Entry 011 - The Seven Day Rule (Part Two)

I presented myself at the ivory steps of the museum. Even though it had been built into the stable wall at the furthest point of this sector, it had the same shape and height of the old museums of Equestria. The only difference for me was that this one was cleaner and not drenched in graffiti. Someone had taken a lot of time and effort to take the best bits of the old world and remember them all in this stable. The whole thing, not just this gallery, felt like we’d stepped into a time capsule from a hundred years ago.

The front ice-silver arch was held up by 6 robust pillars, each engraved with a symbol. A cloud with a streak of lightning, a group of butterflies, a pile of apples, a trio of balloons, a bunch of diamonds, and a sparkling star. I recognized them as the Cutiemarks of the ministry mares from the bumblefoot-damned awful decomposing posters littered all over the wastelands. Between these stood two statues in regal poise, guarding the entrance to the building, looking down on every pony who passed beneath them with as much condemnation as there was fondness.

The Goddesses were visions of beauty no matter what they adorned. Celestia and her younger sister, Luna, pointed their horns to the ceiling and their wings outstretched, frozen feather tips nearly touching despite the obvious height differences. I occasionally wondered just how young Luna could have been, since the pair of alicorn were already thousands of years old as far as ponies knew before the beginning of the war. Their legends still do the rounds at campfires and foal bedsides long after their bodies and bones became another part of the dust and decay.

That’s just my assumption, at least. Some claim they flew off to the heavens, some claim they’ll be back. Horseapples, why would they ever come back to this, and for that matter, why did they let Equestria get this bad if they were just watching from on high?

No. In my opinion, they are long dead and gone. Just like all the other heroes. Just us scoundrels left.

However, if these two statues had been all that was left of the regal siblings, I’d say they were fitting eulogies to the deceased alicorns. Although their names were emblazoned on nearly every damn thing from buildings to drinks outdoors, in here the pair could tower magnificently and importantly.

After climbing the steps, I noticed Elm pause in front of the younger of the two. He was transfixed on her expression, a small, almost lonely cast across his face. Any other day, I’d have joked whether he was going to clop himself silly in front of the stony mare, but this time it didn’t feel appropriate, although I still do not know why. He flicked his short tail slowly and brushed some of his mane out of his blackened eyes. I caught him murmur something, but before I could understand the words he was saying, they were drowned out by Gypsy in my other ear.

“What is he doing? Elm, you cannot bring her with us!”

“Aww, a little too adventurous for the bedroom?” he enquired once he was back in our company. It looked as though it hurt him to make the suggestion, and even more so when Ms. Breeze asked what he would do with it, go sit on the horn and spin until he’d gotten his thrills?

The question went ignored, however before I could shoot my own question on his well-being, his usual manic cheekiness returned to place on his face.

“Let’s go, children, history awaits us!” he clip-clopped into the foyer of the building with a mirthful march, leaving us girls to roll our eyes and follow him in. Gypsy gave me a quick pat on the back, calling after him.

“Whatever, my dude. You find what we need, me and Crow need to catch up anyway…”

The debrief between Gypsy and I had been short, only because of the fresh intriguing sights that met our eyes after passing the threshold of the museum. We were immediately greeted by a metallic foyer, dressed in display cases filled with trinkets from the past. From the ceiling hovered banners of pre-war propaganda that had been preserved near-perfectly from the past one hundred years with just the odd stain and aged fade to indicate their length of life.

“Victory, just a wing’s beat away! Join the R.E.A!” requested a colorful one, with a bunch of winged horses racing across the rainbow ribbon.

“Wipe the Stripes! Join the Equestrian Forces today!” demanded another. But the pride of their collection hung in direct view of the entrance.

“Be Smart. Be Safe. Stable-Tec - Built to Last!” I was familiar with the ‘Stable-Tec eye’ logo that had been stuck behind the empowering words. If all stables had been like this one looked, then I might have not believed that Stable-Tec was the sinister corporation that Equestria later discovered it to be.

