only seen one cloud interface before, connected to a bank vault the Rangers had opened hoping to collect bits for scrap metal. Same as that one, this keyboard had an odd consistency, like typing through a particularly fluffy pillow.

Within the back we found Camphor muttering to himself as he stacked medicines in orderly piles, occasionally jotting down a quick note in a well-worn journal. He looked up at us as we entered, smiling. “Quillwright! Good to see you up and about.” There was a slight rasp to his voice.

“Same!” I replied. “I’m relieved we saved you in time.”

The doctor gave a light chuckle, which forced him to clear his throat. “It was definitely a close one, but those stimpaks helped reset my rib and the potions patched up my lung.” He placed a hoof to his chest, taking as deep a breath as he could. “It’s got some sensitive new tissue that hurts somethin' awful, but it’s a small price to pay for airtight lungs.”

I nodded and took in the small room around me. It had been almost completely cleared out by Camphor, whose bags were overflowing with new contents. It was dusty but very clean, well-preserved since the megaspells, and-

“Yip!” Molly was clinging to the wall next to me, completely silent and still. My wing spread out reflexively and smacked Willow in the face. Apologizing profusely to the tutting unicorn, I tried to settle my nerves. This moth had saved my life twice since I met her; surely I could stop screaming like a filly every time I glimpsed her.

“Molly rescued me last night,” I told Camphor, my shaky voice evening out. “I was caught by a tribal on my way here; I wouldn't have made it otherwise!”

The hint of a grin tugged at the corners of Camphor’s mouth. “Good girl, Molly,” he cooed to the goremoth. Her antennae wiggled in an acknowledging manner.

“How're your wounds feeling?” he asked me.

I tilted my head slowly while pulling my rear right leg up and carefully flexing it as far as the bandages allowed. While there was still a lot of soreness, I felt much better and told him as such.

Camphor nodded, then asked Willow, “She took those antibiotics I gave you?”

“Mmhmm.” Willow glanced over at me. “You did take dose pills next to your bed, right?”

I assured her that I had.

Camphor picked up a small green-and-white cardboard box and offered it to Willow. “Would you please take this to Spring Bloom? That should help with her congestion.”

The unicorn nodded, lifting the medicine in her magic and turning to leave. Feeling that there wasn’t anything left to discuss with Camphor, I thanked him and moved to follow the guide out of the pharmacy before I was halted by the doctor’s words. “Quillwright. A word, please?”

Somehow his inflection left me uneasy. I halted and turned back to Camphor, whose face had grown serious “... Yes?”

The earth pony stood, wincing a little as he straightened. He waited until Willow had left before speaking. “I do want to thank you for everythin’ you’ve done. Without you I’d have ended up deader than a doornail an’ we’d have lost a lot of good folk.”

I felt relieved at his words and exhaled. “You’re welcome. I was just... doing my duty.”

“No, you weren’t.”

That small wind of relief was squashed immediately and I felt a sudden rush of uneasiness. Did I do something wrong? I was about to ask what Camphor meant when he continued.

“Willow told me you’d agreed to help her even before you knew where your cure might be.” His eyes narrowed as he took one step forward. “Now, you could be an exception, but Steel Rangers have never displayed any altruism towards my… me or anyone other than their own kind.”

“I’m different…”

“You’ve only got thirty caps in your saddlebags,” Camphor interrupted, fixing me with a look of measured distrust, his voice low and severe.

My ears heated up in shame, folding down. Swallowing, I tried to offer an excuse, to explain that I’d get the rest of the caps from my allies or something similar, but nothing sounded convincing.

The doctor gave a low whinny. “If this was a ploy to win some favors, I’d say you’re off to a good start.”

While I had genuinely started to care about these Wastelanders, my offer to help find Harvest had primarily been intended to get me on Willow’s good side as early as possible. If I didn’t have the payment by the end of the journey, I figured it would be easier to break it to her if I’d helped save her friend. I knew deep down that I wouldn’t have pitched in to help if I’d had ample caps… and if I hadn’t learned that a cure for typhoof might be in St Mare’s as well.

“D-does she know?” I whispered.

Camphor raised his head slightly, clearly disappointed at my admission. “She has the decency to leave her clients’ belongings undisturbed. And no, I haven’t told her.”

