"Always a pleasure seein' a new face. To whom have I the blessin'?"

"Sky," the youthful man of twenty kicks his duster back and sits down on the stool of the saloon's bar. "Pleasure's all mine, mister..."

"Roy," the grizzly older man says as he polishes a mug. "Welcome to my little establishment."

"Fine place. Open doors. Location's good - border of 'Nuevo' Mexico. Even got a pianist," the red-haired man slyly throws a thumb to his left.

"Plays a fine tune, don't she?"

"That she does." He leans his elbows atop the bar table. "Lookin' to settle a spell, how much fer a night?"

"Twenty cents, two for thirty. A week's fifty. Bargain, ain't it?"

"If I've ever seen one. Just be takin' the night though, headin' out early in the morn'."

"Gettin' the worm 'n all that. No drinkin' tonight, I reckon?" the older man throws a grin.

"Now who said anythin' about that?"

"Hahattaboy! What can I do ya' for?"

"Kinda bourbon you got?"

"You name it, we got it."

"Feelin' peach."

"Exotic one, ain'tcha?" the bartender Roy winks his eye and twirls over, illustrating more agility than his older appearance gives off. He fetches a bottle of peach whiskey while the young man takes out his wallet.

‎

‎

A dozen shots down, the groggy man massages his head with his hands. His red hair scatters at his nails running it in every direction. The sun has gone down, giving the moon way to shine above the desert sky. Tunes from the piano still tick, laughter and banter for the saloon's tenants still chime.

The man still sits at the bar with no company to be had. With the bartender joining other festivities, he keeps to his lonesome. His mind trails to the task coming in the morning. He needs to take his horse all the way to the southern junction to pick up some herbs Viola needs to get over her cold. Her being sick toiled at his soul enough to drive him to drink while she wasn't around to scold him. He'll be getting the job done one way or another, regardless of being hungover. Just needed a little numbing to ease the stress.

The night snails on peacefully, letting him relax as much as possible before heading to the saloon's second floor to catch his room. With his buzz still strong, he sets his head down on the bar table and sighs, content with listening to the ruckus behind him.

All sorts of drunken stupidity is had; perverted jokes, swearing aplenty, and the screeching of wood furniture on wood floor.

He hears the saloon doors smacked open then squeal close, signaling the entrance of some new folk. From the sounds of the elevated voices and boisterous remarks, they're already drunk.

He tunes them out as they meld into the crowd.

"... Whay'a minute... him, there..."

The man picks up on a rather specific utterance.

"Ain' he one'a them... eh... that one thing ya' call it?"

"... Yeah. Yeah, he do look familiar. EY! YOU! RED-HEAD!"

The man's eyes slowly open.

"EY! TALKIN' 'NA YOU!"

He hears footsteps slamming towards him. He lifts his head and yawns into the air, slowly rotating on the stool to stare back at the bald man already standing before him. "... Can I help you in some way?"

"Maybe ya' can! You onna them Black Spurs!?"

The man lifts his left brow unenthusiastically. "What's it to you, friend?"

"What's it ta' me!? I kill yer kin fer breakfast, 'ts what!"

Running his hand down his face, the red-haired man blinks tiredly. "Good to hear it. That all you needed to say?"

The grizzly bald man clenches his fist and churns his crooked teeth. "Nah, pard'ner... got a little more to tell ya'... Black fuckin' Spur."

With widened eyes, the red-haired man throws his head to the left to dodge a wild haymaker, proceeding to leap out of his stool to knee the assaulter in the stomach.

"PWOAGH!" the bald man spits and recoils.

With the grace of a stumbling idiot, the red-haired man staggers off to his left to avoid being thrown up upon by the guy he just kneed. Then with a hazy examination of his surroundings, he sees more men approaching him with vicious intent. Now aggravated that he had his placid night disrupted, he lifts his unsteady fists to his front. The pianist no longer plays her tune.

