There is a strange, wicked beauty to be found in fire. It consumes things like wood or flesh but it also provides things as well. In fact, one could say that fire produces more benefits than it does determent. Fire is, for all terms and definitions sake, the very analogy for life as one could know it. It produces heat which warms the body and cooks food but with the right tools and technology, one could harness it to create a civilization. From the fires of industry, Equestria had emerged a nigh on juggernaut of civilization…and from the fires of War had it all been wiped clean in an instant. Yet another face of fire exists. The kind of fire that is capable of fucking up the entire world for centuries afterward and changing history as we knew it in a single moment. I could remember it all happening in the literal blink of an eye. A second is a lot shorter than you'd think during a crisis and doesn't give you much time to take in all the details before things go up in smoke.

Speaking of seconds, I've grown to realize that time has a funny way of cataloging memory after awhile. Most of the time you’ll find yourself forgetting names and important places but completely incapable of forgetting a centuries old radio jingle for cigarettes that you haven't heard since you were six years old. Recalling it brought pangs of nostalgia I couldn’t quite put a name to but were small comforts late in the night after the gunfire had stopped and the job was finally over for the day. Even the Equestrian Apocalypse couldn't destroy the necessity of life known as hard work. After all, the Wasteland isn’t one to give anything away for free, even something as simple as a good bath.

"Hmph..." I snorted softly to myself. "Goddesses knows I need one..."

I caught myself at the end of that line and gave a soft cynical chuckle as I dropped the pen from my magic and sat back to rest my head from eyestrain from writing for so long. It was hardly a hobby I felt any commitment to but...I found the older I got, the more my humor had been tainted by philosophical cynicism and I would be sporadically hit with the need to write down a bit of...philosophical self-reflections. Rather excessive for a glorified autobiography but with so much of the old world gone...it felt like a tiny taste of the simplicity of the past. Besides...at my age, I felt I was entitled to be a bit excessive however I saw fit.

The windows of my tiny apartment room rattled as a heavy breeze blew through the tight alleyway in front of my house and small piles of sand began to accumulate on the windowsill despite the time spent sealing the place as tight as I could against gunfire which was as much of an occurrence as a sandstorm. Thankfully enough the last storm had died down a few weeks past and local winds had helped move the piles out of town. I was well aware of the fact that I had actively chosen to live in New Pegasus which sat in the middle of the variable desert that stretched more than half the length of the West half of Equestria. But...that didn't mean I couldn't still complain about it in the privacy of my own home.

My small apartment was made all the smaller by the bookshelves, stacks of military ammo cans, racks of weapons and several workbenches dedicated to the art of reloading ammunition and modifying and maintaining firearms. It wasn't much of a residence but it was simplistic, geared for my line of work and the walls were lined with as many blueprints for weapons as porn. From the delicious Griffin and mare to the delectable pistol and rifle there was always a feast for the eyes and pleasures. In the end, my little apartment was one of the few places left where I felt most relaxed and naturally happy. A lovely little sanctuary of my own where I could calm my thoughts and senses without fear of getting caught off guard.

A soft beeping from the worn but well maintained combat helmet roused me from my sleepy doze. I glanced at it wishing I was just imagining the sound and closed my eyes pretending I couldn't hear it. Unfortunately I couldn't keep up that charade for long and I rubbed my eyes groaning in annoyance. Headache or no I just had to answer it. My personal radio frequency was only known by one asshat...an asshat who remained alive because he paid me more than what anyone else was offering for his head plus extra for any jobs he wanted done on the side. God it almost felt like working a minimum wage job again...

With reluctance, I wrapped the centuries old metal helmet with its attached gas mask in a sparkling aura of baby blue magic and levitated up and onto my head, the fit like a well tailored glove even after all these years. The hermetic seal hissed shut as the gap closed between my armored underbarding’s neck mesh and the helmet itself, a built-in feature of my armor that had been a lifesaver on multiple occasions. The air always felt different inside the helmet…a peculiar taste and smell that were too faint to be described but present enough to warrant if only a passing observation of its existence. I tapped the switch controlling the radio built into the right side of the helm, my only true connection to the happenings in the Wastes. It was also the only radio I could stand to be around after two centuries of the same twenty-seven songs played on repeat everywhere you went. It was still one of the strongest radios in the area and was only the size of a couple decks of cards. They certainly didn't build them like they used to.