Below the banderol, with a great green arrow pointing down at it, was another Stable-Tec door. It was just like the one we’d stepped through the very moment the guards defended us from the Snips, but this one was cleaner, with far less spiderwebs and rust. Gypsy and I shared a look.

“If there’s a stable within this stable, I’m going to go as crazy as your coltfriend,” I informed her, only partially sarcastically. Gypsy agreed, our legs carrying us over to the door of their own designation. Elm took longer to reach us as he wandered about the cases as a free spirit, but when he noticed the attendant by the door begin to speak to us, he became more interested and drifted over.

“Hi! First time to museum, I’m guessing?” the mare asked us in a falsely cheerful manner. Pink and lavender mane, off-white fur, horn. With everything else I was seeing here, it took me a moment to realize who she was dressed up as.

“You’re the mare from the Stable-Tec posters!” I exclaimed. Gypsy shook her head just as the head of public relations for Stable-Tec began to confirm my belief.

“No, Sweetie Belle’s eyes were green, not purple. I’m pretty sure that’s a wig too…”

“Why would you dress up as one of those...um, ponies?” I asked, assuming she would not appreciate me suggesting she was dressed as a lunatic. This time, we let the lady speak for herself.

“Well, firstly, good eyes! I am dressed as Sweetie Belle, one of the three glorious founders who joined together to form Stable-Tec and build our wonderful stable.” I sniggered and she either did not hear it or chose to ignore it, “I’m here to transport you back in time to the day when I -Sweetie Belle- opened this stable to the lucky ponies who would come to live and grow here!”

“Oh, fantastic! We’re saved!” cheered Elmwood. That did get a curious look from “Sweetie Belle”, but only a very brief one.

“The day is attended by the ponies who would take up residence in this stable, along with a few dignitaries and the Lord Mayor of Manehattan at the time, Councilor Easy Street. The ponies, about to step into their brand new home, consist of many famous artists and performers of the day. Among them include the singers Countess Coloratura “Rara,” and Songbird Serenade, the fashion designers Velvet Westwood and Hoity Toity, and the artists Wisp Willow and Brushstroke.”

Her enlightening words on the history of the stable aroused many other ponies milling around the museum pieces. Most seemed to be from the stable itself, but I noticed a few faces I recognized. Grub and Moist, a pair of dull-witted morons who just followed orders and otherwise spent their days sniggering at whatever ignoramuses’ giggle at. A bronze colored mare called She, who had possibly the worst name I could ever think of a pony getting. Her mother must have loved her even less than mine, and that’s saying something.

Finally, I noticed a stallion just slipping in and for a second my interest in the fake-Stable-Tec speaker was evaporated. Once again, I was seeing Brittle Sticks.

Spotting my ignorance, the orator raised her voice and I tried to keep the Snip in my peripheral vision whilst paying attention to her as well.

“I - Sweetie Belle- get up onto the stage in front of this magnificent crowd and deliver the speech now famous throughout our stable.” She cleared her throat and took a step up onto a small dais beside the door, collecting the papers from the plinth. From the way she delivered her lines, I imagined she had done this act more times than I’d had hot dinners. She began her script with a mournfully sweet tone.

“Equestria. It is your home and it is my home. It’s the world we’ve lived in all our lives and now it is under attack.

“Once, this was a land we could all feel safe in. We live in empathy with our neighbors as much as we were harmonious with one another and we raised our foals to believe they could run about outside without having to fear anypony else. We grew comfortable with the knowledge that harm could not and should not befall us, and this belief blinded us many times from the truth.”

I hazarded another look around for Sticks. He’d moved over, and to my surprise was standing with the two idiots at the back. I could only guess they were talking from the movements Brittle’s mouth made, but none of their conversation reached me.

“Sadly, peace could not last. After the Zebrikaan government refused to meet our demands nor withdraw its troops from our precious resources, a state of war could only exist between us. I know how sad and painful that news was to hear for you all, as it was terrifying for my family and I also.