My eyes were locked on his hooves, unable to meet his gaze.

“I won’t because of your actions to save us here.” He drew in a breath. “But for Willow's sake and for those she cares about, you will pay her those caps. I don’t care if you have to earn 'em, steal 'em, or get ‘em from your Ranger friends, but you’ll fulfill your end of the bargain.”

I felt myself nodding. The heavy conscience I’d felt since Buckwater had tripled in the span of half a minute and stolen my voice in the process.

“I’d like to believe your group really does practice what you preach: restorin’ Equus to what it once was. I have yet to see anything of the sort.”

It struck me as odd that Camphor had a preconception of the Steel Rangers; I'd chalked Willow's opinion of us up to general Wastelander sentiment, but Camphor seemed to be speaking from experience. That couldn't be possible, however, as we’d never ventured south to Mulisiana before now. I was about to bring this up before he continued.

“I also saw that necklace.”

Is there anything he doesn’t know about me now?

“You’d do best to tread lightly around black magic.” With a long blink, my eyes found the strength to connect with his. The doctor’s grave expression was now concerned.

“I… I will,” I stammered.

Camphor nodded. “Glad to hear it.” He reached into a stack of bottles next to him and handed me one, labeled as colostrum tablets. “Now, could you take this to Corona, please?”

I left the pharmacy with the bottle in my mouth, accompanying instructions for Corona, and freshly rejuvenated anxiety. Dark clouds gathered far to the southwest, but the warm sun still powered through what little cover there currently was. I began back towards the school, and it wasn’t long before Wick intercepted me at the end of the street, tail wagging and looking significantly less downtrodden than normal. Behind him followed Corona, who slowed her walk when she spotted me.

The mare had the tribal foal secured around her chest by a sling. He shifted occasionally in fitful sleep, his dark brown mane swept back and out of his face. Corona looked at me apprehensively, evidently still uncomfortable around me after having fled with Slitter last night.

“Oh!” I cleared my throat, holding the bottle forwards and trying to start a conversation without sounding awkward. “I was just about to look for you; Camphor wanted me to give you this.”

Corona looked at the bottle and then at me, accepting it. “Thank you,” she murmured faintly. Whether her tonal volume was actually that low or if it was a result of my eardrums going through the ringer, I was still unsure. “I’m the only mare here willing to feed him, and I've never… never been pregnant, so…” she indicated the colostrum, its label claiming that the tablets contained supplements beneficial for feeding newborns. She swallowed a hoof-full and then secured the bottle into the sling’s folds.

I smiled. “Well, I’m… uh… I’m glad you’re willing to take care of him.”

Corona shook her head, sweeping her bangs out of her eyes and diverting her gaze. “Still won’t make up for anything…” I could just barely hear her whisper.

“Hmm?” Had I misheard her?

“I…” Corona began, lowering her head. “Celestia won’t forgive me, even after this.” She gnashed her teeth in anguish. "Mossflower, Okra, Cherish... they died giving their lives for others while I was saving myself.” Her mouth worked slowly as she breathed laboriously. “...If I hadn't abandoned them, maybe I could've helped and... th-they might still be alive."

My gut twisted; I'd completely forgotten about Okra. Without his uniting kindness, the disorganized slaves might not have rallied behind me. If Corona had known Okra before their capture, then deserting him must have wreaked pure torture on her conscience.

If she’s this torn about the situation, how must Orange Kyanite feel? A newly-promoted Paladin who lost his lover, his best friend, and his mentor in the first abroad expedition that he’d led?

“You…” I reached for something to say that wouldn't worsen her survivor's guilt or sound disingenuous. “You still came back. And that in itself is something admirable.”

So why didn't Orange Kyanite come back for you?

Oh Goddesses, not this again. They were different circumstances, and I knew that.

Were they? Corona was one unarmed mare risking recapture or death. Kyanite was a power-armored Paladin with almost an entire squad of Rangers at his back.

Seeds of doubt were planting their roots as I dwelt on this. Meanwhile, Corona had turned her face up to me, tears wetting her cheeks. “But I still faltered when it mattered the most.”

