Neigh Orleans:

The storm raged on throughout the night, and jagged flashes lightning lit up the skies around Neigh Orleans and the surrounding area of the Hayseed Swamps. These massive expanses or mire, murk, and what was pretty much the closest equivalent to a jungle this part of Equestria had went on for miles seemingly without end till they reached the Celestial Sea to the east.

Beyond that, lay the Griffon Kingdoms, what was once Riptalon’s homeland before it too, was swallowed up by warfare and left an inhospitable waste. Maybe things had changed in those 210 years, but if they had the Griffon empire sure seemed to not want anything to do with Equestria. Not that Riptalon could blame them of course, considering how badly all sides involved had messed things up for future generations. Honestly, he sorta understood why Scootaloo made the Stables, as one big middle talon to the rulers of Equestria and the Ministry Mares. They’d created this Hell, now they had to live with what they’d created.

But back to the Hayseed Swamps. It was Hell trekking through those swamplands, really. Firstly, there were the bugs, various creepy crawlies ranging from tiny as a griffon’s paw to as big as a good sized snake. Mosquitos, ready to suck out your blood and laden with various diseases flew through the air, and radigators propagated the swamps ready to swallow you up in one gulp. Then there were the other critters that were said to inhabit the swamps, like giant cats who stalked the night, blending in with the plants around them and the only warning you got -And that was if you were lucky- was the gleam of their eyes and a snarl before they pounced. Yes, it was a strange sort of area, filled with enough various interesting and odd creatures -Only a few of which had occupied a political office in the old days- to fill an entire book if anypony cared to write one. Perhaps someone had indeed dared to try, they’d just never lived long enough to publish it.

Yet somehow, long before the bombs dropped, groups of ponies from very different ways of life and very different countries had managed to carve out a paradise -If not a sleazy one- in this place.

Riptalon, as he lay in bed listening to the rain patter on the rooftop of his lodging, had to admit that the ponies insane enough to make this city were a kind he had to admire. To be fairly honest with you dear reader, Riptalon was never much of a sleeper. Maybe it had been from years on the run, fighting and hiding from whoever was out to get him, but in the past few years, he’d developed a strong case of insomnia. He certainly couldn’t explain the reason why he had it, he just dealt with the problem best as he could and hoped he could catch a few hours of sleep.

To counteract the boredom of staring at the ceiling for hours on end, he’d snuck back down to the bar, and found something worthwhile to read in the meantime.

A book lay on the griffon’s bedside table, with the cover depicting a statue of a mare holding up two plates in either hoof. He’d found this piece of literature near the bartender, who’d fallen fast asleep in a drunken stupor. Least this night, Riptalon knew the exact reason why he’d been unable to fall asleep that night. Namely, he was still far too disturbed by Calamity’s words not just a few hours earlier.

“Yeah, ya owe a lot of debts Blackhawk, just sayin'. Not gettin’ in my good books really with that excuse,” Calamity replied before his voice lowered. “Listen, Ah may have pulled your fat out of the fire a few times here and there and got the lawmen off yer tail, but that does not make us in anyway friends,”

“Yeah, yeah… Henri told me the same thing as well, she’s been yabbering on about that ever since we met up a few days back on that recruitment drive of hers,”

Realization slowly came to Calamity’s face. “Right… Homage did mention somethin’ about her and a group going to Mount Pleasant Island. Actually got a message to reserve rooms here in advance by Henri a day or so back now that Ah think of it. Now, about this here friend of yers, he’s a member of the Enclave isn’t he?”

“You think he’s not?” Riptalon asked, his voice lowering to Calamity’s own pitch as they took a seat at a table, chatter from the ponies around them fading out.

“Well, Ah could be inclined to believe that he’s a Stable-Dweller… Heck, if ya had the caps Ah’d could probably convince everybody else in this here town the same thing. But knowing your type of friends, Ah wouldn’t be surprised if he was an Enclave soldier… or at least a former one,”

“You saying I’m a traitor?” Riptalon hissed out.