"Hey, HEY! Y'all stop this RIGHT NOW!" shouts the barkeep while moving to unsheathe his revolver. Unbeknownst to him, another attacker was behind, sitting at the very poker table he was partaking in, and takes him into a chokehold while barring his shooting arm.

With the rest of the saloon tenants pacified with hands raised, the assaulters crack their knuckles and target their prey.

"The night was goin' along just fine, fellas," the red-haired man nonchalantly comments.

"Was!" one of his oppressors shouts. "But you got a lot to answer for, insect!"

"Like what?"

"You know what you did!" another gripes. "You 'n yer kind!"

"That were the case, wouldn't be askin'," the red-haired man retorts.

"SHUT UP! 'NUFF TALKIN'!" cries the shout to commence the attack.

‎

---

‎

"La la lala, la la la. La la lala, laa laa~"

Weighted eyelids come apart at hearing a melodic tune coming from a distant Lippy. Distorted pictures come together to form the bedroom he's still chained up in. From the unmistakable sound of repeated patter outside, it's still raining.

An immediate sight of interest is a bowl that sits near him a few inches away from his face. He gracelessly hauls himself up to sit upright and rubs his eyes.

The bowl is empty. A few grains of what look like oats are stuck at the bottom with a dollop of liquid he assumes is milk. Now that he's thinking on it, he's not hungry anymore, though he doesn't remember eating it. Whatever the case, he's sated and no longer thirsty. And definitely needs to piss.

The racket going on in the kitchen details Lippy's presence. Just as he waits patiently for something to happen, she appears at the doorframe. "Criimsyy!~" she calls while stepping in. "... Oh! Already finished your oats, I see! Great! Slide that bowl my way and I'll get it washed for you!"

"... Why don't you come 'n get it."

"And give you the opportunity to ravage little 'ol me? Silly, silly!"

Crimson huffs and does as she asks, taking the bowl into hand and gliding it across the smooth wooden flooring. Lippy stops it with her hoof and picks it up. "Thank you, thank you! I'll wash this, then I have to go out soon! Anything you need while I'm out? Snacks? A blanket?"

"Need to piss."

"The corner's fine! I'll get it cleaned up when I get back!"

Crimson glares at her as if he anticipated this sort of response. He hardly looks phased, glaring dullness at the grinning mare.

"I'll bring you some chocolate chip cookies! How's that sound?" She doesn't receive a response. "I know this pony who sells really good cookies. I'll bring you some back, my precious boy!" She trots off happily, tailed by the sound of the front door opening and shutting.

The back of Crimson's head hits the side of the bed and he gawks into the void. Another day of being locked up. Another day of being a prisoner. At this point, he couldn't get more pissed off at Lippy, it's stagnated. He only waits for one simple mistake. One tiny error... and it's all over for her. Her and her insanity.

He sits still in contemplation of his delicious victory. The moment he can finally drive his fist into her face, he'll feel alive again.

But a sound hampers his mental track. Something like plastic banging on wood. It draws near.

Similar to the first time, fingertips line the doorframe. Then, Autumn pokes her head. The curious girl looks into the room, locking eyes with him.

The inferno of ire almost disperses entirely. Crimson's clutched brows ease upwards to give him a less threatening energy.

She dips her head out of view for a moment, and the banging of plastic ensues. Now that it's closer, it sounds kind of like... a bucket. Which is exactly what she holds with both her hands.

The corners of Crimson's lips twitch. He almost finds this funny. The super serious expression Autumn has for this presentation is nearly comedic. Even then, if he wasn't smiling for the hilarity of it, he'd be smiling from gratitude. He's absolutely astounded that she not only heard him, but she knows what he said, even how rude it was. There would be no other reason for her to bring a bucket into his room.

The girl steps in timidly towards the man's front. She presents the bucket with two hands and grunts, "... Mh."