“Mhm…?” I mumbled dully into the built-in microphone that lay near my muzzle inside the helmet.

“Ah, just da mare I wanted to hear…” Came the all too familiar voice grating into my ears like little conniving gremlins. “Listen babe, if ya interested in makin’ a few extra spendin’ caps I gotta proposition for ya. I promise ya it'll be worth ya time.”

I sighed and rolled my eyes, glancing out of the window at the dilapidated and bombed out buildings that stood nearby. There was always another proposition for me. Always another pony who wanted some other pony dead and was willing to pay big for it. It wasn't just ponies of course. Griffins, Dragons, Wolves, Zebras, Saddle Arabians and plenty of other species and races were among the piles of dead bodies left behind by myself and my fellow Hitmares. As cliché a profession as it was, it was the perfect job for me. From birth I had always been described as a fighter and that had carried me through high school all the way through military academy and into the Equestrian Armed Forces. By the time I was twenty-six, I had a confirmed kill count of two-hundred and ninety-seven which included live combatants as well as robotic ones. Far from the highest score on the Southern Front's HeadHunt games but still respectable nonetheless in the end, especially for a Designated Anti-Machinist. After all...for mares like me, once the taste of blood and combat filled my mouth I just couldn't stay away from my place in the circle of life. One of the apex predators of the Sentient world only I was armed with a twenty-five millimeter and a damn good scope.

“Kay, I know I ask a lotta ya but hear me out will ya?” He whined into my ears which I wished I could plug to shut him out. He was like a sad hog squealing when he was desperate.

I sighed again, making damn sure he knew he was bothering me and that my timetable, though open as fuck since I had nowhere to be, was short for him and his constant whining.

“Aight, fine. I’ll cut to th’ chase…there’s a band of Raiders who stole some shit of mine. The boys I sent to collect only came back with about fifty caps worth of hot lead in their asses. These bitches ain’t gonna spit on my salty ass anymore ya hear me?! I wan’ ya tah fill ‘em with so many holes even Swiss cheese’ll be jealous!”

“Seven k and I’ll do it.” I responded flatly, looking at the fresh RadWasp honey clumps I had gathered the day before with longing. I had spent a good few hours dancing with those behemoths and I intended to enjoy the fruits of my labor.

“Seven-thousand caps?!” He shrieked into my already pissed off ears. “Fucking hell, I thought we was friends!”

I remained silent at that comment, feeling essentially nothing but muddled contempt for my so-called ‘employer’. While he considered me to be one of his 'girls' that he could call on to kill on a whim, I saw him as nothing more than a source of good income and the biggest fucking pig I had met in good, long while. In public, I had to defend my hooves-off relationship with Green because I was disgusted with the idea of being associated with him. Only reason I had to be around him was because no one else paid my price like he could in Freeside. New Pegasus herself was another story but I was not classy enough for the elites of the Post-War society to hire and the casinos always shorted you with unnecessary charges. Shit you could never dispute lest you be blacklisted; never a good thing for anyone worth their weight in caps on the free market.

“How about twenty-five hundred…?” he finally whimpered, the price lower than even his lowest bottom end for jobs.

“Oh? What’s the occasion?” I asked, my voice filled with only the slightest hint of interest in his boring internal affairs.

“Aight, fine…” He growled in defeat. “I lost a lotta caps to those fuckers…and I want you to get it all back plus interest. You of all mares outa get the significance of this here problem.”

“I see…” I hummed quietly, thinking it over and conceding his point that we had a rather well established professional relationship in place and if the amount of caps on the line threatened his business, it threatened mine. “Fine, I’ll do it for twenty-five. What’s the amount to collect and how much in interest including heads?”

“Eighty-five thousand.” He spat into the mike, my ears twitching slightly for fear of being spat upon. “Plus a shit loada my product. I want as many heads as it takes. Outa their cold, dead hooves if ya gets the chance!”

I allowed my professionalism a small break in order to give a small whistle. Long gone were the days where I was making a measly two-hundred and fifty to five-hundred caps per every cap I busted in some random asshole’s skull. Even my reduced take from this job dwarfed what ninety-percent of what other ponies made on average and I was in the easiest business around. That being said...I hated doing jobs that delved into his drug trade. With shit as bad as it was, everypony seemed to want a hard break from reality which made for big business. Territorial disputes, caravan guarding, supplemental patrols and bagging-n'-tagging were the realm of Bounty Hunters and Mercenary Companies. Doesn't take a genius to kill someone but if you want it done well you hire a professional. New Pegasus was a veritable goldmine of opportunity for anyone with a gun, ambition and, like the Las Pegasus of yesteryear, more than a little luck behind their skill. The Wasteland offered a lot in the way of jobs for hardened bastards to make by on and there was such a need for people like me that it became a professional organization.