I looked into her grey eyes. I wasn't qualified to ease a grieving pony's soul; where could I start, what would I say? Any reassurances or promises that leapt into my head died in my throat, and I was left speechless as I swallowed and turned my attention to the foal.

Say something! Anything!

A condoling murmur escaped my lips, followed by a weak, “I know. I’m sorry.”

Did Kyanite fail me?

A tear fell from Corona and landed on the foal’s face. The miniscule pony awoke as he writhed in the sling, stretched out his forelegs, and gave a petite whinny. His eyelids finally parted, and I felt my heart climb into my throat at the sight.

He has his mother's eyes.

“I don't know what to call him.” Corona wiped the colt’s face with her fetlock. “Do you… do you think I have the right to name him?”

I shook my head slowly. “Well...” Whether or not Corona was aware that I had been the one responsible for orphaning the foal ate at me. “... You’re probably the only pony here who should.”

“I don't know about that, but…” A deep breath brought Corona's head back up. “I’ll take him to Buckwater. M-maybe somepony there can adopt him.”

“That’d be wonderful,” I reassured her. “You’re still doing a noble thing, taking care of the colt like this.”

Those words seemed to revive Corona’s spirits. Wick, who had been sitting quietly at her hooves, sensed this and rose to wag his tail and sniff the foal. “Thank you,” the mare replied, giving the first smile I’d seen from her.

The sky had begun darkening to match the overcast mood that hung around most of us. Willow raised her head slightly, allowing the gradually strengthening breeze to filter beneath her hood. “Smells like rain. Hope de weat'er holds up...”

We had resolved to vacate St Mare’s as soon as possible. While the tribe had been driven out last night and many of its members were now dead, nopony wanted to risk the possibility of vengeful hunters returning to attack us. While Willow, Wick, and I continued onwards, Camphor and Harvest would lead the survivors back to Buckwater.

“Best of luck to you, Quillwright,” Harvest said as he shook my hoof. “I hope you find your way home safely.”

“Thanks.” I smiled and returned the gesture. “I hope you find Marigold soon.”

Harvest gave a sad but warm nod. “ ‘Preciate that, Quill.” Corona, who followed close behind him, dipped her head respectfully, her piece already spoken to me.

Most of the freed slaves insisted on thanking Willow and I personally. The unicorn guide boasted that our combined efforts had, quote, “Scared so much piss out of the mud-lovers that it could fill the length of the Rift,” while I was content to graciously accept the ponies’ gratitude. I had just given an old stallion my welcome, watching as he continued past to also bow to Willow, when Camphor took his place in front of me. I flinched in surprise at how quietly he’d arrived.

“Quillwright,” he spoke evenly, offering his hoof.

I swallowed and placed mine against his. “Camphor.” Noticing the brown-and-red folded wings covering his back, I added, “Molly.”

The doctor wore a mixture of appreciation and knowing sternness. “Stay safe. I also trust that you’ll keep what I said in mind…?”

There was no guessing as to what he referred to. “Of course.” I could definitely sympathize with Corona’s current guilt; my dishonesty with Willow couldn’t continue if I hoped to keep her company.

“Excellent.” Camphor reached around into one of his saddlebags. “Also,” he said as he pulled something out and offered it to me, “ 'Fraid I couldn’t find a sheath, but you should take this.”

The blade of the tribal leader's hellhound dagger gleamed in the sunlight, as long as half my foreleg. I felt a bit nervous upon seeing the weapon, still gun-shy after having been stabbed by it. “... Are you sure? You don't need it for… amputating or anything?”

Camphor laughed. “Hah! No, Quillwright, I rarely need to resort to such drastic measures. Besides, you don't have a backup weapon of any kind.”

It was true; I had now been caught high and dry without Riptide multiple times. It couldn’t hurt to have a knife in reserves, though the idea of plunging a blade into another pony made me queasy. “Thanks.”

“Hopefully you won’t need to use it again,” concluded Camphor, seeming to read my thoughts. “And finally…” He held out thirty caps. “Here's your portion of what we recovered from the tribals' share. Tried to provide an even cut for everypony.”

I held out a hoof to accept them, but he paused right before they fell from his frog into mine. “I would've given them to Willow, but…” Camphor tilted his head. “I'll grant you the benefit of the doubt.”