Crimson lags in reaction but eventually sits up to take the bucket. With it in hand, he rises to his feet, something he hasn't bothered to do in nearly an entire twenty-four hours. As he comes to his full height, the girl shrinks and takes a few steps back.

Giving her a firm gazing, the man reflexively smiles slightly to demonstrate he appreciates her gesture.

The girl's slightly gaping mouth closes... which, after a blink, she herself simpers slightly.

He feels no anger when around this girl. From the way she stares at him, her mannerisms and actions, he can tell that she cares about him. Not a fraudulent concern like ponies or humans from Earth are capable of, but... true care. Like a dog to its master, wholesome and unconditional. She's just... an extremely smart dog. The man had questions about the boundary between sapience and ignorance in Equestria's humans before, but now it is becoming more difficult to gauge.

Crimson sits the bucket down and walks around it, giving Autumn his back. He reaches for his pajama pants, but... also hears pattering circle him. Autumn's curious gaze appears in his peripheral vision, directing the man to stare at her with mild disconcert. Her eyes bounce between his hands, his groin, and his face several times.

She wants to watch?

Crimson holds his position for a spell to see if she disengages.

Nope. She's still watching.

Crimson purses his lips and tilts his head to the left, gesturing to himself ah well, it's her prerogative. He spreads his legs a little over shoulder-width and pulls down his pants at the crotch to flip out his manhood. With his left hand to aim, he releases a fairly accurate stream into the bucket. He's proud to not have missed a single drop. With a sigh of contentment, he lets the river flow all while the girl uncannily watches.

With a quick wink to glimpse at the girl's face, he notes that she isn't interested to watch for the reason he'd suspected. Well, now that he's really tacking it down, he wasn't sure what reason she had to watch. Judging from her stare, it's like she's trying to learn from what he's doing.

With three quick tugs to finalize his relief, he sheathes his weapon and takes a step back from the bucket. He stares wonderingly at the girl who in turn watches the bucket. She begins to approach it which tips Crimson to back away from it further. She rubs the top of her knees while staring down at the liquid that now fills the bucket a few inches. From the way she leans down towards it, it looks like she's going to take it back.

Which is exactly what she DOESN'T do. Crimson feels a spur in his stomach when she reaches to lift her baggy white shirt, revealing her chaste womanhood housed between child-bearing hips. Her bodily exposure stuns Crimson enough a-moment for him not to realize what she's doing. She's trying to hold her hand in front of her vagina like he did to his dick and she spreads her legs apart.

"Gh-ch!" the man grits as he runs forward and pushes the bucket under her. Fortunately, she spread her legs enough for the bucket to fit between them, and the stream falls into the receptacle.

The girl gawks at him in confusion. It's like she doesn't understand what his deal was, or why he reacted so suddenly.

Fortunately for him, she didn't flinch or become frightened at his movement, which could have caused a pretty bad mess.

Autumn leaks out the last of her bodily cause and rubs herself three times as Crimson did, which of course, doesn't do anything. She directs her uncertainty to the man.

Crimson lines his mouth. Regardless of his ambivalence, like a father to his potty-trained daughter, he lifts a thumbs up and smiles wryly.

Autumn looks at his thumb then to his smile. She mimics his approving thumb and smiles in return.

"... Cheh," the man snickers, incapable of suppressing his finding for humor. She truly doesn't know that what she is doing is absolutely ass-backwards and he admires the innocence in it.

At seeing him genuinely chuckle, Autumn's lazy smile brightens and she crosses her arms over her belly.

They spend a idle moment staring at each other while saying nothing.

As if a random surge of motivation flew through her, she takes a step back and moves to the bucket, taking the handle into her hands. With it, she lifts it and waddles out of the room. Crimson doesn't see where she goes with it, but judging from another door kicking open and the flowing of fluid, she's disposing of it properly. As she does, he moves to sit back down at the side of the bed and shake his head in a degree of disbelief.

She's smart enough to do things like bring him a bucket and clean it out like an intelligent human would do, but...