The Syndicate was the true ruler of the Westcoast's hired gun business with thousands of members and informants who made bank off the greed that was inside everyone. There was room for promotion to anyone who joined and proved their worth to the organization. Some of us just happened to be extremely well suited to putting bullets, shrapnel and pointy metal objects into others which spawned the most complicated part of the Syndicate hierarchy. Merc Companies were the foundation of business working the odd-jobs of the Wasteland and bringing in a steady income. Bounty Hunters were standout Mercs (and the occasional ex-NER Commando) who had earned enough of a reputation for the Syndicate to acknowledge their talent and worth outside of their Company and ensure well paying jobs worth their talent. At the top lay the Hitmares, the exclusive club who more often than not were exclusively professional killers. There weren't a ton of us by any means, but we were always in high demand by any group worth its salt.

“I can’t thank ya enough Athena, I really can’t.” He sighed happily in relief into the microphone though judging by the muffled giggles I picked up, I was willing to bet my incoming batch of caps that he was getting a nice blowjob from that saucy bitch of his. Silver Daisies or whatever the hell her primpy name was.

“Thank me by paying me. Where am I headed?”

"Stop by the bar and I'll have one a mah peoples give ya a marker. Ah fuck, ya dirty girl gimmie that tong-"

I gagged as a definite moan hissed into my ears before I cut it off by changing the setting of my radio to silent. Now if he wanted to have me hear him groan his way to an orgasm he was going to get charged extra for wasting my time while I was on the clock. His clock to be more precise. I may not be paid by the hour but I charged extra for assholes who liked telling me anything more or than what I needed to complete a job. The why never really mattered anyway...the job would provide its own conclusions on what happened. It was better not to know the real why anyway as 98% of the time, it had something to do with one of the many vices of mortal life. The only upside really was it paid really well.

With yet another sigh, this one of reluctance to leave my rather comfortable cot, I pulled the helmet from off my head and set it on the table next to me. Freshly filled magazines full of homemade 10mm rounds and odd speedloaders glinting with the shiny brass of .45-70 Celestia rounds littered the table along with a few open books and a couple of empty bottles of Sunrise Sarsaparilla. With the helmet off my nose got a nice smell of what my home truly smelled like; gunpowder, sweat and the faint whiff of peaches. Stooping down to snag a few scattered rounds, I tossed the empty brass casings into the hopper feeding into my complicated reloading setup. Truly my whole room was one dedicated to maintaining my work equipment; better to learn to care for your equipment properly than to pay extra for others to do it for you.

There had been a time when I was more than content to use Pre-War ammunition in my weapons as though a bit weathered, they got the job done and had a familiarity to them that was nostalgic. As the years rolled on, I began to notice that Pre-War ammunition was running more and more scarce and the quality of reloaded ammo varied too much to be reliable for my standards so, I turned my hobby into a full time gig reloading my own ammunition. Not only was I able to precisely control the powder charge but I was also able to craft specialty ammunition to flesh out my arsenal as adaptability was what earned the big money. My go-to round was almost always the ‘All Equestrian Classic’ as I liked to affectionately call it or more simply the APEI round. Armor Piercing Explosive Incendiary. Not only did it send the right kind of message to those between my sights, but it was by far the most flexible of the ammo types I had for my Pre-War beast. My only complaint would be perhaps that it was too big for every situation but, when it comes to the Wasteland, overkill was always the safest bet. Truly nothing had changed in the Post-War...

I levitated my heavily modified Ranger Sequoia from where it lay nestled under my pillow like a present from a psychotic Tooth Fairy and gazed lovingly at the old engravings still visible on the blocky black barrel and dark cherry grips.

“Against All Tyrants…” I snorted softly with amusement as I read the silver words engraved along the length of the black barrel. “Too fucking bad all the ones I signed up to kill are long gone...”