Dipping my head to him deferentially, I received my allotment of caps. The doctor responded with a curt smile and then continued on to give his farewell to Willow.

The weather did not hold up.

In fact, it did just the opposite, falling on us in the form of gallons of chilly rainwater. After about an hour's trek out of St Mare's, a brigade of bruise-colored clouds rumbled in from the west, knitted themselves together, and blotted out the sunlight once again.

The rain was nearly blowing sideways now. I'd draped my Scribe robes over my bags and rump to keep them dry while shielding my face with my wing, but even these measures did little to defend against the downpour. My water-resistant Stable barding was still holding up, but the cuffs were starting to feel damp. Any longer in this rain and I'd be soaked to the bone.

Willow didn't appear to be faring any better, forced to hold her hood taut against the wind to keep it in place. Her black overcoat was beginning to cling to her form, which was revealing itself to be quite skinny. To her credit, she forged ahead briskly and without hesitation, able to navigate the swamp even in this tempestuous atmosphere.

Wick trailed behind me, looking utterly miserable. He was hunched over with his head bowed against the weather and tail tucked in, fur drenched. Every time a thunderclap resounded, he whined and caught up to me, sticking close to my hind legs.

We struggled against the buffeting gale while branches whipped at our faces, reaching in like green-feathered limbs. The small trail we were following was dotted with rapidly growing puddles, and my hooves were now coated with mud. I'd stored the PipBuck in my bags in an attempt to keep it clean and dry.

I shouted to Willow above the noise just as a blinding flash of unseen lightning burst through the trees. "Are we there yet?"

The unicorn gave an emphasized nod that I couldn't mishear or misinterpret, and then replied, "It should be just-"

KRA-POOOW!

A bombastic peal of thunder drowned out the rest of Willow's sentence. I was able to hear her cursing out the weather afterwards, though.

Sure enough, a few minutes later the path joined a wide dirt road, which Willow turned left onto and took us another minute east. I first noticed a proud white limestone wall on the side of the road, which rose up several feet and continued unbroken until we reached a gate. Reminiscent of the Ministry of Image hub's entrance, two towering gates composed of thick wrought iron hung open. The metalworking was remarkable, boasting elegant swirls and tipped by fleurs-de-lis. ‘Magnolia Grove’ was engraved into the arch above, partially obscured by creepers.

Slipping inside, we were now on a wide, weather-eaten brick lane flanked by enormous oak trees, whose canopies created a leafy tunnel and partially kept out the rain. True to the estate's name, wild magnolias grew all over the ground, alongside countless other types of flora. To either side were wild fields and fens, tall grass rippling in the wind.

The road continued down to a massive antebellum mansion, partially obscured by the wild oak trees that now surrounded it. It stood three stories high, with a sloping brown gabled roof and numerous stout pillars running the length of the building’s front. The stained white siding was broken up by tall shuttered windows and a pair of porches which appeared to run the length of the first two floors.

We bounded up the sweeping staircase at the front of the house, finally sheltered from the rain. We shook off whatever water we could, taking cover as Wick did the same and was left covered in frizzy fur. The wraparound porch was filled with overturned patio furniture, swings rusted off their chains, and railings nearly identical to the entrance gates. Turning, I gasped in fright as I found several shrunken heads dangling around the perimeter, swinging and spinning in the wind.

Upon closer inspection, however, they were revealed not to be voodoo trophies but the filthy, dismembered heads of brushable porcelain pony dolls. Their manes were stained black, while large and soulless eyes stared down at us eerily. I took little comfort in the fact that they were just toy heads.

Willow sniffed and then cleared her throat. “Most locals tink dis plantation’s haunted, so dere shouldn't be any tribal types inside.” She eyed the front door, which hung half-ajar. “But stay alert. Ot’er ponies like us who ain’t superstitious might've had de same idea to hole up here,” she said, drawing her shotgun. I didn't feel the need to inform her that I believed in ghosts.

I dried my hooves on a nearby doormat, fetching Riptide and the PipBuck. Once the E.F.S. had booted into view, three lifesigns sprung up on the compass, somewhere inside the mansion.

“Got ‘free neutral marks,” I informed Willow through my pistol as she told Wick to stay, who went and sulked beneath a chair in response.