“However, this is not the end of our story. This is not where we lie down and let the zebra take our homes and our lives. No, my fellow ponies, this is the beginning.

“Here at Stable-Tec, we’ve already anticipated and prepared for the worst. We’d rather you not live in fear and loathing, wondering what will happen from one day to the next. That is why you are here, to change your lives and the lives of those ponies whom you love and cherish most.”

Another check on the threesome, and the mare called She had wandered over to lean against Brittle Sticks too. I didn’t know whether to be relieved that he was making friends or concerned about whom he was making friends with. They all looked at me, and with innocent casualness I turned back around to the front.

“Behind me is the door to your future; a stable door built to survive and protect you even if an army of zebra invaders detonate a Balefire Bomb directly outside of your new, safe and secure home, with only a projected seven-percent failure rate under those extremely unlikely circumstances. This door is guaranteed to protect you and your family.

“Once you get inside, you will find every luxury we have promised you. Every Stable-Tec stable has dormitories for all, clean water, fresh food, breathable oxygen, education and healthcare, everything ponies on the surface take for granted. However, your stable is one of only four that falls under our unique "Tee-Zero" class of stables, the others being stables T-Ten near Canterlot, T-Twenty below the Crystal Empire, and finally Stable T-Fourty beneath Trottingham Castle. Despite being the third in it’s class, yours is the first to be completed.

"Here, we went above and beyond to provide you with all the comforts you expect, including, but not limited to; saloons, theatres, shopping malls, entertainment centers, museums, even an amusement park (courtesy of the Ministry of Moral).

“This is your home now, until the day Equestria is a safe home for all of us once more. Welcome to the world beneath the world above. Welcome to your new town, a place of hope where all your talents can continue to be realized. Welcome to safety, security, sustainability.

“Welcome to Stable Town Thirty.”

She completed her speech then struck a button on the podium in front of her. The klaxon and the strobing lights were this time joined by bright and jovial music, as well as canned cheering from the speakers. “Sweetie Belle” gestured for us to enter as the door swung inwards with less noise than the first had, and we obediently followed her instruction.

“Not bad. Sweetie Belle had a bit more of an irritating squeak but with practice you’ll get there,” Elm informed the actress as he passed, and only I looked back to see the fume she gave him before we were fully inside the next part of the museum.

I moved to one side to wait and see if I could catch the Snip I had somewhat saved from incarceration, or at least what I assumed happened to the other members of Brittle Sticks’ crew, but when everyone had filled in I didn’t spot him. Who I did bump into was Moist.

“Hey Birdface,” he drawled in the manner a pony without a brain would.

“Birdface, that’s a good one. It’s only taken you three years to figure out you can add another word on the end of ‘Bird’.” I retorted. He crumpled his face into his nose as he attempted to understand what I had just said, but his brain rejected the notion of understanding anything.

“Pretty brown mare we’ve been seeing you walking about with,” he complimented when he finally got back to the topic on his brain, “how much would you want for her?” Ah. That’s right. These two don’t think with anything above their waists. I gave a long, deep sigh and hooked my leg around his neck, something I would not have done if I wasn’t certain he’d had a shower after entering the stable.

“Well, I was going to keep her for myself, but for you, buddy...?” I kept him in suspense until he was breathing such foul breath in range of my nostrils that I had to relieve him for my own good health, “if you jump off of the highest part of this stable without aid and survive, I’ll think about it.” I’d still say no, but I didn’t tell him that bit. He eyed me readily and was about to say something, when I was called away.

As I pushed him off me and headed towards where Gypsy and Elm were, he shouted after me, “we’ll talk about her soon, Birdface.” A long while ago, I’d figured out how to flip a bird with one wing, and I used this great art to provide him with one. He growled and huffed, trotting away to find his dunce friend in the new room through a short corridor.

This space was made to look much more like an atrium, an open space with two levels and several open corridors that I assumed led to other parts and exhibitions for the museum. I’d seen these used as a type of mess hall in other broken-down stables. Here, however, it was decorated with a lot more artefacts from the days before Equestria went to Tartarus in a handbasket, including displays and themed expositions.

