As the weather continued to rage unabated and my clothes still dripped with moisture, I returned indoors to change. Willow and Wick had both disappeared into the house. I thought it best to give the unicorn some time to herself before we spoke again; in the meantime, I had something new to investigate once I was out of this damp barding.

The room immediately to the left of the entrance looked to be a dusty old boudoir judging by the threadbare fainting couch and a mirror spilled onto its front. Oil lamps lined the walls and a limestone fireplace sat cold and barren against the far wall. I sat my bags and clothing aside and righted the mirror, which was relatively intact despite a few cracks running through it. It was the first decent reflective surface I’d seen since leaving the Phoebe.

The haggard mare that gazed back at me had a coat matted into a dirty hazelnut shade, the kind of ingrained filth that would take days to fully cleanse. As I slowly turned my head side-to-side, I winced at the strain on my neck muscles and at the state of my mane. A cascade of loose hairs, dandruff, water droplets, and odd swamp sheddings sprinkled out of my hair as I raked a hoof through it. Despite the impromptu grooming I still looked like a wild pony.

Leaning in close, I studied my face. My bloodshot and exhausted eyes, drained from sickness and insufficient rest, looked unfamiliar. The burns from the Stable explosion had left faint scars beneath my fur, alongside numerous nicks and cuts I’d picked up from thorny flora or the falls I’d taken. I felt some consolation since the bruise on the rear of my skull felt like it had healed and my hearing seemed to have evened out. I had to admit that when things were silent, however, I was assaulted with more ringing than seemed healthy. Ugh, please don't be an ear infection...

Now moving to my body, I shivered as I found multiple ticks had attached themselves to my legs. I pried them off with the edge of my hoof, crushing any which weren’t fast enough to scuttle beneath the floorboards. I fished out some gossamer tangled in the fur of my withers and mud was flicked from the tips of my tail hairs. Checking beneath my flank’s bandages, I found that the dagger wound had fully sealed, so I removed the wraps and tested my leg by flexing it back and forth. It was still sore, but I had full feeling again and could apply most of my weight to it. By Celestia’s blessing, my cutie mark had avoided damage.

Done with my little refresh, I returned to the foyer. I focused on the mechanical body hanging from the chandelier, eagerly circling it. There had to be a way to safely take it down, though getting to that was difficult as I just wanted to keep gaping in captivated horror at the corpse.

The robot’s skeletal frame was covered by protective plates where the flanks and scapulas would be. The plates were dirtied and uncomfortably reminiscent of the color of bleached bones, many scored by ballistic damage and blackened with gunpowder. One of the rear legs had fallen off, loose wires dangling from its hip socket like colorful tendons.

Where a flesh-and-blood pony’s cutie mark would normally be located was a circular design depicting the vitruvian pony, an anatomical illustration I’d seen a couple of times in various textbooks. It depicted a perfectly-sculpted pony superimposed upon a ring, legs shown in two different positions symmetrical to its disembodied wings. Above the head floated a horn, potentially elevating the figure into an alicorn.

“What are you?” I murmured, staring at the body. It creaked in response, swaying as the wind outside picked up and I felt a weak draft sweep through the room. Some avant-garde decor, that's for sure.

I strained to haul the weight, but by wiggling it back and forth I was able to shift the wide grandfather clock across the floor and beneath the machine. The couch from the other room was slid in against that and allowed me to clamber atop the clock. Now at shoulder height with the hanging body, I stood on my hoof-tips to figure out how badly the cable noose was tangled around its neck. It looked to have been tied and knotted with magic; there was no feasible way I could undo it with my hooves or teeth, but the hellhound blade could most likely sever the cable above.

As I leaned out farther to see where the cable had been secured to the chandelier, I felt the clock beneath me tip and overbalance. Squealing, I began to plummet. My single wing spread outwards and flapped in a subconscious reflex. For a moment, it seemed the action had saved me, until I realized the air around me was glowing with magic. I stared like an idiot at Willow, who had entered the room just in time to witness my plummet begin. She slowly raised a brow as I wriggled in her telekinetic field.

“Need some help?” she asked with a tone more amused than sympathetic.

“Y-yeah, thanks,” I stammered out awkwardly.

After lowering me to the floor, Willow gave a short shake of her head. “Are you sure you want to take dat ting down? Gives me bad-bad vibes...”

Willow Wisp’s undressed body was scrawny, covered in patches of radiation scarring like her face and neck. As I briefly scanned her, my eyes fell upon her cutie mark: a softly glowing lantern, contrasting clearly against the soot-colored fur surrounding it. She caught me staring at her scars; I looked away quickly, but not before I noticed her ears lower and one of her forelegs rise anxiously to obscure a blemish on her chest.

I cleared my throat. “It doesn’t look like it should pose any kind of threat. Probably hasn’t worked in…” There actually wasn’t as much rust on the machine as I’d expected, only plaguing some of the internal components that weren't built out of stainless steel. “... Several years.”

“It’s been here long as I can recall,” Willow remarked. “At least five.”

I nodded. “Well, could you help me get it down? I’d do it myself, but…” The outstretched remains of my wing finished the statement for me.

Though she seemed reluctant, Willow acquiesced. Levitating the hellhound dagger up to the noose, she was able to easily saw through the cable and caught the body as it fell. Willow milled around in the foyer, studying paintings that hung on the surrounding walls while I arranged the body on its side, the internals easily accessible for my autopsy. I was no Apothecary like Aurora Tide nor a ‘medical practitioner’ as Camphor put it, but I was a Scribe who had trained beneath genuine engineers.

It was a truly fascinating assembly, built upon a skeletal steel chassis which was slightly larger than the average pony. Veins of yellow, red, and blue wires wound through the ribcage and limbs, and in place of a heart was a bulky, corroded spark battery. Just below that was an empty slot, possibly for a gem or ward of some kind. The light plating on the sides was identified as fiberglass when my hoof tested the density. Brackets were built into the ribcage where weapons could be mounted, though they were now empty.

The skull was something out of a nightmare. I determined that the jaw wasn’t designed to open, instead simply meant to give the overall shape a closer resemblance to a real pony. The throat held a small black box and a speaker, both wired up into the skull. There looked to be camera lenses in the eye sockets, both fogged up and partially cracked. The cranium had a severe dent in the side, as if it had been kicked or struck with a weapon. Rotating the neck, I found a port in the back of the skull which was identical to those found in Stable-Tec terminals.

Wick had joined us by now, and, after greeting me with his wet nose, became very interested in smelling the various metal components on display. Willow saw me comparing the PipBuck connector to the skull’s port and spoke up.

“You tink it’s safe to mess around wid a synt?” she asked, her voice carrying a hint of fear. “What if it wakes up or somet’ing?”

I’d already been inclined to believe that this was a synth as previously described by Willow. It was now confirmed. Hesitating, I glanced up from my patient. “So this came from the Institute?”

Willow nodded. “Ouais. I’ve only ever seen a couple, and dis is de only one I’ve gotten to see up close.”

That meant the vitruvian pony had to be the insignia of the Equestrian Institute of Technology; they had survived the end of the world.

“... Ever wondered how they work?” I inquired, indicating the exposed internals.

The half-ghoul looked suspicious. “Dey walk and dey shoot. What more is dere to know?”

“Well…” I grunted as I pried apart the ribcage. “First, here’s the spark battery. It’s wired to here and here… and then here’s the ‘hip’ where the thigh actuators connect. Maybe… yeah, if you aimed a shotgun back here, you could rupture the hydraulic line and cripple a leg. And the way the plating is arranged, the spark battery could be visible from its five- or seven-o-clock. Ooh, and look! The spine isn’t a rigid rail; it has two pivot joints there and there. Aw, this is so cool!”

My enthused interest in the synth’s assembly seemed lost on Willow, who just hovered close and gave an, “Uh-huh,” after each of my statements.

“Anyway, I think I could learn something more if I link into its head.”

“Well… yeah, but… what if you turn it on?”

I didn't see how it could activate with a battery in as poor a condition as this one. “Look, it’s not going to just sit up or anything. Trust me, alright?”

Willow shifted her weight as she peered warily at the mechanical corpse.. “Uh-huh… you know dis, how?”

I took a breath and leaned back. “Because I’ll make double-sure, just for you.” I took the hellhound blade and held the point above the spark battery, then leaned into the hilt hard and fast. The dagger easily sank into the ancient power source, generating a short pop as the metal gave way. Once I had run it all the way through and had reached the floor, I pulled the blade back out, which was now coated in glittering battery acid.

“Dat’s… one way to do it,” Willow Wisp commented as she chewed her tongue. “Good. Tink I'd have a heart attack if I saw a wire-vein stomping around in here.”

Giving a satisfied huff, I set my weapon aside and reached for the PipBuck again, readily fitting its cable into the head’s port. The bracelet hummed quietly as it accessed any information it could. All seemed to be running smoothly until the process was halted by a corrupted file warning, then another, then another, then yet more. I scowled at the dent in the synth’s skull; whoever had dealt this blow had also partially damaged the hard drive within.

I shouldn’t have been surprised, as damaged relics were a common enough occurrence in my field. I had lost track of how many times I’d had to give up transcribing a paper because it was too faded or water-damaged, or a unicorn Scribe had to set aside a cracked memory orb. Eventually you had to learn to be thankful for anything you could recover, even if it wasn’t an ideal amount.

There were still fragments available, however, which I copied onto the PipBuck. It gave me a warm, fuzzy, and secure feeling to collect and preserve data. I reflected over how the old device now held the story of a Stable and the fractured memories of a machine…

“You okay?” came Willow’s voice.