“Well, ya are to everybody at large,” Calamity pointed out. “Not ta me, of course, but to everybody else…”

“Fair point…” Riptalon grumbled out. “But you’re absolutely right, I have no doubt in my mind about who he used to work for. Hell, I’d believe he was a Stable-Dweller if not for the simple fact I found him near the burning hulk of an Enclave cloudship back in Old Appleloosa. Too much of a coincidence. I’m not stupid enough to believe otherwise…” the merc trailed off.

“But it’s the odd thing, isn’t it?” Calamity replied. “No Dashite brand, nothin’ of the sort is there? It’s a walkin’ conundrum…”

For personal purposes, Riptalon had recorded this snippet of the conversation on an Audio Log. He wanted to keep reminding himself, if needed, that he was working with somepony who at any given moment, could very well stab him in the back if he chose to do so. If Calamity raised a fuss about being recorded without his consent, Riptalon would keenly remind him that this recording would serve as evidence that former Enclave Soldiers couldn’t be trusted. After all, considering some of the things Calamity had said, it would put him in ties with Riptalon if the griffon chose to “Release” this information.

Call it paranoia, but Riptalon didn’t entirely trust Calamity even if the pegasus was the Element of Loyalty. Enclave soldiers were Enclave soldiers, defectors or not. Sighing, he turned his attentions back to his book, a real pageturner. It told a story, one that had happened long before the war right here in Neigh Orleans. It depicted a local male prostitute, (As said in the book, one who was a good time not yet had by all) and his murder by gunshot. The book centered on his killer, and the three protracted and media-whored trials he’d gone through to try and prove his guilt. Curiously, none of the three had ever proven such a thing had happened.

Interestingly, however, something had happened not long after the trials ended. One night, in his home, the killer had died in his armchair via heart attack. But where the body was found, it was exactly in the same location where, supposedly, his prostitute lover had tried to kill him (The one whom he had later himself killed) some odd years before. It was very sordid affair really, and could leave one thinking on what exactly happened that night for days to come even after they’d long finished reading.

Riptalon turned to Iron at his side, who’d wrapped his hooves around him and was nuzzling his head into the griffon’s coal-black chest feathers. Riptalon sighed, wasn’t this what pillows were meant for? Actually, come to think of it, didn’t the Neighponese come up with what they called dakimakuras, or body pillows just for this purpose? Of course, then Iron grabbed onto Riptalon ever tighter still and seemed to have no intention of letting him go. It was almost like he treated the griffon like a comfort object, something soft and sweet (If you could even apply soft and sweet as a label to Riptalon) to hold onto in the nightmare that was the Equestrian Wastes.

Riptalon then took notice of Iron’s mouth, and what it was muttering. “Regret… Regret… Regret…” he repeated over and over, with no other context given. What, Riptalon questioned, could lead Iron or whatever he really called himself to mutter regret over and over in his sleep? Actually, now that he thought about it, he’d faintly remembered Iron muttering this back in the Old Appleloosian wastes as well before the Coywolf ambush.

“Least you’re getting some form of sleep, unlike me…” Riptalon thought, a smile creeping onto his beak, before it quickly vanished as soon as it had arrived. He slapped himself in the face, what was he thinking? Even showing some small form of nicety to the guy? Common sense told him to just shove Iron into the floor and let him sleep there.

He continued to think on the words, going over all possibilities. Maybe a coltfriend (Iron was gay, of that Riptalon had no doubt at least. One of the few things he could safely be sure of about his ‘ally’) that he’d broken up with quite badly, and Iron regretted that. Maybe it was something else, it was nigh-impossible to be sure. Whatever the case, the mutterings continued for a brief while before they stopped.

It would go on to be a subject of idle curiosity for Riptalon over the next few hours, before he too, finally succumbed to the world of dreams when drowsiness finally overtook him.

Iron groaned as he blinked and shielded his face with a wing to block the sunlight coming in through the open window. The smell of freshly fallen rain hit his nostrils, amongst other things like fried seafood cooking and fresh bourbon. Loud laughter echoed from the streets below. It seemed, even this early in the morning, Neigh Orleans’ sleazy party lifestyle was ever-present.

Iron, for a moment, wondered what there was to party about. After all, if the radio broadcasts were correct, there was a war going on wasn’t there? Then a thought came to him. Perhaps these ponies partied because it was all they could do. Do something else to keep their minds off the ever-present threat of the Enclave.