I passed one stand. Beside it, a mare with utterly phony and tiny wings, a curl of purple mane and super orange fur was teaching a group about the Pegasus ponies, including the Wonderbolts and something called the E.U.P. guard. I didn’t stop to listen, however, as Gypsy was waving me across to her side of the atrium.

Elm was already speaking to both of us before I stopped. He motioned to a display case that was entitled “The First Minstrel Day”.

“This looks like it. Just watch.” He struck a white button and the display in the case began to move on its own. It was a scene that looked like a vintage theatre suite with red curtains on a wooden stage and an eager audience of miniature Stable T-Thirty residents. From the curtains pushed an automated puppet, a little mare in a spectacular dress. The soundtrack that played along with the bad marionette show didn’t sound acted, and I was ready to believe that this performance was dubbed by a crackling recording of the real event.

It began with the audience going wild; cheering, whooping, pouring love on the mare on stage. Once their voices were returning to a normal murmur, she spoke whilst the tiny puppet bounced about like a constipated ant.

“Fillies and Gentlecolts; Thank you for deciding that my friend and yours, the wonderful performer, Songbird Serenade, should be the first of us to be ascended. As you know, we received the notification one year after the big door closed that we were safe to begin the ascending process. I am happy to tell you that her ascension was a success, and she is now the first of us to join Princess Celestia and Princess Luna in the Garden of Equestria.”

The idea made me feel sick, made worse by the sound of raucous applause and the dancing matchsticks in the crimson seats. Did they truly believe they had sent the singer to a happy fate? I could only imagine her being torn about in seconds flat once her hooves touched the dusty ground and I winced at the power of my imagination. Who would have sent them such a false message?

“In a moment,” the record continued, “we will all be treated to her last song, brought to us by her Minstrel. As you will all have read from your pamphlet or might remember from your inductions into the stable, when we ascend, a Minstrel will be created in our likeness and with our voice. They are magical projections of us, created so that the songs we sing to power our stable do not die out.”

“But why songs?” murmured Elmwood, staring curiously at the moving re-enactment dubbed by the sweet voice, “what physical power does a song have?”

“If you don’t know that, then you don’t know why I sing during our nights together, Woody,” Gypsy replied disappointedly. The stallion lifted his head to look at her with a soft expression, but he didn’t respond. Maybe he didn’t know how to, or maybe it was because the puppet was finishing her announcement.

“Now, are we ready?” They turned to a figure by the side of the stage who seemed to be fiddling with a matchbox sprayed silver and covered with tiny dials. A muffled affirmative could just be heard.

“Good! Are you all ready?” She rallied her audience, who also attested to their excitement at what they would be about to witness.

“Fabulous! Let the first Minstrel song be heard!”

In miniature, it was not as impressive as the life size experience we’d witnessed a couple of hours ago, especially when the little green figure with a mop mane covering her eyes and a bow behind her head raised up from a trap door on the stage. The song on the audio tape however was different in comparison to the jazzy song we’d previously sang with the emerald angels. It wasn’t one I recognized, but the voice was husky, pretty and sweet and I found myself happily nodding my head to the tune.

“See the city in the distance,
How she glitters, golden Canterlot.
From my bed of lilies.

Ponies flying above her,
Dancing to her, flying free,
That’s how I remember her...”

“Geez, they sent a voice like that away? Are they insane?” Gypsy asked quietly, glancing between us. I gave a sad shrug, whilst Elm started to trot away.

“They couldn’t do much else. She was the best singer in here at the time.” We both watched him with confusion, as he reached another display and leaned on it, nodding at the contents. We wandered over, my head turning to look for Sticks, Moist or any of the other guys I'd seen, before we arrived at this case.

My concern for the other ponies declined as I saw now what Elmwood had meant. Inside, this exhibit was dressed up for foals, since the Stable-dwellers had never expected to have to explain their motives to adults. I could forgive that this time for that assumption, but I could not forgive the contents.