My little spell evaporated as I realized I was cradling the PipBuck like an infant. I immediately sat up straight and tried to look professional. “Mhm!” Flustered, I set the PipBuck aside. "Just… thinking." I awkwardly stared at the synth, trying to think of something to say to excuse my odd behavior.

Then, startling us both, Wick barked.

We both regarded him with confusion, trying to understand what had managed to aggravate the normally quiet and relaxed dog. He was staring unflinchingly at the vacant balcony above us, hackles raised.

“What's wrong, boy?” Willow asked softly. We both listened for sounds of another presence, but the otherworldly stillness within the mansion was unbroken. After several heartbeats, Wick trotted to the stairs and awkwardly hopped up them as quickly as his old body could manage. He loped onto the second floor and disappeared from view.

Willow retrieved her shotgun and stood at the base of the staircase. Her ears rotated to discern any sounds of trouble above the rain that kneaded the roof. Willow looked at me with an unsettled expression. “Your PipBuck saying anyting about dis?”

“Uh…” I reattached the bracelet and switched the EFS on. Only the two green indicators for Willow and Wick were registered on my compass. “No, there shouldn't be anything up there…” Willow frowned but followed her pet up to the second floor anyway.

I decided to take a break from the dissection and followed, Riptide in mouth. I stepped around the ghoul corpse at the top of the stairs and peeked into each room along the hallway. In what looked to be the master bedroom, I spied the remnants of a porcelain doll collection strewn around several shelves, the source of the macabre porch decorations. It felt several degrees cooler in the dark space and was far too eerie for my liking. Two rooms later I reunited with the dog and unicorn duo.

They were in the home’s study, lined with floor-to-ceiling shelves and thick with the overpowering, intoxicating aroma of ancient paper. Wick snuffled around the carpet, which held a layer of books strewn far and wide. At my hooves was a hardback copy of “Historic Pearis: A Complete Guide.” Dim light filtered inside through the wooden shutters, while Willow's horn glowed bright enough to illuminate the rest of the room.

“He probably spotted a mouse,” Willow suggested as I entered. She stood with her shotgun lowered, watching her pet investigate the room, still acting a bit spooked. Her theory was plausible; my E.F.S. was tuned to only register lifeforms above a certain size, lest the compass flood with indicators for every insect, bird, and rodent above, around, or beneath the wearer.

Willow didn't act surprised when I joined Wick’s eager roaming, carefully snatching up spilled tomes and establishing a neat stack next to a fancy terminal upon the room's desk. Bent pages were lovingly straightened out and covers wiped clean as I cleared the floor. As I lifted a hefty thesaurus, I was entranced by the gloriously illustrated cover which had lain hidden beneath.

A rush of excitement pushed my eyelids wide open as I took in the scene: a pegasus crouched in a battle stance and radiating badass confidence from her magnetic rose irises. She was atop a speeding train, facing down a group of slimy-looking griffons in grey-and-red uniforms as wind and snow ripped at her pith hat and brown bomber jacket. Behind the mare loomed a towering crystallic spire, glowing with blue light and flanked by the silhouette of a flying saucer.

Daring Do!

Unfortunately, my excitement drained out of my nose along with a disappointed snort as I finished studying the cover. The subtitle read, “... and the Kingdom of the Crystal Heart.”

The Steel Rangers hadn’t ever held fiction to quite the same regard as nonfiction material, and tasks such as completing the Daring Do saga were low on most Scribes’ list of priorities. I’d had the privilege of owning Griffon’s Goblet, Treasure of the Saddle Madre, Riddle of the Sphinx, and Staff of Sacanas when I was growing up, all four of which I adored and had read religiously. After enlistment, I’d tracked down over a dozen more entries in the series, including Crystal Heart. It was unanimously agreed upon by myself and two other Scribes that this entry was the weakest. That said, it was still a precious reminder of home and was undoubtedly more intellectually stimulating than the anti-zebra pamphlet could ever be.

As I transferred it into my saddlebags, I noticed Willow studying a framed photograph on the desk. The picture showed a small family of ponies standing in front of the mansion, including a unicorn father and a mother and son, both earth ponies. The son beamed brightly, his curly pastel-blue bangs obscuring his eyes as he leaned against his smiling mother’s chest. The father wore a cap embossed with two stacked, stylized V’s, and his hide was reddened in places as if he’d been very lightly singed all over.

When Willow looked away from the photo, she noticed me stashing the novel. “What's dat?” she asked, now staring at my bag.

“Daring Do!” I answered, taking the book back out and showing it to her. “You a fan?”

The unicorn shifted a little, shrugging. “Uh, well,” She grew hesitant, avoiding my eyes and instead studying her hoof. “I'm not exactly de best wid words, no.”

I felt a little awkward, unsure of how to respond to that. Sure, Wastelanders often weren't literate, but I had thought Willow's education would be above the median. “Ah.”

“Besides, I have more important t'ings to do den read some old story.”

“Oh?” I couldn’t help but scoff, incensed by her dismissal of fiction.

“Yeah, I've grown outta dem,” Willow stated defensively. She huffed and rubbed her face, shooting me an exasperated grimace. “Look, do we have to talk about dis?”

While I still felt defensive of my lifelong passion, I thought it best not to get her riled up, especially since we might still be on shaky terms. “Fine.” That response came out sounding slightly more bitter than I had intended, but Willow didn't outwardly react to it.

I moved on to searching the study’s desk, which Wick had been smudging with his wet nose. The top drawers held some pencils for me, while the lower ones stored a variety of postcards and letters from days long past. Within the last drawer I unearthed a composition notebook with the name “Cotton Knit” scrawled across its cover in blocky and deliberate hoofwriting. I cracked the stiff cover apart to find the same font scribbled haphazardly within, barely adhering to the ruled sheets and often running off the edges entirely. It was a challenge to decipher the individual words due to their poor quality, but I could make out bits and pieces.

It appeared that Cotton Knit was a colt who lived on this plantation with his parents. He loved playing hoofball, visiting his grandparents, playing hoofball, drawing, playing hoofball, “helping” his dad farm their crops, playing… wow, he really loved hoofball. Every other page featured Cotton’s artwork, often depicting stick ponies playing sports or partaking in duties around the plantation. His mansion home was also drawn frequently, and as the journal continued his skills also improved, with traits like simple shading and steadier lines making his scratchings less interpretive.

Noticing my interest in the book, Willow appeared at my near side, tilting her head to try and read as well. “And what’s dis?”

“A journal from a former resident,” I answered, continuing to flip through the pages. “A colt named Cotton Knit.”

“Pre-war?”

“Yep, the son of a farmer who owned Magnolia Grove.” As the pages turned, I caught brief peeks into the daily life of the young pony. His family frequently hosted his grandmother on weekends, where she would play board games with Cotton, bake cookies for him, and walk with him in the gardens. One moment Cotton was visiting a museum in Brayton Rouge, the next he was raving about a ride he’d taken on the new tractor his father had brought home.

At least, my eyes had read ‘tractor.’ In my mind, those words had translated to ‘salvage.’ Turning to Willow, I asked, “Is there a garage on the property somewhere?”

She stared into space for a few moments while she considered. “I… tink so?”

“Well, I want to check it out; there might be a tractor inside.” I used the anti-zebra pamphlet to bookmark my place in Cotton’s journal. “You wanna come with?”

“Better den just sitting around in here, sure. Let’s go.”

Before heading outside we hunted around the entrance for an umbrella, but unfortunately they had long since been looted. I retrieved my bags and Stable suit while Willow slipped back into her mostly-dried cloak. The rear porch was much the same as the front, though its stairs led down to a brown brick path which disappeared into the wild gardens. A few more disfigured dolls dangled around us. I could smell the distinct scent of pecan carried by the wind out of the growth ahead of us.

“Alrighty, guide pony, lead me to that garage!”

Willow's cloak once again covered her, though she no longer bothered with a scarf. She just shrugged. “Might as well take de lead yourself.”

“... Isn't navigation your special talent?”

“No. Well, it's… ugh! I've never been back here, yeah? I only ever spent time in de house. Parents never said dere was anyt’ing useful out back.”

I flicked my tail in mock dismissal. “Hmph! We'll see about that.” I hoisted the Stable suit above me with my wing and a hoof, then started on the path closest to us.

Walls of vivid green closed in on all sides; the hedges, untamed, had continued growing until they became little more than a wild tangle of branches and leaves, so high that they almost stitched together a canopy. While disorienting, the path was still visible beneath webs of vines and infringing grass. We passed by intermittent stone benches and sculptures. At some point we passed a small pond that must have contained more algae than water, in addition to a mold-conquered fountain sculpted into a merpony.

I turned to point this out to Willow but found her lagging behind, her shotgun readied. She was tilting her head around both corners of an intersection we’d just came from. When I returned to her to ask what the problem was, she sounded on-edge.

“Okay. I was looking around and I… I swear I saw someone behind us.”

I squinted at her. “What kind of ‘someone?’ “

“A… a zebra, I tink. I don’t know.” Doubt was overtaking her quickly. “Probably just my fucked-up eyes getting worse.”

Looking to ease her anxiety, I checked the E.F.S. and found no new ticks on the compass. “We’re alone.”

The two of us continued on, albeit a little more apprehensively. Soon, my worries were forgotten and I felt like Daring Do stumbling across the remnants of some long-lost civilization when a weather-beaten mausoleum came into view. It was modestly wide, with imposing architecture constructed of stained white limestone identical to the gates at the front of the estate. Just above the entrance was carved the name “Poitou.”

We were up the two steps and out of the downpour in a flash. The interior of the mausoleum was dark and cramped, but after I switched my light on I was ecstatic at the sight of more history. The tomb's centerpiece was the bust of a dour-faced, strong-jawed donkey jack, with fuzzy chops and a smooth dome. There was a bronze plaque attached to the base which was written in a language I couldn't quite decipher, though I did distinguish the name Jean-Luc Poitou.

