He sits alone at the ponds edge; cool humid air of the afternoon brushes against his bare back, the leaves rustle their off-beat tune. He looks up at the sky, seeing the sun just past the midway point.

It's only been a few minutes but it feels like he's sat for longer. He reckons it'll be a while before the dye fully sets into his hair, he'll have some time to kill.

He glances around in bored curiosity, at his duster and cloak, the bottle of dye paste, then the robe he tossed behind. He gets to thinking he'll have to discard the robe since Las Pegasus beheld it. He might just bury it in the ground.

Though, a peculiar thought pops into mind. The dye he wiped off his skin using the robe caused it to stain pretty badly. Almost permanently, if he had to guess. No manner of washing would fully get it out.

He reaches for the robe and pulls it to him. He analyzes the stains, they look completely dry. The deep blue cloth now presents a black camo. Rubbing his thumb on the stains, it doesn't come onto his finger or distort.

He leans towards the pond and gets his index finger wet, then takes it to the stains of the robe. He moistens the stains and rubs them again, his brows raise in dull shock that the stains are still stubborn. Eyes bouncing to the bottle of paste itself, he notes that there's plenty left. Shooting attention to his duster and cloak, the stray idea becomes a plausibility.

He internally regrets asking the Royal Tailors to give a homage to his original working clothes, the colors are nearly identical. Though the design itself was a bit off, plus now he has Lippy's hooded poncho to further disrupt the pattern. It may be a very minor change, but straying as far away from familiarity is essential.

He hopes he doesn't completely ruin his clothes doing this.

‎

‎

He props his damp duster up upon a tree limb so it rests undisturbed, thereafter he adds his poncho next to it. He steps back and looks at them from a few feet away, admiring how well it came out. Both the brown coat and hood now don a dark grey tinge. He wished it was a little darker, but the dye's chemical properties didn't paint the clothes in the same way it did his hair. Regardless, it works. Very well, in fact. Whatever this dye is made with, it works like magic.

Satisfied, he walks back towards the pond. His eyes trail to the empty paste bottle and the robe, then the water. It still looks rather clean and sparkly despite his muddling. He examines himself to note the mess of black dye riddling his arms.

He proceeds to kick off his boots and take off his socks, unhitch and unloop his belt, then pull off his slacks. He throws them a neat distance away so they stay clean, then he moves to dip his feet into the water. Cool, but not cold. Just right.

He brings his naked rear down into the water and sits on the dirt floor of the pond. He claws himself with his nails to scratch his skin back to cleanliness.

‎

‎

He pats his shoulders and sleeves down to let them sit. The blackened duster fits a little stiffly, but as he wrinkles it, it readjusts to his shape. He then throws on the hooded poncho to complete his set, making sure it rests properly around his shoulders and back. He then pockets the metal ball which acts as his sustenance, his brimming coin purse, and the little red bunny, being extra cautious with his handling of it as if it were to fall apart if breathed upon.

Bringing his hands to his hair, he scruffs it up so more of it falls over his face, making the forward half come over his eyes and nose while keeping the back half flowing in its natural direction. He knows he's overdue for a haircut, but in a case like this, he's glad he hasn't gotten one. Because of how long his hair is, it completely shades his eyes, making the possibility of identifying him more difficult.

He looks up to the sky again, between the slits of his hair. Daylight's running thin. If he wants to make it to the Slums before nightfall, he'll need to move soon. From what he estimated with his view from Las Pegasus, it should be about a mile south. Clothes donned, mask worn, he shoves his hands in his pockets and paces towards the desert.

‎

‎

Crickets chirp, the wind hums steadily. The day has traded itself for night, the blue light shines down upon the earth meticulously. His boots crunch loose dirt as he walks, the forest behind him becomes distant.

Just out ahead he sees his goal, though barely. A dense and suffocating fog surrounds the Slums. The dirt under him turns to sand, and as suspected, the temperature gets even colder, the air turns heavy and polluted. Deserts, an inferno in the day, an artic at night. Fumes from drugs, and the residents of this shit hole burning woods and rubbers to keep themselves warm. The sight is more desperate than anything he's seen back home.