Nearby, a radio played old-time jazz music as the sound of a shower faucet running hit Iron’s ears. Then, it turned off, and from the bathroom came Riptalon running a towel through his head feathers.

“Might want to consider taking a shower yourself, get all that dried blood out of your fur,” Riptalon advised. “If not, ponies might start thinking you’re a serial killer,”

“Technically, I am, given all the killing we’ve been doing lately… Mind you, in self-defense, but I am still a killer.” Iron remarked dryly as he got up out of bed and pulled the covers off himself.

Riptalon threw the towel at him and gave him an annoyed look. “Just clean yourself off, for Celestia’s sake…” he muttered and had to practically shove Iron into the bathroom. As the door slammed shut, Riptalon sighed and rested his head up against a wall muttering “Why me…?”

Eventually, the two (With Riptalon now clad in a big gunmetal grey flak jacket) wandered down to the bar below, which was abuzz with activity. Ponies drunk and danced to the music playing from the jukebox. Personally, given how loud everything was, Iron wondered how he hadn’t heard it before.

Grabbing a drink from a stallion who’d slumped in his seat, he popped the cap and drunk the liquid inside. Riptalon gave him a look but sighed. What would be the point in trying and stopping him anyways?

“Let’s just hope he’s sober enough to fight when we reach Mt. Pleasant Island… Or not, him getting killed would give me one less headache to worry about…” Riptalon thought to himself. “Hmm, let’s see… One good shot who’s a complete pain in the neck, or a dead pain in the neck? Which would be better? I mean, it’s not already like we don’t have Target Quartermane with us…”

“Here’s the caps for the room,” he said to the bartender, who laughed.

“Won’t have to find the bedsheets a mess and stinkin’ somethin’ fierce, will I?” He joked, and Riptalon’s jaw dropped before his face seemed to contort in rage. He looked as if he wanted to strangle the bartender, but thought the better of it.

With a sigh, he held out the book he’d borrowed from the bartender and muttered: “Here, think this is yours…”

“Do I really want to know?” Iron asked, with an eyebrow raised as Riptalon wandered back over to him and they walked back out in the street. The scorching heat hit their faces at once and Riptalon sighed. If it wasn’t raining, it was boiling hot enough to appease Tirek himself down in Tartarus. Neigh Orleans, in that respect, was a city of two extremes.

“Don’t ask…” Riptalon trailed off. “Just… don’t, okay?”

Iron wanted to continue the line of questioning, but the look on Riptalon’s face told him to shut his mouth.

From a nearby bar, jazz continued to play, and Iron perked his ears up to listen to the tune. It was dirge-like, in some ways with how slow the tune was played but still worth a listen.

“...I've seen old bucks drunk, singin' the blues
With top hats', canes and spectator horseshoes
I consider myself lucky to have fallen in love
With a mare, a city, and the river of mud.”

Iron found himself nodding along to the song’s tune, and the horns playing their song. Of course, Iron had to admit he himself was falling in love with the city. It had its charms, he supposed. Just took a special kind of pony to appreciate them.

Riptalon, evidently, wasn’t that type as he didn’t look so pleased. His displeasure was only increased when a white mare, dressed in scant clothing pulled him aside and whispered: “Well, heard ya liked Celestia to fuck ya sideways… Ah’m not Celestia, but Ah can guarantee Ah can handle the second part…” She trailed off.

“Not interested,” Riptalon grunted as she shoved her away.

“Awww, but baby…” the mare murmured, stroking Riptalon’s chin and fluttering her heavily makeup covered eyes seductively.

“He said he’s not interested.” Iron growled, pulling out his pistol at the mare, whose face changed into one of both dawning realization and recognition.

“Oh… Right… It was a buck who propositioned him that. Actually, now that Ah think of it, it was ya who did that!” the mare said with a giggle, and a flip of her violet colored mane.

Iron stared and leaned over to Riptalon and whispered “Did I really say that?” a blush rising to his normally stone grey features.

“You might have… Yeah,” Riptalon muttered. Iron groaned and hit his head against a stone wall.