On the surrounding walls were smaller plaques each carrying the surname Poitou. These were attached over small sealed doors arranged in rows and columns, like an elegant stone morgue, arranged by date until ending with René Poitou. An expired water ward was installed in the ceiling.

“And here’s where de asses were all buried…” Willow observed, her lips twisted.

“Do you know what this says?” I asked her, gesturing at the bust's plate. Some words resembled Equestrian, some didn't.

“Uh… I speak Prench fine, reading it's a different story.”

“... So you can't?

“I can. Just don't expect it to be pretty, yeah?” She plopped down in front of the bust, squinting at the words while tilting her head. I kept my PipBuck lamp aimed at it as she read, “Here… lay, er, lies, Jean-Luc Poitou, uh… sergeant, I tink… of her… majesty’s fifth... regiment…” She slowed down on the next word. “I don’t… I’m not sure about dis one.”

“Libérateur. Liberator?” I suggested.

“Probably. Of de… c-colony... of Brayton Rouge, loving husband and dad.” She un-slouched and shrugged. “Dere’s de long and short of it, I tink.”

There was a list carved into the wall above the bust of Jean-Luc which looked to be locations and dates; I did recognize a couple of the names like Brayton Rouge or Neigh Orleans, but there were others I’d never heard of such as LaFarrier or Baudetville. Above the list hung the tattered remains of what I presumed to be the flag of Mulisiana. It was purple, with an emblem in the center comprised of a white mockingbird and a golden fleur-de-lis.

“The donkeys went to war with the zebras, right?” I knew pitifully little about Mulisianan history; granted, I had always been far more interested and invested in Equestrian. Not only that, but there were few books I’d found that ever went into much detail about the region south of us, often a mere footnote during the highlights of Equestrian expansion and development.

“Eeyup, back when dey were first colonizing here. Some four centuries ago or de like.”

Once I felt I had picked over everything of interest in the mausoleum, we continued traversing the gardens. I used my knife to clear us a path through a particularly dense section, after which we were delivered in front of a medium-sized wooden shack of sorts. It sagged with age but had proven its sturdiness by refusing to collapse under a thick layer of plant life. There was a garage door installed in one end of the structure that looked far more modern than the rest, relatively speaking.

Willow kept her shotgun prepared just in case we found any more ferals seeking shelter inside. At some point following the war, a colossal oak tree behind the shed had toppled over and sheared off the far corner of the roof, allowing nature to encroach into the room. Through this hole cascaded a torrent of rainwater, accompanied by many drips that found their way inside through the deteriorating ceiling. Opportunistic vines had slithered their way inside, overtaking several tool shelves and consuming the back half of the family's tractor.

At first glance the farming machine in question looked to be steam-powered, which was disappointing. I had hoped for it to use a spark engine, as I had dismantled a few of them in the past and knew which components were most useful. The vehicle was stout and sturdily built. A large exhaust protruded from the engine compartment and a plow hung from the rear, still caked in fossilized mud. As I fiddled with the grill to open the engine compartment, I noticed a small steel ornament attached to the front, which matched the double V design on the cap of Cotton Knit’s father.

I flipped the cover upwards and was halted by the bewildering motor which had once turned the tractor’s wheels. Neither steam nor sparks had powered it. Instead this looked to be some kind of combustion engine with multiple pistons running the length of the block.

“Does this…” I kept looking over the engine compartment, trying to glean any more information I could. “... Run on coal?”

“Nah, it’s some fuel made outta wilt apples, I tink. Filling stations are scattered here and dere. You can still find some advertisements about it, too.”

“Interesting...”

Leaving the engine for the moment, I concentrated on locating the tools I’d need for disassembly. Several wooden shelves and workbenches sat against the walls, containing a wide variety of small implements and construction materials such as nails and two-by-fours. One counter held a half-disassembled scooter.

I pulled a grimy socket wrench out from a milk crate with my teeth, dropping it on a nearby counter, then spat on the floor and cringed at the awful taste I'd had to suffer through. I sifted around the rest of the crate, but the sockets were nowhere to be found; clearly organization had not been the father's strong suit.

“Well, shit,” I heard Willow mutter as I dug through a bin that was weighed down by a mound of nails. “Dis must've been de slave quarters…”

Done searching through that, I briefly shifted my attention to the room. Indeed, there were faded imprints on the floor where it seemed walls had once segmented the building into small rooms, like pens for livestock. The windows were very thin and nearly at ceiling height, with single wrought-iron bars dividing the middle of each.

“Huh,” I commented, then hoofed open a toolbox containing nothing but screwdrivers and a lone combination wrench. My conscience clashed with my disregard for stripes; I detested slavery with every fiber of my being and wouldn't wish it upon any creature. Yet an obstinate voice deep in the back of my head whispered that it was a lesser sin when committed against zebrakind. I grit my teeth and tried to shut it out. I'm just not as open as Willow is...

“Fucking donks…” the guide pony growled. “Dey're real pieces of shit, de lot of ‘em.”

… Or maybe not.

The center drawer of a cabinet I was exploring at last yielded a plastic tray holding an array of sockets. I took them to the tractor and went to work disassembling what I could of it. Any relatively clean bolts were plucked out, radiator components were detached, and I salvaged anything that looked to be composed of aluminum or platinum. Housed directly above the engine compartment was a water ward, out of juice. I still took it, in case it had some value. Even a single cap or two was worth earning.

When I had finished, the tractor was probably thirty pounds lighter. The scrap metal I’d taken was loaded into a spare milk crate while smaller pieces were dumped into a toolbox, both of which I hefted onto my back.

“Alright, let’s head back.”

Willow volunteered to dispose of the dead ghouls. I didn’t object, and took the opportunity to return to the study. There was still a wealth of untouched material hoarded there, and I wanted to look further into the uncorrupted data I had extracted from the synth.

The family’s home terminal was long-dead, but that wasn’t of concern; instead, I swept the case and display aside and linked the PipBuck to the keyboard. While I had to lean in close to read the small screen, it was worth it to navigate using a comfortable, complete Equestrian alphabet. The encryption was reminiscent of Stable-Tec's but updated, something learned the hard way when the backdoor used to enter terminals failed to function.

I blinked and sat back, gnawing my hoof. I should’ve expected this; after all, Stable-Tec hadn’t been able to patch the security flaw due to the untimely apocalypse, but an active organization such as the Institute surely would’ve continued developing the code. For half an hour I tried every trick I knew, but the encryption was airtight and I wasn't at all familiar with its flaws, if any. I let out a resigned scowl and lightly kicked the desk, wishing I’d spent a little more time developing my hacking skills with Vox.

“Maybe somepony else in this swamp can pry you open?” I murmured to the screen, then snorted derisively and rolled my eyes. Yeah, right. Might as well have them install SATS on the PipBuck while they’re at it…

Now with the metaphorical wind stolen from beneath my wing, I lounged in the desk’s chair, propping my chin up with a hoof and taking another account of the surrounding shelves. My gaze swept up and down across several dozen different spines that I had considered reading, but I already had content that needed finishing in my saddlebags first. Besides, Terminals for Dodos probably wasn’t going to help me bypass the Institute’s security any more easily.

To be honest, I didn't really have much interest in the anti-zebra pamphlet, but felt some degree of obligation to at least skim the contents since I’d picked it up. The first image was an illustration depicting a massive and looming hooded figure reaching a striped hoof over a crowd of fleeing ponies. The monstrous zebra’s eyes glowed a malicious yellow, mirroring the flames that consumed the decimated cottages in the background. A bit cartoonish, but whatever.

The text within reiterated that zebras were unpredictable, underhoofed, and had violent tendencies; nothing surprising. A few tips cited that zebras loved to dig at the ground and rhymed excessively, particularly outside of song. Wait, I thought the rhyming was just a stereotype joke...?

The back listed contact addresses for numerous Ministry of Morale hubs in Mulisiana, as well as recommending how to tip local law enforcement and to “rally your neighbors to defend the nation.” Unimpressed with the short read, I traded it for the Daring Do book. I only got one page in before I shut the cover and set it aside, far too frustrated to try and scrape up any semblance of enjoyment from the worst novel in the series.

As I tried to arrange a secure place for it in my saddlebag, a glint from within stole my attention. I knew what it was even before I gave it any closer inspection. Heart beating faster with nervous energy, I withdrew the voodoo necklace and let it hang in front of my eyes, the ruby gleaming even in the soft light of the study.

This item’s presence had been nagging at me since St Mare’s. Even though I’d been trying to avoid thinking about it, my bags felt heavier with its inclusion, and I wasn’t even sure why. What had my anxiety spiking around the necklace? It was just some jewelry; whether or not it had magical properties, it didn’t pose any threat. My mind weighed the clear positives of trying on the necklace against the ambiguous negatives I’d been warned about by Camphor. If there were any side effects, I could just take it off, couldn’t I?

Casting a furtive look at the entrance to ensure Willow wouldn’t walk in on me dressing up like a tribal, I slipped the necklace over my head, letting the ruby rest against my fluffy chest alongside my three holotags.

I felt no different than I had seconds prior. Was this what it felt like to be a unicorn? Somehow I had expected to sense some kind of energy flowing through my veins, to transform into a superpony or something. That seemed a bit foolish in retrospect, but I was desperate to feel some kind of empowerment.

Can I lift things with my mind now? Setting the Daring Do novel back on the desk, I focused intensely upon it and tried to will the cover to open. The book didn’t budge even a centimeter. Screwing up my features and leaning forward, I held my breath and tensed my muscles as I gave it another shot. Still, nothing happened.