“HOW TO ASCEND!” claimed the header of this presentation in bold colorful letters.

“So you will have heard a lot of information about ascending to the Gardens of Equestria to live with the Princesses, but just how do you do it? Let us tell you how; you sing! That’s right, it’s as easy as that! However, you do not have to sing day in, day out, unless you want to that is!”

This was broken up with a picture of Songbird Serenade, a mare with a gold and black mane, tied back with a huge pink bow. “Songbird Serenade, during her winning performance to the judges for her place to ascend,” the caption read.

“You’ll be alerted when to sing by your PipBuck, announcing that you will have seven days to visit a theater of your choice and perform to the judges in the hall. If you do really well, then the judges will consider you for the grand finale, where you may win a lucky chance to ascend!”

Another photo, another pretty singer, taken too soon. A lot of the information confirmed what Mole had told me earlier, but one bit was interesting.

"When you ascend, your Minstrel will sing in your place to keep our stable powered with the energy of loving song! Before you go, your Minstrel will be made from magical particles with you and a piece of your soul, so small that you will never, ever miss it. It will memorize your anatomy, your face, your voice, and even your favorite song! They will also help your families miss you less until they can come join you in the Garden of Equestria."

Gypsy gasped and shook her head. I raised a wing over her shoulders, only to find Elm’s leg already there. I retracted, slowly.

“I know, right? They created some sort of competition and the best pony wins a trip to oblivion, with a dust cloud for a memory? Where’s the logic in that?” I asked the pair. The purple unicorn looked at me.

“Have you read the whole thing?” I shook my head and she moved to the bottom to complete the scripture, “everypony MUST sing once during the seven-days at the theaters for a set of judges. If they do not, then terrible consequences can occur. The last pony to do so was Countess Coloratura, who refused to participate in the seven-day rule. As a result, the Minstrels came for her and took her away.”

“‘Took her away’” I repeated, glad that the mood was too somber for Elm to make a parrot joke, “you mean like she got chucked into jail?”

“Crow, this was written for foals by ponies living in a stable. They couldn’t say what actually happened so instead they make it sound like she just left…”

I thought about Gypsy’s words for a second and then realization struck me.

“Oh crap.”

I’d been right about the Minstrels all along. They WERE dangerous.

We mulled about the other exhibits, trying to look interested in them as we talked quietly between each other. If somepony stopped to look at us, we'd chatted loudly about how fascinating the past was, or how the painting we were looking at made us feel or, on one occasion, how Elmwood could be mistaken for one of Celestia’s old guards if he had extra pointy things and a few less scars. We even had him stand in front of a glass case facing some old golden armor. The similarity was uncanny.

However, the main concern on our lips was what to do next.

“We’ll all have to sing, that way they won’t be suspicious of us and we won’t have murderous ghosts chasing us away,” Gypsy offered logically. Elmwood agreed but I pulled a face.

“I cannot sing, you know this. The green monsters will want to kill me for singing!”

“Maybe that Hot Shot guy can give you a few lessons?” we both glared at Elmwood, “What? I thought he was a nice chap, just a bit obsessed with his mane. Hey, if he’s the one deciding if we get spooked to death or not, I’d suck his dick.”

“Oh, really? Well, off you trot, then,” Nickered Gypsy, chuckling with me.

The mood was starting to lighten between us after the initial shock of the situation we were in, but something made me glance across the corridor from our room to the next one, just in time to catch the tail end of Brittle Sticks, flanked by Grub, Moist and She, into an area marked “The Last Great War”. If I hadn’t been so preoccupied with what business those four were concerning themselves with, then I might have realized the assumption that Stable T-Thirty had made in believing that all wars were now over, and peace was forever.

“One of the Snips is hanging out with some of our shadier guys,” I said to my friends, before explaining who Brittle Sticks was, why Crusty was looking for him, and what I’d seen him doing earlier. We all agreed that it wasn’t an exciting prospect that someone as vulnerable as him was spending his days hiding from the fuzz and dealing time with the ugliest of us, so we made our way into the exhibit to look for them.