He glances around while walking. Many shambled, run-down, shanty buildings made of wood, adobe, and cheap cloths litter the land. Shoddily paved roads filled with sand give the place some sense of direction, but also an untamed air. He sees no signs of life anywhere; they’re either hiding, asleep, or simply not here. He wouldn’t doubt he’s being stalked from inside the pitch-black shacks around. As the vanished sun no longer shines, the moon does a terrible job at illuminating the murk.

His boots kick up sand as he continues through the unlit streets. His attention is drawn to a light over yonder, an amber, dim light. Walking further, the light appears to be a candle, lit and placed randomly in the street. He sees another candle just up ahead. More and more candles.

Crimson nearly gets startled as he notices a silent, angry looking old pony sitting in between a cubby formed by two adjacent shacks. The old hag stares at the man with one widely opened eye. She looks very, very unhealthy.

The man now sees more and more beings roaming around - zebras, ponies, camels, and griffons, all forming a depressive, ghetto community. The deeper he traverses, the more beings present themselves. The residents gawk at him. They eye his well-made clothing; they focus on the jingling going on from the pouch of bits in his inner pocket.

Crimson ignores the crowd, deciding to deal with problems if they come rather than start any of his own. To his pleasant surprise, all they do is mutter to each other and watch. The restraint of these peasants is somehow greater than that of the common folk from the cities.

He continues his way, unknowing of how deep he is into this dilapidated community; it all begins to look the same. Candles and shadows, wood and adobe buildings. There's no sign of...

He squints.

His attention is directed to something that isn’t lit up with a dim amber candle. Staring up above the fog, over the nightly murk, the sky is lit up all sorts of colors. Deep in the center of the Slums stands a rather fancy building made of the same materials found at Canterlot. A very pristine, well maintained building. A clean whistle among the chest of rot.

As he approaches closer, it presents itself to be a club of some sort, possibly the one Lippy was referring to. There's a neon sign at the front which labels the building, but he doesn't understand a word of it. Slouching down and keeping himself more discrete, he eyes the purple and green edifice from a distance. A large zebra wearing fancy attire is planted at the entrance with two humans at either side. The trio wear dark shades, black suits, and remain motionless while guarding the swinging double-doors.

Examining these humans, they aren't very tall, but they're incredibly stocky. Maybe just over five foot and a half, though their bodies bulge from under their clothes. Their necks are thick, their hands are fists of rock. They definitely look... not normal.

A drunken stallion wearing presentable clothes gets tossed out from inside the club through the double-doors, and a shout from inside commands him to stay out. “Urhuh, buh ey nyheed moar… drank!” the stallion stumbles onto his legs and attempts to re-enter the club.

One of the humans guarding the door reaches over, picks the stallion up by his neck, and throws him like a spiraling football. The drunken stallion crashes into a wooden shack and breaks it into pieces.

“Mah HoUsE!” a drugged griffon cries and claws her head in despair.

The sheer power of the toss decides Crimson to leave them alone for now. Rather than confront the strip straight on, he opts for recon instead. This club isn't going anywhere, and if he'll be finding a way into it, he'll need more information to go on.

The path he is on splits two ways, left and right, where the club is on the right side. He strays to the left, getting more distance from him to the club. He descends deeper into the Slums. To his surprise, the work of the buildings around begin to take unique forms. The structures around detail a depressing story of a once-cultivated civilization. Stores, motels, street stands, factories, offices, all ran down and left barren. There isn't a single building that looks hospitable.

Due to how late it's getting and how groggy the murk is making him, he reckons he'll find a place to rest for the night. The area will be easier to traverse in the daylight. Definitely needs to be somewhere out of the line of sight and difficult to follow, lest a denizen crack-head follow him and ruin his slumber.

The straight path he took takes a hard right towards deeper slums. Rather than follow it, he decides to traverse into an alley between a huge factory and a lengthy office building. Stepping over trash bags and trash itself, the cluttered alleyway eventually gives in for a pocket of other decrepit structures forming an enclosed cul-de-sac. He certainly didn't expect such a convenient hidey-hole. Were it not for his intention to get lost, he never would have found this place.