Aside from its nostalgic value, my Sequoia held a special and prominent place in my rotating arsenal of weapons and equipment for both its power and its looks. Sure, there were other top-break revolvers out there in the Wastes…but none of those little peashooters could compare to the sheer power of the .45-70 Celestia round the Sequoia packed. It was a graduation present in the Corps when a Ranger was promoted to Veteran, a heavily engraved Ironshod Armory Big Frame Revolver. However, when it came time to get mine I opted to go above and beyond the conventional model with my sights set on a particular goal. I remembered the day it arrived at my desk vividly…I had gone to great lengths to get myself a Sequoia unlike any of the other poor bastards in my Squad had ever seen before.

Both my Squad and the gunsmiths at Ironshod Armory alike said that a top-break action was just out of the question for the .45-70…too much pressure on the latching mechanism they said and other less than convincing excuses. And yet, here she was, two-hundred years later still spitting out hot fiery death on a daily basis. Only the best got the honor of wielding the Sequoia…but only I got to wield my Sequoia. I never had a child of my own, even in all the years I had put behind me…but my Sequoia was the closest thing I had to having a baby and I was one happy momma with her strapped to my leg. It was a comfort thing more than anything else but she came in handy very often to do what she did best. Blowing holes in things and people momma didn’t like around. Truly the child I deserved heh.

As I donned my worn and patched combat pants I nickered softly at the strange relationship between clothing and ponies. Most (at least those who were smart) wore some kind of protection whenever they wandered the Wastes, but I knew from experience all of them would immediately slip out of it as soon as they felt safe at home making them easy targets for area-of-effect munitions. Unlike those dumbasses, I had learned from their mistakes and almost aways wore my armored barding even when I slept. At times, it may get in the way of a comfortable nap but I wasn’t willing to part with my last line of defense just to get some deeper sleep. Besides, if I became too relaxed, I would be too lazy to leave my bed and then before I knew it I'd be out of shape and out of money. Perhaps I was a tad overreactive but I'd rather be hardwired for danger than be dead at home from slacking on the job.

Aside from armor, it wasn’t in most ponies’ nature to wear stuff unless they were one of those weirdos at the Ultra-Deluxe casino or a resident of Tenpony Tower way out in Manehattan. Aside from those stuck-up assholes (and the occasional oddball out in the Wastes), ponies naturally went in the ‘nude’ as it were. I didn’t mind at all for two reasons. One was so I could see what they were packing and kill them easier and the other was so I could sneak a peek under some good looking mare tail to see what they were packing. I suppose I could be called a pervert for that but honestly…the only true laws of the Wasteland were the ones you made for yourself. My rulebook had three main rules: Be professional, be efficient and have a plan to kill everypony you meet. The rest were an assortment of personal quirks with a healthy dose of ADD and obsession with certain details.

After I made sure my pants were facing the right way, I strapped on my Ranger armor, the symbol of the roaring Dragon of the Desert Rangers almost marred and blotted completely from sight upon the desert pattern camouflage of my breastplate. Along with the standard issue Mrk. IV breastplate, I had also heavily armored bracers, greaves, cuisse and combat boots with metal reinforcement including along the edge of the hooves for extra stomping and kicking power. The Ranger-series of armor had come a long way during its evolution and included secondary and tertiary impact plates ensuring the wearer a long and healthy life long as they knew some limits. A major part of the tactical rig integrated with the armor were the dozens of multi-use pouches and bags I had attached to a belt around my waist and across my chest, front and back. My Sequoia sat in a prominent holster bolted to my right cuisse with a small row of elastic bandoliers holding loose rounds while on my left was a large satchel-like pouch. This was multipurpose but most often saw use as a spent case collection with the front flap lined top to bottom with pouches carrying my archaic style speedloaders allowing for rapid reloading. In addition to my saddlebags, I could carry enough shit to last me a solid two-to-three weeks in the field without needing a pit stop for more ammo or food. Call it a point of practical vanity...but I had an obsession for pockets and pouches in general and I loved the way they looked on clothing and armor of any type. I never knew if I would come across small trinkets or such that I would want to take with me so I always over prepared when it came to spaces for holding stuff besides the tools of the trade.