Okay… this is normal, isn’t it? You can’t just pick up magic instantly. Giving it a second go, I tried to push my mind forward. Telekinesis is just an extension of your body, right?

How do unicorns even do this kind of thing? The idea of lifting an object without touching it was so foreign to me that I didn’t know how to begin understanding the technique. My fellow Scribes never made a show of their magic abilities; to them it was simply innate, and lifting a quill or retrieving a book from a tall shelf required neither warm-up nor particular effort.

My father had been a unicorn, so I knew I must have some magic in my blood, but I didn’t even know where to start when it came to converting my mind into a tool. The concept was utterly alien to my personal understanding of physics. Eventually I felt a headache setting in from trying to think so hard. Leaning back, I supported my head in one hoof while the other lifted the necklace up.

The ruby in the center was a gorgeously reflective gemstone that looked to be filled with a haze similar to that of a memory orb. Based on the way the necklace had been used by its former owner, it seemed to act as a conduit for the innate magic all ponies possessed. Only unicorns were able to channel it into spells, since their horn was one such conduit. The other races could still apply their magic, just in different forms. For instance, being a pegasus, I had some ability to affect the weather. With this, however...

It felt as if I stared at the hypnotizing ruby for minutes.

“You,” came a whisper from somewhere in the room. It was extremely soft and quick, as if murmured while inhaling.

I spun in my seat, suddenly fearing that Willow had been spying on me, but I was alone. Still uncertain, I called her name hesitantly but heard no response. Fed up with this nonsense, I took off the necklace and dropped it back into my saddlebag. Now’s not the time to start hearing things...

Moving on, I alternated between examining and idly sorting the bookcases alphabetically for an hour or two before uncovering a steamer trunk in the corner of the room. It had been weighed down by a pile of cardboard boxes and looked ancient even by pre-war standards, which stood out distinctly. Two ornate latches were unlocked and the lid cracked open, promptly bathing me in the intoxicating scent of aged paper. It was overwhelmingly musty, standing out even amidst the study’s already thick atmosphere. I took a few moments to simply let the comforting biblichor envelop me before I began searching for anything of interest.

The trunk was filled to the brim with documents, letters, and books, yellowed with age and all covered in Prench text. I carefully began peeling back the layers of paper, taking brief glances at the words while I stacked them neatly on the floor, trying to sort by each variety of material. Relying on my years of experience cataloguing the Steel Ranger archives, it was an effortless task.

Additionally, I took this opportunity to further study Prench writing and to develop my understanding of it as much as possible. Many proper nouns were analogous to Equestrian words in their spelling and I was able to assume the definition of many smaller words based on sentence structures. I used a spare notepad to create a list of hypothesized definitions, scribbling several pages worth.

One word that continued to spring up amidst everything else was “zèbre”, which wasn't hard to guess. It wasn't until I reached a heavy ledger at the very bottom before I began to see it on every single page, along with what appeared to be descriptions and colors, height and weight measurements, and attached currency values. Is this a ledger for slaves? It was thick, with several dozen pages worth of information.

Once I was close to the end of the book, a folded letter slid out from between two of the pages. It looked to have been crumpled and then smoothed back out at some point, well-compressed by the ledger. Utilizing my crude lexicon, I was able to determine many words, most notably “zebra”, “mare,” and “curse.” I didn’t have enough definitions to work out the entire message, but I had a feeling that it could be interesting, seeing as it was the only supplemental document in the ledger.

I took both with me as I came back downstairs. I found Willow lounging in the boudoir, reclined on the couch with her back to me. One of her hindlegs bounced restlessly while she read something, Wick curled up and asleep beneath her. My hoof rapped on the door frame to get the unicorn's attention. “Hey,” I called.

Willow Wisp flinched and snapped upright, trying to hide whatever she'd been reading. In her haste, she accidentally spun and knocked her saddlebag off of a small end table next to the couch, spilling its contents all over the floor in front of me.

“Merde!” Willow hissed and flew to scoop everything back up, but not before I was able to identify several items. There was a chrome-plated cigarette lighter, a compact shortwave radio, some poorly bound-together rolls of bandages, and a coin purse which rattled with caps. I also spied a couple RadAway sachets and a sizeable pill organizer which contained plenty of Rad-X.

Of greater note to my eyes were a collection of smut magazines and several series of different comic books, including Sword Mares, Power Ponies, Hellbuck, Silver Stallion, and Captain Andro-

Whack!

Willow slapped a Playbuck magazine down atop the comic suddenly. I recoiled as the loud whap assaulted my ears and Captain Andromeda's cheery face was hidden by a zebra mare's nether region. Willow dragged both works towards her telekinetically, her cheeks deeply flushed.

I was at a loss for words as what to make of this action, so I just awkwardly asked, “Oh, y-you read comics?”

Trembling subtly, Willow stuffed the comic book into her saddlebags, taking care not to bend the corners. "It-it's not mine. It's my brot'er's," she stuttered, her voice betraying her embarrassment.

“The comic or that magazine?”

“De… de comic, of course! I don't read dat shit anymore!” Willow tried to explain, looking panicked as her eyes darted around the floor, guiding her magic aura as it scooped up her smaller belongings.

I had to bite my lip to stifle a laugh. “Oh, so you have a brother now?”

“I… yeah, I do! You…” the unicorn got tripped up on her words and huffed as she finished re-packing her bags. “Mais la, what'd you want, Quill?”

Clearing my throat, I retrieved the old tome and showed it to her. “Well, I think I found a ledger of some kind from the donkeys who lived here long ago, but I’m having trouble figuring some of it out. Could you help translate it?” I watched as Willow attached the clasps for her bags and double-checked them. “Or are you busy…?”

“I'll try, t'ough I'll probably butcher it.” She took it in her magic and cracked it open, while over her shoulder I pointed out what sentences, passages, or pages needed translating. Same as her prior attempt at interpreting Prench writing, she spoke slowly and with hesitant enunciation.

Together we learned that this book had mostly been written by one René Poitou, a descendant of Jean-Luc and former owner of the plantation who had used a ledger to keep track of the slaves he both purchased and sold off. I made good use of my new notepad in assisting the translation and was delighted to learn from Willow that many of my guesses had been correct.

The going was a bit painful for the unicorn, who was clearly embarrassed by her middling reading comprehension, but I continuously assured her that I wasn’t judging. Eventually I was as much helping her as she was me, and once we moved on to the letter, we had to really put our heads together to figure out many of the less-than-common phrases littered throughout.

It had been addressed to a friend of René's. After acquiring a pair of zebra slaves, a mother and son, the donkey had separated the two after a business partner offered a substantial amount for the son. The mother, named Zola, then cursed René in turn:

"May de one who... holds my… uh, let's see... chains, I tink… be chain- chained to dis land… um…” Willow paused, screwing up her features as she worked out the translation in her head. “Fff… forever?”

“So she laid a curse on him?”

“Dat's what it says. Black magic was more common back den.”

I pondered that. “Ooh, so maybe René's ghost haunts the plantation! That explains all the rumors, right?”

Willow was unconvinced. “Just ‘cause she said some ominous words doesn't mean she actually did anyting, no.”

“So you don't think curses are real?” I fixed her with a questioning eye.

“I didn't say dat. Just… it's gotta be more involved den just a verbal t'reat, yeah?” She shrugged. “Most of de time curses are just excuses for tings we don't know yet. I mean, legend says wilt apples came from some zebra curse ages ago.”

“But surely there's a reason why this place is avoided, right?”

“Because it's creepy as hell,” Willow stated. “I've been here a couple times and never saw any ghost or not'ing.” She proffered the ledger back to me. “It's just urban legends, all of it.”

With a shake of my head, I disagreed, “Something's up; Wick wouldn't get riled up over nothing.”

“He's just old,” Willow spoke conclusively, evidently tired of conversing. I saw her gaze lingering close to her saddlebags and knew when to take a hint. Collecting the ledger, I thanked the unicorn for her help and let her be. As I cantered down the hallway, I heard the door quietly shut and lock behind me.

I had opted to spend the rest of the evening in the study between recording the events of St Mare's and reading a copy of Ghosts, Goblins and Ghoulish Figures. I had already absorbed it all as a filly, but now it seemed more pertinent than ever, cheesy illustrations on the cover be damned.

Many years ago a young Quillwright had accompanied her parents into a small Wasteland town, dressed in a rough cloak to conceal her wings. While my parents bargained for supplies in the open-air market, my attention was stolen by a preacher who called to all passersby. He professed with an honest passion that was enrapturing, attracting a large crowd who listened intently.

He spoke of the Goddesses, of Celestia and Luna, who had ascended into the heavens, higher above us than even the Enclave. The sisters watched over everypony; they loved their children and had a better future planned for us. One day very soon, Celestia Herself would evaporate the cloud curtain with her holy sunlight and renew Equestria. We would be reunited with everypony we'd ever lost, and the world would be revitalized, a new paradise on Equus freed from the poison of war forever.

I had been whisked away by my parents before he had finished; admonished not only for straying away but for giving the ‘hydra-oil salesman’ the time of day. Despite their cynical words and continuous insistence that it was all rubbish, a seed had been planted. All throughout my life, I had kept that preacher’s hope alive. There had to be something better for us. This world couldn’t simply end with a sick, starving, cold whimper.

With my belief in an afterlife came the certainty that spirits could not only inhabit our world, but potentially become trapped here as well. The idea that a zebra slave had cursed her owner to be bound to his property was not at all absurd to me, and I felt confident that it was a mystery I could solve.