The left and right are more offices and stores, while the far end bares a motel. Quite an unusual place for a motel considering the only way to get to it was through a shady alley. He can only assume structures were built over each other as time went on and situations changed.

With the possibility of intact rooms, he sets his stakes on the motel. If he's lucky, no one else is in there. He assumes there isn't since the population of Slums residents declined majorly once he trekked past the club. Not a single living soul could be seen or felt in these reaches.

It doesn't mean he'll get careless. If he encounters anyone, he'll be sure to dispatch of them carefully. If anything, potential roaches are already drunk or tweaking out. They shouldn't pose much of a threat.

Hands in his pockets, he continues his move. The motel approaches, the dusted wooden steps to the front porch squeal when his boot applies weight. It creaks again at his next step, and the wood continues its protest as he moves to the wooden door that bars off the inside. He hopes it's not locked. With a tight grip on the handle, he clicks the door open and pushes it in slowly. The opening crack gives way into a dimly lit receptionist desk. It's difficult to see inside but not impossible. Doesn't look like anyone's inside, but the lit candles dictate otherwise. No voices, no snoring, nothing of the sort. Sounds very nearly empty.

Assuming whoever is inside isn't at the front, he pushes the door open all the way; the door squeals its own discomfort.

"Hu... WUH!?"

Crimson's brows line his eyes. He was wrong.

"HURRYAH!"

With a step of shock, the man throws his head to the left to dodge a thrown kukri, it stabs into the door and vibrates. Upon dodging to the side, his cheek touches something sharp and cool. He freezes completely. Any further movement will cause his face to be impaled, or aggravate the one holding the weapon.

He can't believe he didn't see it. There, at the back of the receptionist desk, a tall animal who blended into the dust and grime stands completely still. It looks like... a camel. And someone else, the one who points a sword at his cheek.

"Got 'rselves an intruder, nah, don't we?" the old toothless camel growls.

"Looks like it," a young, smoother, masculine voice replies calmly. Crimson raises his hands up to show he doesn't have anything in them. "... Weird. Never seen this one around." He finally pulls the sword back a few inches, still keeping it pointed and ready, but not prodding at the man's face. The blade felt sharp, had any real pressure been applied, his cheek would be bleeding.

Crimson is finally able to turn his face to take in his appearance.

A pegasus stallion rests on a couch while lazily pointing his sword, one which is long enough to extend from the stallion's laying position. He sports an orange mane with a light blue coat, with bright dandelion eyes. His exterior appears young, but details such as a vertical scar under his right eye give him a grizzled guise. His mane flows forward to the side, rather presentable; he wears a dark blue long-sleeved plaid shirt and a belt that holds his sword's sheathe.

"Gonna kill 'em, do at'side. Ain't cleanin' up the mess," the camel grunts.

"Depends." He glazes the man up and down with a smirk. "Clothes look expensive. Definitely on the taller side. Whoever this belonged to is definitely gonna be looking for him."

"Thinkin' you'll rope 'im down fer ransom?"

The stallion chuckles, "I would of never thought of that, Moobs."

Smack!

The stallion's sword is hit from the side of the blade by Crimson's palm, throwing it into the wall and sticking it in an inch. Both the stallion and the camel jump into ready stances, though the stallion struggles for a moment to release his sword before leaping off of the couch.

Stepping backwards, the man yanks the kukri off the door and grips it with a cause. "You'll have a hell of a time gettin' me in a chain."

Shock paints the other two faces in the room. "Axel..." the camel named Moobs huffs with his jaw agape, "... that there human done spoke."

The stallion brandishes his sword and points it again firmly with a scowl. "Yeah. It did. This might be a bit above my paygrade."

"God damn right," the man retorts, shooting his piercing eyes between his present threats. "Now y'all got one of two options. One, scurry along, or two, we'll take our tango. Yer pick."

"Huh, the tongue on this one," Axel grins and shakes his head. "You barged in on us, pal. Why don't you take your own advice and run away? Go find your master, we'll pretend this little encounter never happened."

"The hard way, then," he grumbles and aims the kukri. Axel grits his teeth and tucks his chin.