On top of it all that went the traditional armored leather duster of the Desert Rangers with shoulders padded thickly with ballistic fiber studded with small plates of metal and capped off with magnetically attached two-part paldrons that extended halfway down my forelegs with the lower half protected by thick bracers and steel-reinforced combat boots. The long coat was perhaps one of my most favorite parts of my gear as it was made from Dragon leather and reinforced with a ballistic mesh similar to my underbarding that kept me safe from knives, shrapnel and anything less than a .44 Magnus revolver. That, and you just couldn’t beat the epic feeling that came free with a stiff breeze over a hill while you stand upon it and feel your coat billowing in the gale. On nights when I felt the urge, I would sneak out of town and stand on one of the dunes surrounding New Pegasus and let the night breeze make me feel like I was on the cover of a Pre-War propaganda poster or even better yet even, a comic book. The twelve year old filly in me simply refused to die it seems.

As I wiggled my hips to get my tail to sit comfortably between the slit separating the two halves of the coat tails, I began the process of stuffing my holsters and pouches with everything I felt the job needed. My tiny apartment didn't allow for a large and diverse arsenal but I had learned to cope over time. Aside from a small collection of non-standard-issue weapons and a non-regulation tactical harness of my own design, all I really needed were the only friends of mine who had also outlived the Corps. The weapon that everypony knew me by in the business, or really by anyone with eyes, was the large-bore Anti-Machine Rifle carried on a sling across my back. The Barnette AMR-25, as it was referred to by the military, was the latest and most advanced Anti-Machine Rifle prior to the Great War serving as an all-in-one defense and offense against Imperial combat robots and ground targets. At one time, the .50 Big Macintosh Guard round was considered enough stopping power against an Imperial machine with the Mareseillian company Barnette taking on the contract for designated rifles for just this purpose. As time went one and technology got better on both sides of the conflict, the .50BMG and then 20mm cartridges were deemed to be inadequate and their respective rifles became designated as Anti-Personnel Rifles due to the abundance of ammunition produced for them. 25x102mm Phoenix rounds however, upsized versions of the earlier 20x102mm Vulpes, were found to be more than sufficient at punching holes in targets and thinning crowds. Coming in a broad selection of deadly flavors, there were a lot of nasty things that could be stuffed into that roughly one-pound projectile and a variety of powder charges for different occasions. By far the most advanced firearm I ever had the pleasure of serving with.

My Sequoia, the second piece of my Ranger kit, slid comfortably back into the holster attached to the cuisse of my right thigh in a classic cross-draw style with the butt facing outward. She was a gorgeous beast best described as a 2x4 on a grip with a blocky, ten-inch rectangular barrel assembly six-inches wide and half as thick with broad compensator ports towards the muzzle. Six-round cylinder with a well-tuned auto-ejector spring and large locking latches hinged off the back of the frame holding the gun closed and the rounds in the cylinder. Even despite the special steel alloy used to construct it, it had definite heft which, when coupled with the compensator, made the recoil manageable if incredibly loud. If I had a tool capable of sufficiently scratching the Celestium Steel frame, tally marks from its time in my possession would easily obliterate the original engravings a dozen times over. Nothing like a sexy Big Iron on the hip when out wandering the Wastes providing peace of mind by blowing out others.

My eyes and hooves hesitated while picking up an ancient long single-edged curved sword that had come with a name already attached to it. Little Fang, or Klein Lapjie as it was originally called by the friend who had gifted it to me. I couldn't help but partially draw the sword from its simple black metal scabbard just so I could look at the jet black blade; its peculiar saw-tooth temper-line highlighting the silvery blade with a soft, red glow. It was a gorgeous Kyotian Isle blade that was much older than myself and had easily taken a life for every year it had existed, a fact only the blood-red Gem in the pommel only knew the true count. The hilt was long, designed to be used in both hooves in a style reminiscent of the advanced unarmed techniques of most martial arts and bit a lot deeper into foes than it had any right to do. Most armor parted like a tin can to the enchanted meteorite steel and the exotic weapon came with some dark secrets I was not trained to control. As a sword it excelled in close quarters slaughter but there was a power contained inside it that was too scary to try and use when I had only a rudimentary grasp of how it worked.

With a sigh I sheathed the blade and put it back on its rack against the wall horizontally with the blade facing upwards, something I had been told once upon a time was how to properly store one of these particular type of swords. Fang was a useful tool but for a job that would only require a hooffull of bullets at 500+ yards, a sword wasn't the right tool for the job. Besides, with the pair of combat knives strapped to the back of my shoulder holster, if shit got close and personal I was confident I could knife fight my way around a situation. The black sword did look good on me though, especially against my silvery grey fur where it contrasted quite well with my tough-girl aesthetic. Habits as old as personal vanity were hardly priorities for change when you just don't give a shit about others and went with what you felt was a best fit for yourself.