As he did that, he muttered: “Somebody, just kill me now…”

“Believe me, I’ve been thinking of that since last night,” Riptalon muttered to himself, fiddling with his knife and sharpening it against a tree. Iron, if he’d heard that, ignored the comment outright and turned back to the prostitute.

“Really, I have to ask… Selling your body out like this? Not my choice of career, lemme tell you. Seems awfully narcissistic, letting ponies see every inch of you, every night really. Might want to think about that.” Iron commented bluntly, as the mare’s jaw dropped.

“I’m… narcissistic… not…” the mare stammered out in disbelief, unable to form a proper sentence.

“So you’re not narcissistic or you are?” Iron asked, still in that blunt, slightly bored same tone of voice. “Least you could do is give me the favor of answering the question properly.”

“Well, I never!” the mare snapped, before trotting off the street in a huff.

“...Think you might have pissed her off, there,” Riptalon deadpanned, somewhat amused.

“Hey, I got her off your back didn’t I?” Iron asked, turning back to look at him. Eyebrow, again raised. “Besides, who knows what kinds of diseases that mare’s been transmitting. Really should think of a career change if you ask me.”

At that, Riptalon actually burst out laughing.

“Hey, are you two knucklehead lovebirds done socializing and ticking off the locals?” Henri’s voice yelled out, as she walked up, still clad in that lightly armored NCR bodysuit of hers. Her twin .45 caliber pistols, Black and White Rose were strapped to her back legs like always.

“We’re… He’s not my… We’re not dating!” Riptalon snapped and Henri smirked before chuckling.

“Sure you’re not…” Henri trailed off with an amused smile on her face once she’d stopped laughing at the two’s expressions. Riptalon’s was one of barely masked rage, and Iron’s was one of confusion.

“Why does she think we’re…?” Iron trailed off.

“I don’t know why…” Riptalon drawled as a reply, his tone completely sarcastic.

“When you two are done…” Henri coughed. “Calamity’s waiting for both of you at the local firing range, wants to get Iron up to speed with S.A.T.S and get him fitted for one of these bodysuits,” she explained before walking off.

As she walked down the street, she turned and winked at Riptalon. “Oh, and if it turns out you like what you see, try not to rip it off him first thing you do m’kay? Save your sex life for a later date, like when this war’s over and Winter Breeze is in the ground.” she teased.

Riptalon looked ready to throttle her for that remark, and Iron’s next comment didn’t help.

“Gee, she really gets her bee under your bonnet, doesn’t she?” Iron smirked, with a flirty cackle and laughed all the way to the firing range at Riptalon’s slack-jawed expression.

“You know, I’m beginning to think Iron’s not as dumb or naive as he looks…” the griffon thought to himself.

Neigh Orleans Firing Range

“Weeeeelll, Ah’ll be dog-gone… Now you’re actually starting to look like a proper member of the NCR.” Calamity complimented with a tip of his hat as Iron emerged from a storage unit, now clad in the same type of loose fitting, but lightly armored bodysuit he’d seen Henri dressed in. After Iron was handed his rifle back, Calamity had explained to him that these bodysuits were inspired by those worn by a mare long ago, before the Megaspells dropped. Went by the name of Tempest Shadow, he’d explained. To add to that, these uniforms -Well, the original variant anyways- used to be the official garb of some army led by this Storm King, whoever he may have been. They were flexible enough to allow maneuverability in combat, but still tough enough to take a few bullets.

When questioned as to why he preferred a flak jacket over one of these, Riptalon had replied: “You honestly see me fitting into one of those things, you dunce? Far too constricting.”

When Iron had thought about it, he had a point. Now that Riptalon had brought it up, and when Iron gave it some thought, he did seem a little larger than your average griffon. ...Of course, Iron had no accurate estimate for what size griffons normally came in. For all he knew, Riptalon may have been average size, and Henri abnormally small. Or a simple case of sexual dimorphism. He’d bring it up to Henri later. More approachable than Riptalon in his mind. Less scary as well. ...Well, slightly less scary.

“Clean yer mane-style up a little more, make it look a bit less scruffy or somethin’ and Ah think ya’d actually look mighty handsome.”