By the time it was growing dark outside, my suspicions were all but confirmed. According to the book, the sixth sense that dogs possessed meant they were able to frequently sense the paranormal. Wick's barking at an empty balcony had been uncharacteristic and I didn't buy the excuse that he was going senile.

My growling stomach eventually and reluctantly pulled my muzzle away from the pages. Downstairs I fetched my unfinished eggs and an ear of corn from St Mare's and brought them into the mansion's dining room, where I encountered Willow once again.

She had taken a seat in one of the few intact chairs at one end of the dining room table. Her overcoat was draped over the chair’s high back along with her bags. In front of Willow was a placemat of crinkled foil beneath some juicy radigator chunks, a repurposed measuring cup filled with oats, and a bottle of unidentified alcohol. Above her end of the table floated a ball of light, likely a spell of Willow's, which warmed the room with lambent radiance.

The unicorn looked up at me as I entered. I indicated the chair at my end. “Mind if I join you?” Willow’s head shook, so I pulled out my seat and eased into it, wincing uncertainly at the creaky legs.

Floating out a cigarette lighter, Willow Wisp struck a flame. “I've already got a light,” I told her as I indicated the PipBuck I was halfway done removing, but was shushed in response. Her horn glowed brighter as the flame flickered, as if it was nearly being blown out by a gust of wind. Then it vanished… in a way.

All incandescence from the lighter had been absorbed, just as Willow had stolen the luminance from the tribal's flashlight in St Mare's. Instead, a glowing mass of light beaded up at the tip of her horn. Once it had collected into the size of a hoof it separated, hovering in the air and then lazily floating over to my end.

“I call dem bulbs; been someting I could do ever since I got my cutie mark,” Willow snapped the lighter’s lid shut, extinguishing its lightless flame. Her tone grew resentful. “What a ‘special talent’ to have...” The phosphorescent will-o'-the-wisp pulsed intermittently and bobbed gently as if it were buoyant.

“... Surely they come in handy?” I offered, then yawned.

“In dis line of work, yeah, sometimes. I can make a bulb follow somepony, keeps dem from getting lost, but…” She yawned too, rubbing her cheek idly. “At de end of de day it’s no more den light magic, someting every unicorn knows.”

At that we both fell into silence. The storm continued to rage away outside, furiously shaking the trees and beating against the mansion. I appreciated the chance to enjoy a peaceful, sheltered meal. Wick sat next to Willow, watching her intently. Every now and then she would levitate a chunk of radigator off of her plate and toss it to the dog, who snatched it out of the air much faster than his usual lethargic slouch implied he was capable of.

The ale helped take off some of the tension and pain that had been in control of me recently. My anxiety was worn away with each drink I took, and once I’d finished my radigator eggs I felt the need to converse more.

“So…” I cleared my throat. Willow looked up at me briefly with a hint of suspicion, then returned to her skewer of chicken and fried greens. “Um… how long have you been guiding ponies for?”

Willow made eye contact with me again as she swallowed and set her half-eaten food down. Her answer lingered for a couple breaths, but once she’d had another bite-- a soft nip of her lower lip this time-- she spoke, diffident. “I haven't really kept track of time. A couple of years, I reckon.”

Sensing there was much more to the terse reply, I asked, “You seem really knowledgeable; did your parents teach you everything?”

“Mhm.” Willow took a sip of ale, one of her hooves moving to idly rub her cheek.

“I heard they…” She had used the past-tense earlier. “... Were the best around.”

“My ma was,” Willow said. “She… her parents, dat whole side of my family… knew absolutely everyt’ing about Mulisiana. Natives who survived de megaspells, see.”

“So your dad wasn’t a guide?”

Willow’s cloudy auric irises flitted from her plate to my eyes, then away to study the white marble mantle. “Not exactly. He, uh...” She swallowed. “He came from Buckwater. One of de Stable’s descendants, yeah?” She inhaled deeply, lost in a memory of some kind. “Dad guarded ma and dere customers. He was better wid guns than directions.”

I desperately wanted to know the next question I already had queued up. “Did... do either of them know about your…” Not wanting to offend Willow, I carefully finished with, “Irradiation?”

The unicorn across the table didn’t immediately answer. Eventually her head nodded, scarcely at first but then picking up into a full confirmation, her eyes unfocused. “Yeah.” Her hoof, still touching her face, subconsciously drifted across to rub her most severe scar. “And I ain’t seen dem since.”

Sensing I was trotting on thin ice, I simply inclined my head and returned my attention to my food, this time picking tarberries from a severed stem. I was caught a little off-guard when Willow’s voice echoed through the dining room, just above the muffled roar of the storm. “So how about you? How long’ve you been a Sc…” She paused, trying to remember what my title was. “A Scrub?”

I couldn't hold back an amused snort as I corrected, “Scribe. And it’s been…” I quickly tapped out the number on the table edge. “Let’s see…next spring I should be going on nine years.”

Willow’s brows performed a “what-you-said” maneuver. “A Scribe, yeah. So what do you even do? Just... read books?”

“I do a lot of reading, yes. Though I'm usually writing at the same time,” I explained. “I transcribe materials for the Steel Rangers; copying books, newspapers, blueprints, scrolls, manuals, schematics, letters, terminal entries, et cetera. My job ensures that we always have a safe backup of any documents that could come in useful for us or for future Equestria. When I’m not doing either of those, I teach the colts and fillies born into our ranks, known as Squires.” My head rocked back and forth as I clarified, “That’s not my official position, at least not yet, but… it’s my favorite role.”

“A teacher too, huh? What kinda t’ings do you teach?”

“Reading, writing, Equestrian history,” I listed off. “Etiquette, if I have the time. I enjoy history the most, but I’m probably the most skilled at writing in our entire order, so that's what I usually focus on.”

“ ‘De most skilled?’ ” Willow smirked a little. “You seem humble.”

I was honestly surprised at how interested Willow was. She was sitting forwards, occasionally floating a small bunch of oats into her mouth, and while her hooves still anxiously covered her face often, her attention was more often than not focused in my direction. The ale must have really loosened her up, and if her clients never engaged in meaningful conversations with her, I had to wonder if Willow ever got to hear about the lives of other ponies.

“Heh, I'm not trying to brag, it's just…” I paused. Few were aware of my personal history, and even fewer still regarded me the same after learning of it. “Most ponies who live on the surface aren't ever able to receive a proper education.”

“So I take it you're from de sky? Dis ‘Enclave’ group or whatever you were so freaked out over earlier?”

“No, I'm not. But,” Here we go. “My grandparents were. Both were professors in one of the pegasi's most prestigious universities. My grandfather, however, challenged leadership too often and was generally disliked by his superiors. Eventually he and his wife were cast down to the surface as Dashites, forbidden to return.

“They adapted quite suitably. Their daughter-- my mother-- was taught a complete Enclave-level education, which in turn was passed to me.” I paused for a drink. “The Rangers hadn't ever seen a Wasteland-born pony as educated as I was; they actually requested for me to sign on. Been with the order ever since.”

I checked Willow for her expression. She appeared to study me but had no hint of the ire that others usually felt when they heard I had ties to the Enclave. “Did your family join wid you?”

“No. Sorry, I'd just... rather not talk about it.” Despite how much we’d shared about each other so far, I really didn’t feel like dredging up that time of my life right now.

“Fair enough.” Willow appeared intent on asking something else. “So…” She leaned over, acting as if she were looking at my flank. “Your cutie mark.”

“What about it?”

“Well…” she shrugged. “What is it, for one?”

I gave a nod. “It’s a phoenix feather quill.”

“I t’ought dose birds were green?”

“Post-war phoenixes are, yes, due to the balefire. Before they were irradiated, they were crimson and gold like this.” I shifted in my seat, allowing the bulb above me to highlight the feather which stood out against my sandy fur. “In the right lighting conditions, it almost matches my robes!”

“Huh,” answered Willow. “So what does it have to do wid your job?”

I'd spent years coming up with a concise, detailed response to this sort of question, tired of being asked one too many times.

“The phoenix quill represents how the written past is reborn in my work, giving history a second wind to be witnessed and appreciated by future generations,” I recited.

Willow looked amused. “How long have you been waiting for me to ask?”

Okay, maybe that explanation sounds a bit scripted.

“Would’ve expected a dictionary instead,” she concluded with a smirk, rising from her seat. She tossed her trash into the corner of the room and stretched. “I’m gonna turn in for de night.”

“Shouldn’t we take shifts and watch the front door?”

The unicorn shook her head. “Nah... like I said, dis place is avoided by most. I’ll lock de entrances. Keep your own bedroom door secured and a gun handy just in case, but it should be a quiet night.”

Willow claimed the master bedroom since she had finished eating before me. I ended up in Cotton Knit's room. The carpet beneath my hooves was impressively preserved, though littered with flakes from the peeling sports-themed wallpaper.

Before laying down for the night, I examined the room for anything of interest. The small walk-in closet held nothing but a single boot, so encased in ancient mud that it more closely resembled a stone, and a collection of mothballs. Forget Riptide, I just need these and a slingshot! I giggled to myself as I shut the closet doors and flopped onto the once-nice bed, bedframe croaking.

Nowadays, though, the sheets had been gnawed ragged by bugs, the pillows were missing and the mattress was lumpy and uneven. I rolled about for ages, trying and continuously failing to find a comfortable position. I was used to such inconveniences; there was something else keeping me awake, and I simply couldn’t place my hoof on it.

Rolling to the edge of the bed, I blindly groped along the floor until I found the PipBuck. Turning it on, I toyed around with the radio a bit as I tried to snuggle underneath the coarse sheets. I kept the volume dialled low and searched the frequencies that were available in this spot. The one station I’d mostly relied on with the accented DJ was only static right now, so I hoped there was something else that could ease me to sleep with some quiet jazz.