On the topic of personal vanity, I noticed that despite my bath from the day before, I had become rather dirty once again ruining the fluffy factor of my coat and dulling the green and blue colors of my mane. I liked to keep my mane long, almost down to my front knees, but it was a bitch to get and keep clean and it didn't help I had to put it up in a bun every time I wanted to put my helmet on. If I didn't, the pneumatic EVA seal wouldn't close tightly and that could prove problematic if I had to enter a contaminated environment with a toxic atmosphere. All that said, that wasn't enough to get me to go back to the near buzz-cut I had to sport in Basic Training. Still, I had to admit that nothing, not even the Wasteland, seemed to affect how pretty my eyes were. I know it's vain to think that but I had always loved dark violet as a color as it was the color of my favorite gemstones, amethysts. Plus, purple was always the symbol of royalty was it not? What could a little vanity do to hurt a mare who loved the way she looked? Answer? Not much as long as she kept her wits focused on the task at hoof and felt like a princess doing so.

With everything finally in place and my eyes finally peeled away from my own ass in the mirror, I finally levitated my old and battered helmet from where it lay on the table, it's dull blood red lenses contrasting as beautiful as ever with the black mask and helmet, and slipped it over my head. With the pneumatic seal once again hissed shut around my face, mane and horn, I was ready to track down the caps I’d use to pay for my next few jars of rifle powder, primers and maybe a new Spark Pack for my vibrator. Seeing as I had kinda given up on relationships (a good call given my line of work), I hadn’t felt any desire to look beyond my vibrator for a good time, which I honestly needed a lot of. Time may have killed my heart but it had yet to put even a dent on my libido even though I laid siege to it daily and nightly when I got the chance. It was a rare treat to make the trek to the Stirrup and find a clean mare for some quality time, one I felt I had earned after so many months of back to back jobs. I knew full well I could easily spend my current fortune and live like a new world queen for the next fifty years and essentially retire for awhile but...it wasn't the life for me. I belonged in this job more than I belonged in some cutie's arms for longer than a night or two. Still, it made for a fun distraction as a rare treat to spice up an otherwise rather monotone lifestyle.

As I shut and locked all twenty Stable grade bolts into place on my front door I had to giggle softly to myself on the reflection that I used that vibrator a lot more than could be considered healthy. Especially considering I had managed to burn out over ten Spark Packs over the last two years alone. Considering those things were made to power magical energy weapons for up to a year of constant use…I was either the horniest little shit to ever prowl the Wastes or old Cogsworth, my favorite New Pegasus merchant, was selling me shit wares to keep me coming back for more. Based on the evidence, it honestly was more the former than the latter...but I wasn't one for stopping habits that made me happy. Everyone needed a private passion that could be called 'unhealthy' by outsiders in my opinion. Some choose drugs, some choose booze and some of us just liked getting off to get by.

I giggled again in light of my own bizarre sexual appetites and almost didn’t notice the stallion nearby who was eying me with what was clearly lust. Our irritating ritual had begun with unyielding precision. At this point the fucker was camping.

“Heeeeyyy baby! About time you walked out of that little fortress of yours.” He crooned in what could have been called a flirtatious voice if he had spent any time polishing his delivery. “Been wondering when you’d let me crash there with ya, I’ll make it worth your while.”

I remained silent to my obnoxious neighbor Tomato Harvest, a bright red stallion who enjoyed showing off his ‘package’ to just about anypony who came near and promoting his prowess as Freeside's greatest dom to male and female alike. Bisexuality was something he and I had in common perhaps, but I was a mare lover at heart and from what other mares had told me...he liked riding a lot rougher than I was comfortable with. Besides...he wasn't a Griffin which was kind of a non-starter far as my taste in males went. Stallion dick just wasn't as satisfying to me.

“Common babyyyyy” He begged, breaking the norm by standing in front of me and begging, his member as present as ever before my gaze which I kept stubbornly forward. “I need it, you need it, so whadaya say to us having some fun together eh? I promise I’ll make that stubborn voice of yours sing praises to the Goddesses! You give me the same old shit every single fuckin time baby, just stop with the excuses and lemme smash ya like a boulder.”