... but he doesn't linger on it. The sound of the front door being opened throws him back into a depressive state. Hooves clop against wooden floor and a teeth-churning voice calls, "I'm hoooome!~ Back a little early since the storm picked up!"

For once he despises the rain. Her early return dues Crimson's psyche to step out. He falls back into disassociation, his body's adapted form handling what he couldn't be damned to deal with. Lippy keeps talking and talking as she wanders around the cabin but it's all babble. His body enters autopilot; his mental programming in this moment only has two variables: harm Lippy, and do not harm Autumn.

Protocol if he's ever known one. An odd waft of whiskey tingles his nostrils as his brain travels in reverse...

‎

---

‎

The young red-haired man dodges a left hook by flinging his head back, retaliating with a straight left into his assailant's nose. He follows up by lifting his right foot at their stomach and shoving them back into one of their comrades.

Another rushes in from his left but with a quick kick of a barstool onto the ground, the aggressor trips over it and lands face first onto the saloon's floor.

One goon fancies an idea to jump onto the rail of the second floor's balcony and leap down onto the man, which he executes with a wrestling dive, only to have the man take a few steps to the side and let him slam onto one of the tables.

Two more men charge at him and they simultaneously leap with arms extended. With the grace of a drunken straggler, the man crouches down and rolls under them, making them overshoot their attack and hit the bar table.

But as soon as the man comes up to his wobbly feet from rolling, he is latched onto by another goon from behind, the same goon that choked out the barkeep. The remaining two opposers get up and bee line as fast as they can to beat on the suppressed man.

Pinched into impotence, four fists cram at his body and face. The red-haired man tries to get his arms free but to little success. His strangler is much larger and holds him like a vice.

He takes another shot to the gut, the ribs, then the face, again and again. A pattern to their strikes is given notice. In comes another hit towards the stomach.

It fails to land as the man desperately kicks his left knee up with immaculate timing, striking the elbow of the one who threw the punch to break their arm inwards.

"OO! OOO! FUCK! FUCK!" he cries and backpedals while holding the tricep of his lame arm.

The second assaulter ogles the broken arm of his companion in shock long enough for the man to hop up and throw a left roundhouse kick to his jaw, his black boot piercing their cheek. With blood and a tooth, they are knocked unconscious before they hit the ground. The goon with the broken arm bawls into wails and tears and runs out of the saloon.

Finally to deal with the fat idiot that clenches him, the man throws his head forward then back to bash his grappler's nose, getting blood on his already red hair. Still, he is detained. A stubborn one, just like he is.

Another bash. An audible crack is heard, along with more blood. The goon does not relent.

Another bash. And another. And another.

Dizzy and drunk, the red-haired man winds up one more destitute throw of his head. He huffs in surprise when he ends up flying backwards against the chest of the goon. Both of them hit the ground at the same time.

He rolls off of their fat stomach and staggers onto his feet, lifting his wobbling fists while darting his head all around... clean house.

And a fuckin' headache.

His hands drop limply to his sides. He notes the pianist watching him in absolute horror, though he's too totaled to try and consolidate with her. With a slow rotation of his head in two crescents to pop his sore neck, he makes a sluggish pace up the stairs of the saloon towards the room he rented. Entering and locking himself, his blurred vision scans the room and hopes for a bathroom, or at least a latrine.

Of course there isn't one. Bed doesn't even have a blanket, just a single pillow. No wonder the room was cheap.

No sense crying over it. As tradition, he'll probably get kicked out early in the morning once the mess gets cleaned up down there. He slinks to the bed and plops down on it, falling asleep in the position he landed.

Minutes turn to seconds. Hours to minutes. The day passes along as a breeze of wind, coming and going. Before he knows it, he's face down on the bed, just as he was in his memory.

At least the bed is softer than the floor.