This room had been painted a dark militaristic red, whilst the story of the great war was told through uniforms, pictures, newspaper cutting, even old medals. I jumped in shock at the towering body of a Steel Ranger on a platform in the dead center of the room, until Elm reassured me with a tap on the front breastplate that it was, “just a model.”

“Don’t touch the exhibits, sir!” cried a guard from the corner who I hadn’t initially seen. Deadwood flew him a fake salute and went back to mulling around the rooms, looking for our oddballs. After recovering from several shocks, I gave the armor a dirty glare and walked past it.

Steel Rangers. I have a history with those guys, as does Elm. They were responsible for us meeting, but neither of us look back on those days fondly. The Steel Rangers are the worst kind of dicks; they’re dicks in an almost-impenetrable metal casing. The ultimate prophylactic.

I followed some of the stories partially whilst I walked through the war-glorifying halls. Condensed into a few lines, this museum’s opinion was that their side was the innocent and good party, zebras were the wicked tricksters out to hurt anything and everything, and our Princesses were leading us towards glory. If, and when, the ponies of Stable T-Thirty would see the outdoors, they’d realize that there was never a good or an evil side. There was just a lot of creatures who felt weak and desired power.

As I was passing a statue dedicated to, “The good and noble sacrifice of Apple “Big” MacIntosh, who protected the life of Princess Celestia with his own,” I spotted the four ponies straight ahead, looking up at a glass cabinet stretching for the length of the wall. The contents inside made me understand just why they were obsessed with it, and I started towards them. It was full of weapons, from the first revolvers and rifles to IF-9 shotguns and magical plasma pistols.

I knew what was coming, and I was still too slow to stop it. A nod from Sticks to his comrades started it. Moist and the pony called She turned around to face their hinds to the glass. Together, the pair reared their back legs up and bucked hard, but their first effort was only enough to crack the glass. By the third attempt, the guard was racing over to stop them, with Elm, Gypsy and I following hurriedly.

One guard between seven strangers. It was understandable when he panicked. He threw up his hoof to us first, standing in between all of us with just a baton for protection. Nopony had expected this today.

“Cease and desist! You shall all be arrested for damage to the museum,” he stammered fearfully.

“Get back!” yelled Gypsy, but the guard just called over her protests to get away from Brittle and his new gang.

Grub, Moist and She’s brains might have been permanently out to lunch, but their muscles were at home and ready to bust out at the drop of a hoof. In this case, they chose to size up the guard, each stepping around him. He gave one last demand for them to stop their advancement, before he launched in on the offensive.

The result was an awful version of pony-pinball. The mare called She ducked the flailing baton and came up with a horned headbutt into the guard’s unprotected chin. As he stumbled back, Moist swung around and bucked him in the hind with such a force that we all heard something crack. When the screaming horse fell forward again, She had spun around ready to kick him again. This time the snap was sickening, as hooves contacted with the helmet meant to protect him.

The dying pony staggered on his hooves, the three horses all came around for a combined kick. Sticks jumped clear, and the unknown Stable Security stallion flew through the glass of the weapons display. If the force or brutality didn’t kill him, I was certain the glass spearing bloodily through his flesh and clothing would.

Nothing was stopping them from snatching the weapons now. Even though I could hear alarm bell bursting through the museum warning of the attack and could catch the yells of the guards racing around the place to find us, this was bad. Very bad.

Gypsy took the first initiative whilst Elm and I dived for cover behind different exhibits, lassoing out for several weapons with her telekinesis. She managed to collect two, before the pony named She found the first weapon she could fire. The ugly bitch was wielding an egg-damned plasma cannon.

Gypsy ducked down with Elm and threw a rifle to me, along with a handful of bullets. I snatched the weapon hurriedly to return fire, then spotted more guards hurrying towards us, finally coming to solve the disturbance. None had a real weapon, all were armed with useless batons.