The unicorn nodded, prodding the solid front door open with her weapon. It swung in, creaking gently, and we both waited, listening as best we could for any reaction from within. Nothing followed, so we crept inside.

The foyer was gigantic, boasting a pair of wide, sweeping oak stairways on either side. An extravagant chandelier still hung in the center above a thick rug; paintings lined the walls, and a silent grandfather clock sat squarely ahead of us. Willow had already moved into the first room to our right, but I was rooted in place, staring in equal parts fascination and dread at what hung from the room's chandelier high above.

Suspended by its neck was a skeletal mass of rusted metal and frayed wires in the vague shape of a pony. The skull, bent at a ninety-degree angle, grinned at me with fully-exposed steel teeth and dark, hollow eye sockets. The body swung like a heavy pendulum from Tartarus as the breeze blew in.

“Psst!” Willow broke me from my transfixion. She didn't seem interested in the machine, indicating that the house was still occupied by strangers. I begrudgingly fell in behind her, intent on returning to study the body at the first opportunity.

We first entered into some sort of lounge. The tall ceilings were insulated with thick cobwebs while the pastel-colored walls were stained by leaks. Piles of fallen plaster chunks, rotted wood, and peeled wallpaper littered the rough carpet, which was eaten away by time. After that was a mold-encrusted kitchen, with appliances torn open for their components and cabinets standing open filled with little more than dust.

Next was a dining room that ran half the length of the mansion’s rear and contained a large, ornate dining table still draped in a tattered lace tablecloth. It was in this room that the marks on my compass flew past, near the middle of the table. I stopped and alerted Willow by whispering, “Above ush,” and pointing a hoof at the ceiling. “Or below.” No basements in the South, right?

The unicorn nodded and we continued around the mansion until we'd made it back to the foyer, passing through a ballroom and a guest bedroom on the way. Willow, taking the lead, ascended the first few steps of the staircase before her hoof landed on a board that squeaked like an unoiled power armor joint. She drew back quickly, casting a look back at me, then forwards. The mansion remained as eerily still as ever.

Willow pointed at me and then at the other staircase. I moved across the room and started up it myself, trying to apply as little pressure as I could while treading on the edges of my hooves. These steps turned out to be far more solid; I reached the landing without so much as a creak. Once Willow had followed the safer route, we moved as one to the door behind which stood the registered lifesigns.

Willow nudged the door open with her gun’s barrel. “Shit!” I heard Willow hiss as she peeked inside. The ticks hadn’t changed color, though I noticed them wiggle slightly. Willow raised her shotgun, but I jumped in front of her first.

“Willow, wait! Who’sh…” The words froze on my lips as I saw three feral ghouls crouched in the billiard room’s corner, staring at Willow with deadened, glinting eyes. As soon as I was in sight, however, the marks immediately rubified and the ghouls growled ferociously, lunging to their hooves and charging at us.

“Get back!” shouted Willow, shoving me backwards and unloading a shell into the first ghoul. The flesh of its barrel was shredded as it fell aside into an overturned chair. The next shot popped the second ghoul’s head like a water balloon; black ichor exploded backwards and drenched the third ghoul, who was shamble-galloping erratically.

Willow desperately began to reload her shotgun. She fumbled in her saddlebag for another shell as the screaming ghoul closed in. I shouted in panic, trying to right myself and aim in time…

...But it was too late.

The ghoul ran right past Willow, ignoring her completely and instead locking its deadened eyes on me, long trails of dark saliva falling from its mouth. Riptide sent a pair of bullets slicing through the feral’s foreleg and chest, and It tumbled to the floor where it thrashed and howled, spitting like a rabid animal.

I was panting with fear as I got my hooves under me, letting Riptide fall from my mouth in surprise. “Wha- what was…”

KA-BAM!

Willow’s shotgun disintegrated the ghoul’s head, painting the floorboards a sickening tar color. The guide was heaving as well, her gun shakily floating in front of her as she reloaded it, muttering to herself.

After composing myself, I put away Riptide. “Willow?”

The unicorn ignored me, snapping the shotgun back together. She started walking past me, and as she neared, I could make out some of her words: “...Clear last time…”

“Willow.”