The only clear signal I found was anything but. As the tuning dial reached this station, a stiff, unnatural female voice came into focus, reciting a list of random numbers.

“Seven. One. One. Five. Seven. Three. Three. Nine. Eight. Two. One. Four. Eight. Six. Three. Nine. Four. One. Two. Nine. Three. Six. Seven. Five. Five. Five. One. Seven…”

This continued for almost a minute before it was replaced with an unsettling tune, a high-pitched, simple melody that repeated four times. The voice returned and continued reading off her list.

The hay is this? I listened for a little while longer but was getting the heebie-jeebies from the enigmatic routine. Resuming my search for something relaxing, at last I settled on a slightly staticky but audible jazz tune. Inserting my earblooms, I pulled the sheets back up around me and shut my eyes, letting the soft notes of a saxophone carry me into repose.

Breathing.

In and out.

Slow and shaky.

I groaned and raised my head an inch, confused as to why I’d been pulled out of a particularly pleasant dream involving myself and Kyanite. It was still dark outside, and the dull roar that I could still hear through my earblooms indicated that the weather hadn’t changed any. What seemed odd was what I couldn’t hear: music. Now there was only breathing.

… Except that the breaths were out of sync with my own respiration.

Ice water shot through my veins and I was instantly awake. I tore out my earblooms and quickly activated the PipBuck lamp, expecting some horrific creature leering over my bed, its breath rasping and putrid.

The room, however, was empty. Not only that, but I could no longer hear the foreign breathing. Still tense with fear, I pulled the sheets off of me and sat up, directing the light around the bedroom just to be sure. Steeling myself, I even peeked under the bed, thinking maybe Wick had slipped inside after I fell asleep, but only a few daddy long legs were taking refuge beneath me.

I tentatively reinserted an earbloom to hear the breathing again. Was this the DJ of the radio station? It had to be, didn't it? What else could it be? I disconnected the earbloom and set the volume to the mid-level. Then, just to be sure, I spoke up, barely above a whisper.

“Hello?”

The breathing was interrupted by a gasp and a whimper. Static then crackled through the PipBuck speakers, which transitioned into a quiet, crooning trumpet. I heard a noise in the hallway outside, and once I'd reconnected the PipBuck to my leg, Wick barked in Willow's bedroom. Hurriedly leaving, I found Willow groggily peeking her head out and around her door, a bulb floating above her head. “Did you knock?” she asked before I could prompt my own question.

“No, I just woke up.”

This was like a shot of caffeine for the guide. She swore under her breath and opened her door fully, revealing to me that Wick was at the foot of her bed, hunkered down on all fours with his ears flat. Willow's magic pulled her shotgun out from under her bedsheets.

“I don't think we'll need that,” I told her, stepping under the threshold.

Willow shook her head, strands of her disheveled red mane falling into her questioning eyes. “What?”

“I think,” I began, as I held up the PIpBuck, whose speakers were once again filled by static instead of music, “That we’re dealing with a spirit.”

The half-ghoul was unamused. “Quill, you did take dose pills from Camphor, yeah?"

"I did! Look, I don't have a fever or anything..."

"Uh-huh. In dat case, you can hunt around for de Headless Horse if you want, but I’d appreciate some assistance wid dis first.”

Willow walked across the room, but I still blocked her exit. Instead of moving, I held up the bracelet and its crackling speakers.

“Storm’s messing wid de signal or somet’ing. Not a ghost.”

There was a hiss and then the disembodied voice from before began whispering: “... -om? Somepony’s in my room! Mom! Where are you…?”

Willow narrowed her eyes. “Dis isn't funny, Quill-”

Loud trumpets returned to the speakers, cutting her off. I regarded her expectantly, lowering my hoof.

“I think it's Cotton Knit.”

“What, de kid who lived here?” She rolled her eyes. “You're probably just picking up some colt wid a ham radio, yeah?”

“But what if I'm not?” I retorted. “What if we are actually dealing with something paranormal? Why is that so hard to believe?”

“ ‘Cuz we aren’t foals!” Willow finally pushed past me with her telekinesis, which felt like being forced aside by a pillow or a gust of wind. She stormed past me while calling for Wick. He refused to budge, which elicited another groan from the unicorn. “Arrgh, fine…!”

The noises outside had ceased as far as I could tell. Once I was released from Willow's magical restraint, I trailed after her as she stalked down the hall, kicking the first door she reached open. She thrust her shotgun inside, sweeping the billiard room with light from her horn, then slammed it shut. When Willow moved to the next room, I could hear her muttering something foreign under her breath, but couldn't distinguish anything specific.

“Look, I'm not trying to fool or insult you or anything,” I began. “But I swear, this has to be-”

Slam!

Willow kicked the next door open so hard the doorknob embedded itself in the soft adjacent wall. She scanned the bathroom quickly before she yanked the door closed and locked it with her telekinesis. Turning toward me rigidly, Willow's eyes intensely glared at me.

I hesitated, expecting Willow Wisp to say something, but she simply shook her head as if fed up with my antics. She then brushed past as she went to investigate the rooms at the other end of the hall.

“I’m getting a colt’s voice on my radio, we’re hearing mysterious noises, it started in Cotton’s bedroom, a zebra slave put a curse on the plantation… it all adds up!” I sighed. “Come on, Willow.”

We both snapped our attention upwards as we heard a flomph against the ceiling. Following that was another period of silence, punctuated by Willow poking the wood and plaster above us with the end of her shotgun barrels. The following thunk-thunk suggested that there was open space above us.

“How’d dey get into de attic…?”

We sought around in the second floor rooms for an entrance and found one in the corner of the billiard room's ceiling. We pushed a wide pool table over beneath it, upon which Willow began trying to finagle the trapdoor open with her magic. Chips of plaster rained down on her and she coughed, but with a few pulls the door swung down and a folding ladder spilled out, which Willow narrowly dodged. We stood for a few seconds staring at the dark entrance, foreboding thunder rippling outside.

“The skeptic goes in first, right?” I squeaked with a cheeky grin.

The guide pony turned to me with a glare that could melt power armor. “Va te faire foutre,” she muttered, then clambered up the ladder while she telekinetically held her shotgun close, a bulb ahead of her.

The attic was surprisingly spacious, softly lit by the will-o-the-wisp which hovered above in the center of the room. There was a single window at the far end of the room through which lightning sporadically flickered through. All around us were sagging cardboard boxes, cedar chests and a litany of random odds and ends, from bound stacks of newspapers to ornate pottery to colorful foal's toys to disassembled furniture. It was quite cool in here, and I felt what seemed to be a draft as I trotted through.

Near the end of the room was a rocking chair which held the skeleton of an earth pony, slumped in its seat with a colorful patchwork quilt covering its lap. It sat facing a window that overlooked one of the fields, a rather serene final resting place. I leaned in to appreciate the quilt's fine stitching.

“Don't bother Mamaw!” An embroidered throw pillow came hurtling out of the shadows towards me. I ducked and narrowly dodged it, while Willow swung her shotgun around to aim at the corner the projectile had come from. It was empty.

“Kid, come out!” The guide pony pleaded. Her composure was straining. “He’s gotta be a ghoul, stuck in here since de megaspells…” she tried to rationalize, directed more at herself than at me.

“Cotton? Cotton Knit?” I called.

The voice responded, clearly emanating from my PipBuck, “H-how do you know my name?” It carried a hint of southern drawl.

“I…” My voice was shaking a little in a mixture of fear and excitement. The fact that I was conversing with an actual spirit was almost too exciting for me to handle. “I found your journal.”

“That's n-not yours to read!”

Meanwhile, Willow's ears had flattened, her breaths quick and shaky. She continually turned to and fro, desperately searching for the source of the voice. “I've gotta be hallucinating... o-or I'm dreaming dis… shit!”

Cotton gasped at the vulgarity. “She said a bad word!”

“Oh, fuck dis!” Willow shook her head and galloped back to the trapdoor.

“Wait!” I dashed after the unicorn, but she wasn't having any of this and had scuttled down the ladder back into the billiard room in record time. I was impressed that she hadn't injured herself in the rush.

“Wh-who are you?” hissed my PipBuck. I let Willow go and turned back to the invisible colt. Trying to imagine where he might be standing, I faced that direction.

“My name is Quillwright, that was Willow, we're…”

“I don't know you! W-why are you in my house?!”

“We… uh, well, we needed a place to sleep, and thought you could help us.”

“... I'm not supposed to help strangers…”

“That's good advice! But uh…” I swallowed, unsure of how to proceed. “I know your parents and I really need to speak with them. Do you know where they are?”

His voice took on a thoughtful tone. “Well, Dad's in Neigh Orleans. Grandma's asleep, and Mom always tells me to let her rest, s-so I am.” A small cough. “Mom told me to go play hide and seek when some loud ponies came to our front door. I hid so well that she never found me… oh, maybe that's 'cuz I'm supposed to be the seeker!”

“... When did you start playing?”

“I…” Cotton's voice carried for several seconds as he thought. “It was a while ago. I got hurt when I was hiding and got stuck. It took me forever to get out!”

My heart sank as I realized what this likely meant. “Cotton, listen carefully, please. Where did you hide?”

The colt's ghost cheerily and obliviously replied, “I'm not gonna tell you, what if we played? You'd know the best hiding place!”

“I- you… you make a fair point,” I admitted, trying to switch to a different tack. “Okay. In that case, do you see that floating ball of light?”

“Yeah! It's cool! Like a star!”

“Well, could you hold onto it? I… I don't have my glasses and it's really dark in here, so I can't see you very well.”