“No, idiots, get back!” I yelled as they charged forward, but they didn’t. The only time they had believed they’d needed a weapon was whenever they had to go beyond ‘the Big Door’. They’d never known a problem inside the Stable they’d not been able to solve with a small amount of force. They thought this was a safe space. Sweetie Belle's words echoed in my head, "safety, security, sustainability." How wrong she was.

The first blast of green splattered through the crowd like a bowling ball made of molten lava. The luckiest of them was obliterated into green goo instantly, the more unfortunate on the left and right losing limbs, sides and dying slowly as they watched their bodies melt. After that, the surviving guards tried to move to the sides and call for stronger forces.

Another pony in the core security had the bright idea to slap a button on the wall. The round doors on several sides slammed shut around us, trapping us in the room with no escape. I was having a very bad day.

“Griffon!” It was Brittle Sticks, “Dead pony! You two have the blood of my sister on your hooves. We are going to bring this stable crashing down around your ears.”

“For starters, she doesn’t have hooves,” began Elm. He started to get up, his dead gaze focusing on the group. Four weapons tried to blast him to bits, and all four missed as he immediately rolled across the room to me. A case claiming to be about, "the scum of the Zebra villains," melted instantly at the discharge of the energy weapon. “Rude!”

He looked over to me and gave a quick nod across the room with his head. I understood the motion perfectly.

“And Secondly-“ I didn’t hear what came second, as I launched myself up, took aim, and fired. Just as I did, something flashing in my eyes and distracted me. My bullet whizzed between She’s ears and struck the wall. I dropped again as more attempts to kill us hit the closed door, shaking with the awful shrieks from the other end. I just caught Elm muttering four.

This was streaking in livid red lettering across my eyes. I couldn’t stop or remove it despite shutting and slapping my eyes several times. In the blinded state, I felt Elm grab and interact with my PipBuck, then he grunted to me in an irritably jolly manner.

“You had the foal-lock on. Don’t worry Squawk, I’ll fix it later for you!”

“Can you not explain stuff to me,” rat-tat-tat-tat-tatBAM! “whilst ponies are trying to kill us!”

Elm muttered three, then two as Gypsy returned fire and dodged the reply. The bitch with the nasty melty gun promised she’d do some terrible things to her mother’s backside. I knew they would try to destroy me again if I jumped out of the same place, so I made a tactical decision.

There was more noise coming from the otherside of the door, we were about to be destroyed by a group of Stable security ready to turn us into green dust. A blast rocked the case Elm and I stuck behind, reminding me how flimsy our cover was. It all seemed hopeless, but I wasn’t ready to give up yet.

“One,” said Elm.

Riiiiip! As I tore a strip of flashy red fabric from my dress, I snatched some broken display that had fallen beside it and tied it to one end. I passed my makeshift flag to Elm who understood immediately, took a deep breath, and moved.

Ratatatatata!

Bullets bit at the flag as Elm waved it, distracting the group long enough for me to make my attack. I leaped out to one side at the same time, and made sure my first bullet counted once I had settled on the floor.

BANG!

The head of the mare formally known as She snapped back with the force of the metal that drilled through it. It was a perfect shot, the bullet lodging in her brain and stopping her attack immediately. The energy weapon was silenced and clattered to the floor. I didn’t stop to congratulate myself, and I wheeled my weapon around to the next head I could blast. I didn’t catch Grub with my next shot, but Gypsy’s aim sank red holes into the burly horse’s blue jumpsuit.

I pointed my rifle muzzle towards Moist, but my element of surprise had ran out. His gun was pointed right back at me, and the lever was pulled. I moved, but not fast enough as I felt a bullet sink into my shoulder, familiar searing pain shocking my senses. I crawled hastily back to my place of minimal safety and caught my wheezing breath. As I sat, bleeding and angry that I’d been caught out so easily, the screaming behind the door stopped. That meant one thing; Crusty’s troops were seconds from storming us.

Elm took one look at me, his eyes lazy, almost bored as he examined my wound. Then he jumped out from our hiding spot.