“Yeah, have to agree with Calamity, you’re constantly looking like you’ve had sex with somebody, the way your mane is right now,” Riptalon agreed, a talon to his chin in thought. “Now, I’m the last griffon you’d probably want as a mane stylist, but I think with you, you’d want the ruggedly handsome look.”

“Why, you want him to have that look? He does seem to be yer partner, in every sense of the word…” Calamity trailed off with a laugh and Riptalon fumed.

“Hardly. Me and him having sex? That’s about as likely as Twilight Sparkle herself coming back from the dead!” Riptalon scoffed.

“Well… Considering Littlepip ran into an Alicorn with Twilight’s Cutie Mark -or one that had a remarkable resemblance to ‘ers- some years back…” Calamity trailed off before he shook his head. Those two were so going to be rutting like rabbits any day now, he just knew it. But enough of teasing them both. He had a job to do. “Anyways, now… S.A.T.S. Or the Stable-Tec Arcane Targeting Spell if ya like. It’s a spell that’s been built into every Pipbuck, just like yers. What does it do? Now, Ah run the risk of ramblin’ here, but what it does is put the world in a frozen state durin’ combat allowin’ ya to gauge the situation in peace. Not completely safe, but comes in mighty handy, lemme tell you. Now, this spell here… It highlights the various weak spots on a target, and increases the chance of a successful hit,” he explained.

“So, it slows down time?” Iron questioned, intrigued.

“Not exactly…” Calamity continued. “Exactly the opposite, it speeds things up just a little.Your perception of the world, drastically sped up for a spell. However, it’s not a shortcut to everythin’ Ah should explain. Needs to be recharged for a few minutes at the very least dependin’ on how ya use it, so use it sparingly. Now, there used to be another spell called the Eyes Forward Sparkle, or E.F.S for short, but it’s since dropped out of use,”

“Why’s that?” Iron asked curiously.

“Well,” Calamity continued. “It was under the advisement of a mare named Blackjack. What the E.F.S did, or used to, before it fell out of use by most of us, was assign color designations to each creature it picked up depending on hostility level. Red meant danger, while yellow meant friendly or at the very least neutral. Now, the problem was, in the Wastelands, as it turned out, ya couldn’t rely on this blindly. Couldn’t distinguish between frightened scavengers from actual dangers, like Radscorpions and the like, as Blackjack told us. Other problems presented themselves as well, like being unable to distinguish vertical height so ya couldn’t tell where somethin’ was in a multistory structure. System’s notoriously unreliable, as it turned out.”

Calamity then pressed a button and several makeshift targets (Themed after the members of the Enclave, along with one being based off Red-eye) popped up, and with the creaking and groaning of long unused gears, they began to move back and forth.

“Now, all ya have to do is hit as many of them as ya can with yer gun. No time limit, no scoring system, just want to see what ya can do. No pressure, really. Just take as long as ya need.” Calamity reassured.

Iron then engaged the S.A.T.S system, and on the dark green screen that made up his Pipbuck’s display, the various weak spots were pointed out on each target as they moved. Calamity noticed what his fellow pegasus was doing and then took away the Pipbuck.

“Uh-uh, no dice. Ah want to see what you can do with just yer gun, no helpin' hooves. Situation may come at some point where yer without a Pipbuck to help ya, understand?” He asked, and Iron nodded, before squeezing the trigger of his rifle as he looked down the scope. He lay prone to the ground, like a sniper. Calamity eyed him curiously, now that was interesting. Very interesting indeed.

BAM! BAM! BAM!

Several shots went off in quick succession, brass casings flying from the rifle with each shot. Then, the trigger was squeezed several more times.

BAM! BAM! BAM!

And so the cycle continued...

Meanwhile, Henri, as she looked over a map of Equestria sighed to herself. Mount Pleasant Island, it stuck out like a sore thumb on the map. Located directly below Baltimare, in the Horseshoe Bay, this island had been the subject of mystery for many years. What little was known, it housed a thriving fishing community at least at one point, and was almost constantly covered by fog. That, and it hid some of the most dangerous creatures imaginable. Mirelurks, Fog Crawlers and Anglers to name just a few.