“Sure!” Cotton made some rocket noises and mock-screamed, “Captain! We're gonna hit the sun!” I heard him grunt and then the bulb shook and dropped in altitude, as if somepony had leapt up and snatched it. He pitched his voice higher and continued on, “Hah, the force field is working! We got the sun!” I attempted to steer Cotton back on-course, but he had become engrossed in his little fantasy.

“Bring the ship around!” The bulb flew around the room, soaring up and down as he weaved a path through the clutter. He soon returned to me, halting and declaring, “Oh no! Unitron is in our way!”

I bit back a sigh. Apparently I was now the ultimate antagonist of Captain Andromeda's universe.

Cotton waited for a few seconds as if expecting me to respond, and then continued on, “Prepare the Sun Gun!” This was followed by a charging noise as the bulb shook.

I cleared my throat and used my best deep, growly voice to threaten, “I am hungry… your planet will do nicely!”

With a hushed battle cry, Cotton carried the bulb around me before holding it up and shouting, “Now's our chance! Fire!” The bulb was hurled at me, striking my chest and passing through harmlessly.

“Argh!” I groaned, clutching the wound. “How could a puny pony defeat me?”

“Good will always prevail!” Cotton announced, and I heard his tiny ethereal hooves clatter on the floor excitedly. “Bam! Boom! Straight to the moon!” He then laughed, retrieving the bulb. “So you see me now, right?” It now hovered around shoulder-height, a couple feet in front of me.

“Um, yeah, I do!” This was not how I expected communicating with the dead would be like.

Cotton's bulb sank a couple inches and I heard him sigh, his voice growing somber. “Y'know, most grown-ups don't like Captain Andromeda…”

I gave an exaggerated huff. “Well, I am certainly not ‘most grown-ups!’ ” My brain was swirling with ideas about how to help Cotton's spirit pass on, and in that moment I had another idea. “You know who else would love to play with you? My friend Willow!”

“That cussing unicorn...?” He sounded a mite apprehensive.

“The same! She's good at hide and seek. Not only that, but,” I leaned in close to the bulb as if sharing a secret. It gravitated nearer to me as I whispered, “She has Captain Andromeda comic books, including…” I paused for dramatic effect. “The ‘Return of Unitron’ issue!”

Cotton gasped. “Unitron comes back?!”

I beckoned him. “Only one way to find out!”

We found Willow cowering in her bedroom, her door locked. This impedance did not stop the little ghost with me, however; I watched as the bulb phased straight through the door and after that heard shrieks and howls of terror. The radio faintly crackled, “Oh hi, doggy!”

I heard the lock quickly disengage, followed by Willow Wisp bursting out. She collided into me, sending us falling to the floor in a heap. Before the unicorn could recover and continue running, I rolled atop her to pin her in place.

“Lemme go, I gotta get away from dis place…!” Willow pleaded, kicking her hooves fruitlessly as I weighed her down. Thankfully she was so out of sorts that she'd forgotten her TK could just push me off.

“Just… stop! Stop! He doesn't want to hurt you!” I insisted.

Meanwhile, Cotton had cornered Wick. The poor old dog was compacted into a shivering, whimpering ball of fur while the bulb floated close. The radio crackled with Cotton's cooing as he undoubtedly attempted to pet Wick.

With the colt's attention occupied, I turned back to Willow and whispered, “I’ll need you to play hide and seek with Cotton Knit, okay?”

Willow's eyes both widened and scrunched, leading her to make an odd expression of mixed shock, confusion, and incredulity. “You what?!”

“He died while hiding somewhere in the mansion. I need you to help me find his remains so we can put him to rest properly.”

“Dat's… you're… what de fuck, Quill? You want me to play games wid a dead-”

I clamped my wing over her mouth and harshly whispered, “Don't…! Don't tell Cotton he's a spirit; I don't know what he'd do, but we don't need a confused and distraught colt on our hooves. He seems to have a limited memory; in his mind it's only been a couple weeks after the megaspells…”

While I was explaining this to Willow, she made some muffled grunts, her milky gold eyes narrowed at me. When I finished and pulled my wing away, she replied, “D-dere's no way I'm getting close to dat ting. I don’t want to catch a curse!”

“Look at me! He didn't harm me, I'm perfectly fine!”

Willow laughed dismissively and then thrashed below me. “You're psycho!”

I glanced back into the room to see Cotton's bulb drifting away from Wick. With only a few seconds left to convince Willow, I desperately pleaded, “I… I need you to trust me. Can you do that?”

If she took this as a challenge I wasn’t sure, but Willow stopped struggling and appeared to brace herself as the bulb drew near. Once next to us, the PipBuck speakers squeaked, “Hey, are you two wrestling? Can I play too?”

To her credit, while Willow's eyes betrayed her petrifying fear, she managed to retain enough composure to eke out an intelligible, if taut, response. “W-we were just…” She shuddered and took a deep breath to continue, “H-having a friendly tussle, yeah? We’re all tuckered out n-now, t’ough.”

Cotton picked up on Willow’s accent and replied, “Hehe, you sound like Papaw!

I backed up and helped Willow Wisp to her hooves. “Oh yeah? Uh... w-where’s your papaw from?” she asked hesitantly as she dusted herself down.

“Hayven!”

“Well, hey! I-I have an aunt from dere, nice town.”

“My dad says I'm smart enough to go to the Institute there when I grow up!”

“Y-you probably could…” Willow was beginning to flounder. Her tail was still making nervous back-and-forth swishes, but her voice was quavering less and less.

I took the opportunity to step in and comment to Willow, a look of knowing concern on my face, “So Cotton hasn’t read Return of Unitron.”

“Huh?” The guide pony took a couple seconds to catch on. “Oh… o-oh! He hasn’t?” She put on a shocked expression, covering her mouth with her hoof. “Quill, d-dat’s bad-bad! We gotta fix dat...”

Cotton’s bulb bounced up and down in excitement as he squealed, “I wanna read it, I wanna read it!” It was easy to visualize him bouncing from side-to-side on his hooves.

“Heh… alright, calm down, kid,” Willow responded, almost grinning a little. “You’re starting to sound like my brot’er.” Her mirth was barely noticeable, but it was present. She grabbed her bag and sat down close to Cotton.

“Does he like this story too?”

“He, uh…” Willow bit her lip fiercely, eyes darting between myself and Cotton's embodiment. “He hasn't read dis one yet. I'm… collecting Captain Andromeda comics for him to read when we meet again, yeah.”

“Where is he?” Cotton's voice had grown quieter, as if he understood the unicorn's complicated expression.

Willow gazed downwards in thought and then smiled wistfully. “Busy being a loving big bro.” She inhaled and lightly slapped her thighs, looking to reorient the topic as her magic carefully fetched out her comic. “Anyway, I need to know if dis is a good enough gift for him!”

She placed the Return of Unitron issue on the floor, letting Cotton study the exciting artwork that portrayed the space mare facing off against her greatest arch-nemesis. Meanwhile, I pulled out my copy of Ghosts, Goblins and Ghoulish Figures and returned to the section on spirits. The book said nothing about curses transferring between creatures; in fact, the more I read, the more I realized how little detail the author had gone into. Didn’t they do any research?

As the fictional drama grew, so too did my worries mount. What if there was no way for us to help Cotton? What if he was trapped here until the end of time? Above all, why was he still here in the first place? Pinpricks of cold sweat broke out on my scalp as I considered these questions. As one of the few ponies to find Cotton Knit and certainly the only to actually speak to him since his death, I felt that I had a responsibility to resolve the situation. Somepony had to.

“Cotton, listen, please…” I interjected during a lull in the action. “Have you seen anypo- anyone else around recently? Maybe a donkey?”

The colt either considered the question for a moment or was intent on finishing the current page before he answered. “No, just that zebra lady outside.”

My mind drew a blank at how casually he had dropped that statement. “Z-zebra lady…?” I repeated, sharing a confused look with Willow. “Where?”

“Yeah. She’s always outside. She looks really sad, but…” Cotton’s voice tightened in fear or embarrassment. “But I always hide from her.”

Suddenly a puzzle piece clicked into place; the slave who had cursed René, surely! Did the curse force her to remain bound to the plantation too? The donkey’s letter was reviewed for what must’ve been the hundredth time. Her name was Zola; if Cotton could see her, then with any luck they could also communicate with each other. If we could get the two to meet…

“Aw, really?” Cotton whined while the bulb shook in an aggravated fashion. “ ‘To be continued?!’ Cliffhangers stink!” Willow agreed, and to this he eagerly appealed, “You have the next one, right?”

“Still looking for it. It’s, uh, sold out everywhere. Sorry, kid,” Willow sighed regretfully.

The little spirit next to her sank. “Oh… well, thanks for letting me read it. I liked it a lot!”

“I know you’ll love the next one, Cotton,” I reassured him, smiling. “Until then, how about we get to that hide-and-seek game? Like I said, Willow’s a really, really good seeker!”

I envisioned his eyes brightening at the idea. “Oh yeah! You’ll never find me!”

“Prove it, then! Thirty, twenty-nine, twenty-eight…” I began counting down, covering my eyes with my wing.

Cotton squealed and his little hooves galloped away, leaving me to sigh in relief at Willow Wisp. “Thank you.”

“Yeah, don’t mention it. Never in my wildest dreams did I imagine I’d be reading comics wid a ghost.”

“It’s always a pleasure to broaden horizons,” I said as I turned the PipBuck speakers up. “Now, we’re going to have to cheat a little…”

We brought the advanced bracelet into each room, waiting for the staticky music to fade and indicate that we were close to Cotton. The attic and second floor caused no such effect, so we headed to the ground floor. As we descended the stairs, a lively jazz solo was suppressed by faint breathing.