Bullets flew. Gypsy tried to keep the fire returned as Elm galloped around the perimeter of the room. The blue maned stallion leaped, spiraled around on his fore hooves when they hit the floor and landed with a skid into the far corner. I realised he’d grabbed something in his mouth but as slugs cracked around me I had to duck away before I could figure out what it was. The rest of the action was left to my hearing and imagination.

“Deadwood! This is for my sister, Cinna-“ BAM!

Something metallic clanged on the floor, something else fizzed, and then the only other noise was the stomping behind the door.

I struggled out of my cover, Gypsy quickly coming to help aid me out into the open. I had a feeling that, inside our box at least, we were safe, and I was right. Where Moist had stood, there was only green sludge. It was a nasty contrast to the emerald dust of the Minstrels, or the grassy ash of Rose Bed.

Brittle had fared worst. The stallion lay on one side, gasping like a dying fish, long past the point of it’s futile attempt to return to water. The side of him we could see was whole and intact. The side we couldn’t was viridescent ooze. His last eye spun around at all of us with wide fear. Then it rolled into his skull, and his chest stopped moving.

“Empty,” Elm told us coolly, dropping the Plasma cannon. Our eyes drifted from the scene, to him, to the door.

The metal circle split in the center and whooshed open, half a dozen guard stomping into the bloodbath with energy guns pointed in our direction. Elm responded first, snatching and waving a smouldering piece of white newspaper like a white flag.

“Parle?” he asked hopefully. Gypsy and I dropped our weapons and surrendered as well, falling to the floor when commanded to. I did my best to avoid the red puddles and the jade gunk that had ironically been Moist once. One guard took a look at it, coughed and threw up in his visor.

“Celestia damn you, officer!” Snapped a discernible voice. I didn’t think it could get worse, but it just had. “Get out of here, clean yourself and grow a backbone whilst you’re at it.”

As the ill officer scampered away, Crusty’s elephantine front hooves came down alarmingly close to my head, and I lifted my eyes cautiously towards him. He had looked like an asshole who never knew another emotion past anger to me from day one, but now his expression was one of pure hatred.

“Two days in my Stable, griffon. Five of my men dead, two more mortally wounded. You three are going to pay for this.”

“Yep,” I agreed. The fight was falling out of me faster than the blood from my wound. I was weak and in relentless pain.

“In our defense, your guard was one running at shooty sticks with a hitty one. Everypony knows that's not a smart plan,” provided Elm. It took two steps before Procrustean was in range to give Elm’s thin gut a stiff kick.

Crack!

The white horse coughed and choked, his smart words breezed out of him and more than likely one rib broken at the very least. Silently, I decided that I no longer needed to hit Elm myself. The dominating mammoth stood back up straight, gave his men an authoritarian look and continued to take charge as though his loss of temper had never happened.

“Tell the medics there’s one gunshot wound on the griffon and one blunt trauma infliction on the stallion. The mare,” he barely glanced at Gypsy, “appears unharmed. When they have been been treated for their injuries, send them to the prison cells. Then deal with the rest of this mess.”

As he turned to leave, and his team obeyed his beck and call, he said one last thing for us all to hear.

“There’s never been a death in Stable T-Thirty since the Countess Coloratura incident. Mark my words, Stable fifty-four scum, your days here are numbered.”

<sub>Footnote: Quest Complete - Fight At The Museum
Quest Perk added: Calamity Crow - Non-automatic rifles do more damage.

Level Up!
New Perk: Talk Tough - 1+ to Charisma

Quest Begun - Jailbird Blues
Quest Begun - Seven Day Rule</sub>

Author's Notes:

Want to discuss the story? Follow me to the Scoundrel’s Settlement on Discord...

Song for this chapter; Country Roads by John Denver, but covered this time around by Copilot Music + Sound for the Fallout 76 trailer

Thank you again for reading up to this moment. Ask me anything.
If this is when you stop reading, goodbye and safe travels.

If you're still strapped in for the ride, see you in the next chapter.
Life's a happy song, when there's someone by your side to sing along!

All good things,
Duskhoof