‎

---

‎

The next... morning? Probably morning. It comes. It comes and Lippy makes him a bowl of oatmeal before leaving to do her daily tasks, or whatever the hell she does while out. He eats without rush, savoring the taste of the fresh fruits and home-grown oats. As much as he hates this situation, he'll find enjoyment in good food either way.

Once finished, he sets the bowl on the nightstand and plops himself back down on the floor, leaning his head back on the side of the bed. Another day of... waiting.

He actively keeps himself focused on something tangible, whether it be the patterns of the natural wood along the walls or the decorations and paintings, he wants to keep himself from dissociating again. He let it happen far too heavily yesterday, and in order to keep his sanity, he'll keep grounded for now.

In truth, he holds a tingling anticipation. He hopes that he might be visited by... well, the girl. He might not want to admit it to himself, but he genuinely had a good time with her yesterday despite the circumstances.

So there he sits and waits... and waits... with no sound to be heard in any other part of the home. Maybe she's still sleeping?

His eyes lower to the ground as time passes on. It works against him to hold this prospect, time is moving continually slower until it creeps to a crawl.

...

The dullness is setting in. He senses his mind regressing into a delusion-state. He needs to focus on something again. Waiting for the girl isn't panning out.

He should just forget about it. For now at least.

Click.

Squeeee...

Or not!

Crimson's eyes widen slightly at the hoping audition of company. He hones in on the stepping of small feet across the cabin. It gets closer and closer.

The man sits up at seeing her appear at the doorframe. Autumn stands just as she was yesterday, low to the ground and trepid. Crimson's idle face trades to a wry smile at seeing her.

She stands curious for a little longer at the door. Once his smile fades, she walks towards him and comes down onto her knees. She gawks at him quite seriously, but he knows it just her resting expression. "... Uhm," the girl grunts and slaps her belly.

Crimson furrows his brows at the gesture. He has a feeling she's signaling something like... "... Hungry?"

"Huhm!" she nods and slaps her abdomen again. She then points at him and slaps one more time.

"I'm hungry?"

She nods repeatedly and rubs her belly.

"... Uuh," he glances slyly to the bowl just outside of the girl's peripheral. Indeed, he did eat a hearty bowl of oats, but it left him mildly dissatisfied as many grain-only diets do for a man of his stature. With pursed lips, he nods guiltily. He isn't sure what she has in store, but hopefully it's not another bowl of oats.

Autumn nods in return and stands up, jogging out of the room towards another unseen part of the cabin. Considering she went to the right, it's probably the kitchen.

Now he's getting to think: is she even capable of cooking? It wouldn't be a far-fetched concept considering he's been told they're able to use tools and such. But operating a stove, a pan, utensils, oils and condiments, the whole shebang, the man thinks that it might be a tad bit too foreign for the likes of these humans.

It's conflicting again. The level of intelligence that these humans are capable of possessing is only getting more difficult to gauge. Apparently they can use a saw and hammer 'n nail, but they can't speak any coherent language, only mumble sounds similar to those they hear regardless of understanding what is said. Autumn knows how to dispose of urine, but couldn't figure out how to do it herself.

It just doesn't make any...

Sniff

... sense. Chicken. Smells like chicken. Is Autumn...?

The man fixes his posture and raises his brows, attentive like a dog teased with a bone. He hears the sizzling, he smells the savor. Autumn is legitimately cooking him chicken. It couldn't be Lippy since she left a while ago. Unless she crawled in through the window or something stupid like that. Couldn't be the case.

Soon enough, the kitchen quiets down. Patience is required to endure the silence. The very thought of eating such a succulent morsel...

And there she is! Autumn appears at the bedroom door with a plate in her... hands.

Crimson notices something wrong. While minor and hardly noticeable, it's bugging him. And it certainly wasn't there before.

On her left hand, on the side of her index finger, she has a cut. A fresh one. Looks like it's still bleeding. His appetite suddenly vanishes at the sight of this. She accidentally hurt herself making him something to eat...