“No passion so effectually robs the mind of all its powers of acting and reasoning as fear…” Henri muttered to herself as she absentmindedly fiddled with the safety of one of her pistols. Henri sighed to herself, there. She admitted it, she was afraid, but nobody could blame her really. However, she couldn’t let it show. She was the commander, and if the commander showed fear, it would be passed down to the troops.

Morale would slowly drop, combat effectiveness would drop. And she needed everybody, even that thrice be damned griffon Riptalon to be at their best.

“Something wrong?” Midnight asked as he approached, his shotgun in his hands. Henri downed a small flask as she sighed.

“No, nothing’s wrong…” Henri replied. “No, nothing at all..” she thought to herself before flashing back.

It was Junction Town, just a few months before she’d been assigned to go on this mission. Henri had found herself doing a routine Radroach inspection in one of the cellars of somepony’s home. She’d forgotten whose it was, to be honest. Didn’t actually care enough to remember their name. Actually, Henri didn’t know why she’d even taken this frankly rather dull job. Probably for the caps, maybe. But there she was, a glorified exterminator.

Radroaches, once they got up in your plumbing or heating systems, then you’d have a problem. They were a real bitch to get rid of once they got there, so it was routinely advised for the residents of Junction Town just to check their cellars every so often to make sure they didn’t have an infestation.

This cellar did, and apparently the homeowner had this crippling fear of the little things. Odd, really when one could easily just smash them with a pipe wrench or any other object of a similar size. Wasn’t like radroaches were particularly well-built.

So, Henri searched the cellar for any signs of an infestation. Behind crates and barrels. She didn’t quite know how either, but she’d quickly found herself surrounded by the little buggers, and she -thinking this was some sort of prank, as after all, who was scared of radroaches?- had neglected to bring her weapons along with her for the first time in her life. And not a pipe wrench in sight.

“Hey, get away from her, you meanies!” a voice shouted, and several rocks flung from a slingshot flew and several radroaches bit the dust. Hooves galloped down to meet Henri, hooves belonging to a little Zebra filly with her mane tied in a ponytail.

“What are you doing down here, you little idiot? Could have been bitten by one of those things, and then I’d be sued by your parents for child endangerment and Gawd knows what else…” Henri muttered as she looked at the filly, remembering her name to be Nzuri. Friends with that Flood Waters filly. “Got spunk kid, reminds me of somepony I knew once…”

“Hey, just thought I could help, that’s a-OW!” Nzuri began to explain, before receiving a firm slap across her rump by Henri.

“You little idiot…” Henri muttered in a half-hearted tone of annoyance.

Henri smiled wistfully, that filly was trouble, no ifs, ands, or buts about it. But she was the good kind of trouble, the kind that grew on you.

“Promise kiddo, I’ll make it back to you and then we can go radroach hunting together, kay?” Henri thought before taking another sip from her flask.

Author's Notes:

Well, hope you hada happy "Shoot the Turkey Day!"

Anyways... Yeah. Okay, I admit it, this chapter was mainly just filler for the most part, even if it did develop more of Henri and Iron's characters here. Iron really needed it the most, as for most of this story, in my mind at least, he really was this bland and a rather naive character. It's probably within only the last few chapters he's starting growing.

Henri's an interesting case, she's got an already established character thanks to Pink Eyes, but her arc needs to be continued as a character for this story. So that's partially the reason why Alicia and Katie (Or Nzuri and Flood Waters as they're known here) from Ruinqueen's Ponies after People story "The Lost Children" were brought in. Give Henri somepony to form a bond with, and help her move on a bit more from Puppysmile's death.

Now, on those two fillies, or more precisely, their names. Choosing Katie's name was easy enough. But Alicia's Equestrian name? Now, that took a little bit of thinking. Me and Ruin tossed around suggestions. First, I put the name through Google Translate and see what it came out in Latin as and I got Veni for some odd reason. Then, Nobilis got suggested, relating to Alicia's German root, which meant Noble One. Then, after thinking on that, I thought up Nzuri, which is Noble in Swahili.

Anyways, enough of my rambling. Comments and constructive criticism are appreciated as always.