“Fucking move, damnit!” I finally hissed at him, the microphone on my mask making my voice sound a bit hollow and mechanical but all the more intimidating. Or so I hoped.

“Oh I’ll move baby…” He snickered as he crossed the line and approached close for what I knew from unnerved observation would be a combination of a kiss and a grab for my ass. “I’ll make that bed of yours move allllllll over the fucking place!”

There were caps (as few as they were) on the line and I had my duty to uphold my word to Green Peace even if he was an obnoxious asshole. Tomato Harvest had all at once gone from avoidable nuisance to acceptable collateral and honestly…I was fucking happy about the change. Any complaints over this one would have to go through Green's goons and I had special privileges in Freeside. If he bled out, that was his fault but I wasn't going to kill him outright. Pain and humiliation would more than suffice and get my message through his thick skull without penetrating it with lead. Without missing a step in my brisk trot forward, I floated out the intimidating mass of metal that was my Sequoia from its holster on my back left leg and put three rounds into him. One in each shoulder and one for his pride and joy. I longed to look behind me at the shrieking and bloodied mess I had waited over a year to make but I was on the job and old Bitch Face needed me to do it. Besides, it was Freeside. Tomato was just going to be another body tossed into a crater to feed the local wildlife amongst the dozens added in every week and nopony would miss him. Those who might would know who did it and then do their best to forget it ever happened rather than fight me over it. Nopony liked him but himself.

The outskirts of Freeside were a maze of brick and mortar buildings mixed amongst piles of rubble from those that had succumbed to the weight of age. The town had indeed been lucky to be within the immediate area of the Lucky 38 casino on the Stirrup that had used its magical energy weapons to destroy the vast majority of bombs launched on the area during the Great War. Compared to Fillydelphia...New Pegasus and Freeside might as well be picturesque snapshots of the old world. Folk that could afford to live in the scattered intact buildings that were still serviceable tended to hole up as much as they could with the hardy AC systems Las Pegasus had been so generously provided with by the nigh-on saint of corporations everywhere, the enigmatic Mr. House. Those not so lucky to have successful businesses or other profitable source of income in the area had to take shelter where they could but the wealth of trade in the area provided lots of people the chance at honest work. As time went on, there was a considerable boom in the burgeoning construction business which renovated as many homes and buildings as were salvageable and building new ones from scratch. Many had found a chance at a decent place by earning enough money to afford the key. Power, when the wiring was done properly or survived the Great War, was basically free coming from the colossal Crystalline Fusion Reactors and solar panels located on the Stirrup. The poorest of folks lived on the fringes of the city which had gotten scorched by one of the bombs that had hit thirty miles South, hiding in the rubble that had been deemed unsuitable for restoration. At this point the line between the San-Palomino Desert and New Pegasus got hazy with all the sand that had crept inwards from lack of inhabitants.

My path through this maze of mixed buildings always varied so any tails might get lost behind me and to keep my home more hidden as I made why way off the beaten path to the Gates of Oblivion, a local bar ran by retired Hitmare for those of us still in the trade. It had clearly once been one of the many shady Sky Charioteer bars from before the War based on all the décor and the jealously guarded selection of hard rock and metal music, tracks never heard on the radio that filled your ears the moment you stepped inside its neon lit interior. Despite its age, Black Eye kept the place looking somewhat classy with a slow addition of stuff she was able to salvage over the years from various junk traders that flocked to the merchant mecca of the Westcoast. The air was always hung thick with smoke from the variously armed and armored patrons who sat and smoked together or alone. Everyone talked in soft mumbles or drunken choruses from the booths and tables scattered around the large front room. Occupying a place of pride and well-lit for all to see, the Board stood near the door. Names, prices, locations and other pertinent info was written in chalk on a massive blackboard listing who wanted who dead or captured and so forth with a column to the far right side that indicated who had taken what job. To the left of the board stood a corkboard where written notes and hit offers that weren't worth the chalk went. The Noob Pile as some of us called it once we had made it to the prestigious chalkboard gigs after spending our time in the pile ourselves.