“He must've been stuck somewhere normally inaccessible or difficult to reach,” I told Willow.

We checked every inch of the foyer, below furniture and under the stairs, but there was no tangible sign of the invisible colt. As we subconsciously gave the synth a wide berth, I found myself relieved that he hadn’t decided to take control of the machine to interact with us, or else I’d have been hiding with Willow and Wick behind as many locked doors as possible. Eventually I turned my attention to the floor, wary of hidden compartments beneath my hooves ever since finding the dress in the Ministry hub.

I whispered to Willow, “Kill the light,” as I switched off the PipBuck lamp. We were plunged into darkness, save for traces of warm light which strained up through the floorboards at the back of the room. With my lamp back on, I carefully scrutinized the wood until I identified a thin gap which ran in a square with a circular hole at one end. I gestured to Willow, and the unicorn lit her horn, grabbing the cutout in her magic and lifting it away.

Beneath us was a crawlspace about four hoofspans deep. A network of rusted pipes ran to and fro above a pillowy layer of dust and wood chippings in addition to the carcasses of mice and insects. Right in the center where we'd opened the floor lay the small, withered skeleton of an earth pony foal, coated by much of the surrounding detritus. Cotton’s will-o-the-wisp embodiment floated above and illuminated what was once his physical body, which had a rear hoof twisted at a terrible angle between two pipes, bone broken.

“Aw, how’d you find me?”

My heart climbed into my throat. I found no sight in the wasteland more heartbreaking than a dead foal. My imagination was flooded with unwanted visions of his final moments trapped down there in the dark, in pain, starving, scared, and alone; no creature deserved a fate like this, an innocent foal the least of all. I had to clamp my wing over my mouth to keep a gasp suppressed, then moved it up my face to soak the tears that soon spilled from my eyes.

Willow was similarly distressed but was resolute enough to answer, “J-just had a good clue.”

Cotton huffed, “Yeah, well, I bet I could find you faster!” He seemed completely oblivious to his own remains, which made me wonder whether spirits could even recognize them.

I tried to compose myself before turning back to face him, though it was difficult to keep it together when my eyes strayed to Cotton’s body. Using only my periphery to view the bulb, I said, “I-it’s getting a bit late for games, now.” The colt deflated, but I continued on, “Listen, we… we need to meet this zebra lady you mentioned. Can you introduce us?”

“I don’t know her name…”

“Introduce as in ‘bring us to her.’ "

“Oh.” Cotton’s bulb climbed out of his hiding place, gravitating towards Willow. “I guess…”

“It’s important. After that we can get you to your mom; how would you like that?”

“Yeah!” Cotton figuratively brightened. “I, um, see her around the gardens a lot.”

I tilted my head, looking that way. “Can you show us, please?”

“S-sure! I haven’t been outside in forever!”

It was still storming outside, though the weather appeared more violent in the darkness. At the back of the porch, Cotton’s bulb rotated upwards slightly as he commented, “Mom said she put her dolls out here to scare everypony away, but it’s not Nightmare Night yet…”

“Well, she did a good-good job!” Willow nodded approvingly. “Good ting I was so brave. Quill came along too.” I snorted softly.

We went quiet and the moment of levity subsided. Beyond the lattice railing was nothing but darkness and churning plant life, stirred by the strong wind like green ocean waves. Zola was in there somewhere. Had Willow caught a fleeting glimpse of her earlier in the day?

“Hey Willow, could you…?” I gestured furtively at Cotton. “... Make another light, for the zebra?”

She gave half a nod. “I'll need anot'er light source, my lighter's gonna be dark for awhile now.”

I raised the PipBuck, letting its lamp highlight both of us. Willow understood, using her magic to pull the backlight from the device's screen and convert it into a new bulb. It glowed with a pale amber light compared to the orange hue taken from the lighter. Cotton ooh'd and went to grab it.

“That's for the zebra lady,” I informed him. “Do you see her out there?”

The colt, now personified by two orbs of light, responded sheepishly, “Sh-she's over…” He presumably pointed, the amber bulb shifting in the direction of the mausoleum.

I bit my lip before I responded, looking to muster the same reassuring tone that I’d used to keep Willow calm when introducing her to Cotton. “Can you be brave for us, Cotton? Give that little star to her and then bring her to us?”

He didn’t respond, which I hoped was because he had chosen to nod instead. Both wisps of light then slowly drifted out into the storm and were lost amidst the greenery. When they returned, the amber one was trailing much more slowly and bobbing more gently than Cotton’s bouncy gait. My radio crackled once they came in range, which treated my ears to the deep, exotic tones of a Prench-speaking mare. She spoke with a gentle tone, but Cotton had gone quiet.

“Could you introduce us?” I asked Willow, who was concentrating intently on the words that came from the PipBuck.

She nodded and did so, and then translated in kind when the new voice replied. Unlike converting Prench text to Equestrian speech, Willow had no difficulty working between spoken words as she played intermediary for us. “It is good to meet a soul who can hear me. Zola is my name.”

A strange feeling passed over me as I realized that the first zebra I’d ever spoken to was one who had been dead for a dozen generations. “Um… hello. You… you know you’ve passed away?”

“Yes.” She paused for several seconds. I had begun to ask my next question when she continued, “I... cannot remember when I departed de physical realm, but it was by my own accord."

I frowned. “Wait, so… you... committed suicide?”

“No. I made a pact wid a spirit of the land, and it cost me my life. A small price to pay for de greatest of recompense."

“So you bound your souls together?”

Another pause. The amber bulb lowered and the air around us seemed to drop in temperature with it. “No. De master of de plantation sold away my son. De grief and rage in my heart was so great dat… my only recourse was black magic. My soul is bound to dis place, along wid dat of any heir to dis land. Now I may control him for as long as I deem appropriate.”

At last I understood. “I see. Trouble is, René never had foals.”

She hesitated. “He… did not? Den who…?”

“This is Cotton Knit, the son of the pony who bought Magnolia Grove here, many years after René died.” I refrained from an accusatory tone since I felt that this situation was the result of unfortunate circumstances and misunderstandings. “He’s innocent of this all. I understand that you wanted to repay the pain you went through, but the curse has punished the wrong person.”

“I’m innocent?” Cotton finally piped up. “What do you mean?”

Zola spoke haltingly. “Dis… was not what I intended. My stripes, if I’d known…” Through the speakers I heard her horrified realization. She then gasped something foreign, which Willow couldn’t hear clearly enough.

“Can you lift the curse?”

“I… yes, I am de one holding him here, so I am de only one who can let him go.”

“Curse?” Cotton’s voice was straining. “Quillwright, what are you talking about? Willow...?”

I knelt down to the bulb. “Cotton, this lady, Zola, can take you to your mother. I need you to go with her.”

“But…” his voice cracked. “I j-just met you and Willow. Are you coming too?”

My insides twisted, but I tried to smile for him. “Eventually.”

Willow, who'd been observing with sad eyes and pursed lips, finally joined me in comforting the colt. “Hey… you'll be fine, yeah? You're a strong pony, Cotton. You need to go see your mom.”

“O-okay.” He inhaled. “Could... I get a hug before I go?”

We took a moment to react, then both laughed in relief. “Of course!” Willow answered for both of us. Cotton’s bulb moved forwards, and I could feel the cool tingle of an ethereal foreleg encircle my neck. It felt strange yet oddly relaxing at the same time, sending a slight shiver through me.

After that, he moved to Zola's side. She spoke to Cotton softly before the radio's signal seemed to begin distorting. Music began overwhelming the zebra's words, and before they faded, I heard Cotton call goodbye to us. The radio then returned to normal and the pair of bulbs slowly drifted back to Willow. Their radiance dimmed until they were little more than dancing sparks, leaving us mortals alone in the dark.

It was silent for a long while, until I heard, “Dat was some crazy radioplay, huh?”

I turned to give the unicorn guide the most incredulous look I could. Her horn was brightening, revealing a mischievous smirk spreading across her face.

“Just kidding.”

Both Willow and I “slept in” late, though neither of us appeared to have gotten much rest after the events of last night. Wick seemed to have recovered, albeit now more skittish. The storm had finally moved on and we took advantage of the early noon warmth to build a small pyre on the brick lane in front of the mansion. Few words were exchanged as we went about the task, but it was clear in Willow's eyes that we were both feeling the same mix of melancholy emotions.

Taking great care and reverence, Willow’s magic carried out the remains of Cotton and his grandmother. We set them together in a final embrace, with Cotton tucked in his “mamaw’s” legs. We shored their remains up with kindling gathered from inside the mansion. Willow lit the pyre, which began to burn earnestly after some encouragement.

As the flames danced, I reflected on my words to Cotton. I would find him in the afterlife, whenever I got there, and I would bring that final comic book with me. I couldn’t help but smile as I watched the rising ashes carry their souls away from this wasteland and up to the Goddesses.

We made to depart Magnolia Grove not long after the funeral pyre had been reduced to smoldering ashes. I joined Willow after packing my belongings and donning my Stable barding.

“I would recommend concealing your wing,” she told me as I slung my bags across my back. “Where we’re going, dere may be some folks who don’t exactly… like your kind, see.”

“And… where exactly are we headed?”

“Divide,” Willow answered. “We’re gonna cross de Rift.”

Footnote: Progress recorded. Level Up.

New Perk: Robotics Expert, Rank 1 - Thanks to your study of synthetic pony anatomy, you know where to aim for maximum damage. You have 15% more likelihood to score critical hits on synths.

New Perk: Dead Wave Rave - There is something wrong with your PipBuck… or with you. You have an increased chance of hearing ghosts and in special circumstances may even be able to communicate with them! Setting them to rest, however, is a whole other matter...