She stopped. “What?”

“What was that?”

Willow just re-strapped the shotgun over her back. “Feral ghouls. You ain’t got dem in Equestria?”

I stomped a hoof. “You know what I mean. That thing just ran past you like you weren’t even there.”

“ ‘Cause it saw you lying on de floor, all vulnerable.”

“No, they don’t do that.”

Willow halted, facing me. “Well, de zombies you know are different from ours.”

I took a breath. “You’re a ghoul, aren’t you?”

Willow froze. I thought she was going to yell at me, but after a pause she just turned, moving back towards the stairs. “You’ve got quite de imagination...”

“I had my E.F.S. up. They weren’t hostile when you were all they could see.”

Stopping again, Willow stared out over the railing at the ornate chandelier. Taking a deep breath, she shook her head and pulled back her hood.

The first I saw of Willow was a fierce red mane, tousled and unkempt. As she turned to face me, she yanked down her thin scarf to reveal a sooty grey coat. There was a cluster of dark freckles atop her snout, while upon her cheek and neck were radiation scars; her eyes, once ringed with golden irises, were now coated in a translucent film of cataracts. Her expression was one of frustration and self-contempt.

“Big reveal,” she muttered bitterly, avoiding eye contact. “I’m a fuckin’ mutant.”

I’d have described Willow as a half-ghoul. The reddened welts left by radiation and glassed-over eyes were the telltale signs that the unicorn was in the earliest stages of ghoulification; she still had her normal voice and her hair, at least.

“Well,” I began, not looking to upset Willow, though it appeared inevitable. “I’m sorry to learn that you’re… this way, but… I’m glad we can have an eye-to-eye conversation now.”

“Eye-to-eye, huh?” Willow’s vision rose to connect with mine. Her eyelids drooped slightly, giving her a default expression of unamusement. “You wanna look me in the face when you tell me to fuck off?”

I blinked. “Come again?”

The guide shook her head. “You’re still only a day’s trek from Buckwater. You want a different guide, now’s your best chance to find one.” She floated the emerald caps out of her saddlebag and with visible distress let my payment fall to the floor. “Take dem,” she snapped, glaring at me. She turned to the stairs, trotting down them briskly and leaving me a little confused.

She expects me to dump her now that I know what she is? Granted, it wasn't unreasonable to imagine that she’d had clients abandon her after the same revelation. I scooped the caps up in my hoof and shouted after the unicorn as she threw open the front door. “Willow, wait!”

Galloping down the staircase, I made it out onto the porch just as Willow had called Wick to her and looked prepared to depart. Her hood and scarf fluttered weakly as the storm’s wind wove through the porch.

“I paid you to guide me to the border, regardless of any mutation.”

Willow stopped, watching as I held my hoof forwards and offered the caps back. She gave a rumbling whicker of uncertainty, lacking any kind of bass in her small chest.

I knew that my next words would be a make-or-break for our partnership. “Look, we've risked our lives for each other already.” My voice grew sincere, which was easier because for once I wasn’t trying to lie to her. “I trust you.”

Pursing her lips, Willow's eyes darted back and forth between my own and the currency. I could tell that she didn't just want the money; she needed it, desperately. When I nodded reassuringly, she quickly wrapped them in her golden magic.

“You're a really terrible Steel Ranger, you know dat?” she snarked as the caps returned to her bags.

My relieved sigh came out as a genuine laugh. “Hah, well… without my official robes I guess I don't know what to do.”

Willow didn't outwardly react to my response but no longer looked ready to leave. The unicorn gave me one more hesitant look, as if to ensure I wasn’t reconsidering, and then headed back indoors with Wick. Once she was out of earshot, I blew out a sigh and ran a hoof through my mane, heart still racing at how close I’d come to being left on my own again.

Author's Notes:

Part II will be along when it's ready. I swear it won't take too long...

Click here to listen to the original version of the song at the beginning(warning: it's very catchy). If you'd like to hear more of the music that has been used or just to experience what Mulisiana's airwaves would sound like, feel free to check out the radio playlist I've created. You may also enjoy the accompanying blog post for this chapter, which includes some relevant art.

Thank you for reading! Ratings, comments, and critiques are incredibly appreciated.