Autumn halts in front of him and crouches down. She presents the plate she holds, placed with diced chicken and a chopped up carrot, but it's not what he's paying attention to.

Crimson realizes she's been holding it out for him for a few seconds so he moves to take it gratefully, but instead of digging in, he sets it down at his side. Visibly confused, Autumn bounces her eyes between him and the food. The man reaches for her hand which startles her, she recoils and puts her hands at her chest.

Crimson keeps his reach suspended for a moment, then continues again. Thankfully she allows him this time. He takes her left hand into both of his and brings it closer to him. Her concern is apparent but she doesn't pull back. She realizes that he's examining the cut on her finger, the one she gave herself by accident using the kitchen knife.

Suddenly, a sensation like no other passes from her hands to her body like a steady wave. The tingle throughout is especially strong at her finger.

The man lets go of her. She retracts her hand and looks at it... and the cut is gone. She twists and turns her hand to try and find it, then darts her gaze at his hands. And that's where the cut sits. She lifts her astounded orbs to his, to which he also stares back with surprise.

Autumn reaches quickly and clasps his hand with both of hers, just as he did to her. She stares at his relaxed index finger, eyes running across the length of the gash. It's unmistakable; it's hers. The exact length and everything. Again, she gawks into his eyes as if the explanation was written there.

Crimson having not known that he could still do this despite the collar being on, he smiles wryly at the accidental miracle.

Moving a lock of her hair out of her face, Autumn returns a simper. She lets go of his hands and looks to the plate again.

Crimson picks it up. Having no utensil, he decides to pinch the bites of chicken and carrot pieces. Taking a few bits of decadent chicken into his mouth, he chews animalistically and nearly bites his own fingers. A brief display of terrible manners later, he notes the girl still staring at him. With a bashful chuckle, he settles himself down. In this clarity, he picks up on Autumn's lack of eating.

A random idea sparks in the attic. He couldn't be sure how she'd react to this, but... he wants to try it anyway. If anything, as a token of appreciation. Crimson pinches one of the bigger pieces of chicken in his fingers and holds it in front of his face. He gazes at the girl who blankly mirrors the stare... then he offers the chicken to her. She looks at the piece with confusion.

"Mm?" the man hums.

With a hesitant darting of eyes from him to the food, she leans in and takes the chicken into her teeth. Released from his hold, she brings it in and chews.

Coincidence decides that they smile simultaneously at each other. When Autumn finishes swallowing her food, she eyes the plate he holds. She scans the contents briefly before reaching to take a slice of carrot. Now returning the favor, she reaches her hand forward like he did to offer the piece.

Crimson chuckles at the turn of events. It's not what he intended, but looks like it's his turn to be fed. He leans forward and separates his lips to expose his teeth. He half suspected her to pull away once he demonstrated his K-9s, but her confidence in him is starting to demonstrate. A spark of warmth spins in his chest at her trust, he moves to take the carrot into his mouth.

Due to his mental ponderance on her growing affiliation to him, he accidentally brings down too much of his lips onto her fingers and wets them. He pulls back and crunches on the carrot with an air of embarrassment. Autumn cares not in the slightest. His glistening saliva on her fingertips is the last thing on her mind right now.

Thus continues their pass-time of feeding each other. The stride of time is of no concern to anyone, and for the time being, Crimson unthinkingly staves off his passive ire.

Just before they finish eating the plate, the front door barges open to bring it all to ruination. "I'm hoooome!~"

Today is no different from yesterday. Once she returns, once her presence is nigh, it's all up shit-creek. Autumn scuttles out of the room and takes the plate with her, and she doesn't return for the rest of the day. The fun he was having grows cold and brittle while the flames of angst ignite again.

And that's how it remains for the rest of the day. His only hope is that, if he's still going to be trapped here by tomorrow, he gets his visitor again. The little light in this vast darkness.

Next Chapter: We All Wear Masks Estimated time remaining: 16 Hours, 41 Minutes