I knew the air was as thick with Red Beryl smoke as good old tobacco and I felt my old habit rear its head a bit in interest at the thought of getting a couple grams. The feeling was immediately squashed however the moment I saw the bastard waiting for me in an empty booth near the door. Green's goons always wore that same ugly striped fedora and liked to fancy themselves as classy by tipping it and mumbling some audacious phrase or another. It didn't matter what they said...they were all the same pig who valued me more for my ass than my rifle. I took a seat across from the brown stallion and gave an acknowledging nod as he said his 'G'day madam' and moved his stack of empty shot glasses out of the way. There was also a thick pile of ash in the ashtray to the side of the table with half a pack's worth of cigarettes stamped out along with it.

"So...boss has ya doin' his here dirty work again eh?" He laughed, screwing another cigarette into his mouth and igniting it at the table's built in lighter system. "I only know a few details but if the amount of money on the line is anywhere close to what I'm thinkin' it is...well, you're the bitch we want."

"Quite..." I sighed in response, turning up the filtration quality on my mask so no scent of tobacco wafted its way in and gave me a headache. "Told me you had a marker for me. Is it somewhere remote I take it?"

"Nah. Boss just didn't want the word to get out too soon that you's comin'." He said slyly as he slid the small chip across the table to me, one that fit perfectly into the PipBuck 2500 strapped to my left foreleg and would put a marker on the built-in map function. "Called it a courtesy to ya ladyship."

"Hmph...well I suppose I should be grateful..." I mumbled in reply as he stood up and slapped a small bag of caps in front of me, my usual up-front free for any private meetings like this.

"You's take care now sweet lips." He chuckled after a long drag on his cigarette. "Oh, and be on the lookout for Killer Queen. Heard she's back in town workin' some job for them damned Steel Rangers of all peoples. Last thing we need out here is those fuckin' bucketheads shootin' everyone up too. Way too bad for business."

I nodded once again in silent acknowledgement and watched him give an annoyed wave towards Black Eye when she waved his itemized tab in his direction for payment. Killer Queen...a name not heard on the Westcoast all that often but was one of the rare names known to both the Post-War elite and Hitmares alike. A posh bitch descended from Canterlot high-birth who fancied herself the quintessential mare of refinement despite having a passion for cannibalism. The name that gave me even more pause for thought than hers was that of the Steel Rangers. I rarely had dealings with my ancient rivals and those few occasions had all been somehow progressively worse than the last. Their obsessive hoarding of Pre-War tech had made me keenly aware of how priceless my armor, PipBuck data and blueprints were to them and made nearly every encounter end with gunfire. If they had interests this far out West again, it had to be something big enough to outweigh their violently unwelcome presence out here. Far as everypony here cared, their power stopped at the Canterlot Mountains and the NER stood as the West's predominant power.

Time was a wasting as I sat there thinking and before long I dragged myself to my hooves to be on my way. With the cash being so low, I didn't see the point in adding the extra weight to my bags and in an act of solidarity to Black Eye, paid off the goon's substantial tab with the down payment I had received. With the leftovers I was able to buy a few Red Berryl buds from her private stash and let her pocket the rest. On my way out the door, my earlier curiosity caught up with me and I paused to screen the Board for Queen's name to see if I could find any info that would shed some light on what the SRs wanted with the area. A few moments browsing found her located near the bottom attached to one of the most barebones job description I had seen in quite a long time; a single name. Garand. It was the name of a popular rifle of course but it had to be a proper name to be on the board. Whoever this fucker was had some powerful enemies looking for him/her and I was glad to not be attached to the job. The Steel Rangers were not the kind of people I wanted to associate with, even more than Green and he was an immoral jackass with his hooves dipped in every nasty business he could reach.

The claustrophobic cityscape gave way to to the skeletons of office buildings and apartments and then to the crumbling ruins of the suburbs that ringed New Pegasus showing off what the whole city would have looked like without Mr. House's defense network. Sand from the desert outside became increasingly more pervasive the farther from town you got and soon enough the E-15 highway became the only hoof-made object for miles around while the world around you became a sea of tan, brown, red and orange. The occasional sagebrush or cactus acting as whitecaps in the surf of sand and dirt. The map was pointing me to Old Appleloosa. Farther South than I liked to go for reasons I tried so hard to forget...this was going to be my last job for awhile. I had some things I'd rather let hide in the sands of the South.

This is of course a work in progress and I have never attempted to put my work out there for public viewing before so suffice to say, I am very nervous but hopeful at the same time. I have twenty-two chapters written as of now but I wanted to post the first chapter to see if there is interest from others in seeing more. Constructive feedback is appreciated!

-Syntheta