"Nahao, just wait a berry-pickin' minute!" Moobs calls with a bead of sweat rolling down the side of his head. "Two a you's don't gotta fight! No need'a kill each other now! Reckon we can work this out! Ain't just sayin' that 'cuz I don't want no blood on my floors-- Axel..." Both he and Crimson shoot their glares to the camel, "don't I recall you sayin'sm stuff 'bout 'wishin you had an extra hoof' fer the... y'know."

Axel's eyes shift away as he gives into ponderance. He knows exactly what Moobs is hinting at. "... Hmh!" He glares at Crimson again. "Don't think this no-name creature will be of any good, prefer someone that's already got a profile."

"Axel, mah boy, you look at that there man 'n tell me he ain't handlin' mah knife right-like! Holdin' the handle at the good end 'n everythin'! Don't give in to assumptions much, but this fella looks like he's taken more 'n'a few lives!"

Crimson raises his left brow unenthusiastically. "Lickin' my boot after flingin' a knife my way ain't a good look."

"Didn't mean'na do it, young'n! Didn't knock, didn't'cha? Came right in 'n startled my ol' heart, you did!"

The man turns his glare to the stallion. He can tell that Axel is giving into the wiser words Moobs is relaying.

"... Where'd you come from, anyway?" Axel inquires.

"Reckon it ain't yer business," Crimson pushes back.

"You're right, it isn't, but I'm curious. Certain you heard the old timer. I'd like to think he's on to something. Instead of gutting each other in the middle of a rundown rattrap, we can try something else. What do you say?"

"... Got my arm. See if you can twist it."

"Hm," Axel's grin widens slightly, "got sense. I already like you." He brandishes his sword and sheathes it in one swift motion. "Sorry about the blade, nothing ever comes through that door. Threw me and the geezer here for a tizzy."

"I'd reckon," Crimson agrees effortlessly and walks to the receptionist desk, setting down the kukri for Moobs to take back. "I'll make sure to knock next time."

"Be much obliged if ya' did," Moobs' lips curl upward to give his saggy face a bit of height.

"Good opportunity to start over if you ask me," Axel announces, stepping forward towards the man. "Name's Axel Flex. That's Moobs," he throws a hoof to the camel before offering it out for a shake.

"... Sky," the man states in reply. He extends his hand out to shake the offered hoof.

"That your first or last name?"

"My only name. Nothin' before it, nothin' after."

"Simple. I like it. Now, judging from your reaction earlier, I can guess you don't have an owner. Any other parties we're looking forward to?"

"Just little ol' me."

"Hm. Again, what brings you around these parts?-- Wait, let me guess. The Gloriosa." Crimson's brows raise. "Heh, like an open book. First time?"

"Yeah. Been, uh... wanderin' about. Caught wind of this place and wanted to check it out. Heard there's some commodities inside. In the middle of the shithole's a palace of purdy lights 'n clean floors, you can say I'd like to see what's inside."

"Mm, mm," Axel nods in understanding. He glares at the man's boots for a moment. "Sky, man, feel free to take a seat," he offers with a grin as he himself plops back down onto the couch with a relaxed sigh.

Seeing a single-cushion couch at his side, Crimson accepts the offer and sits on the edge of it.

"I hope you don't mind, but I've got a crap-ton of questions, Sky. Before we get into business, I wanna get to know you a little better. Talking human and all, that's a first for even me, and I've seen some shit."

"Is it now? Took it surprisingly well. Others've fainted."

"Hah, no kidding? Sure it's weird, but fainting's exaggerating. I mean, Equestria's got one talking human already. They call him 'an Angel.' Crimson, if I recall correctly. Ever heard of him?"

"Name don't ring a bell."

"Seriously? Equestria and its mother knows. Never seen him personally, but I heard he's a pretty big deal. Works with the Robes and Guard, deals with the princesses directly. High-class shit. Hmh... this brings me back to something. You barred this question already, but I'll ask again in hopes of your forbearance. Where'd you come from?"

The man keeps his poker face unwavering, only turning his eyes to the left a little to stare at the base of the receptionist desk. His front is cool, but his mind is churning with everything he needs to say - with everything that was told for him to say. Before he left her cabin, Lippy devised a pretty believable plan that'll keep his mask raised. He just hopes he doesn't screw it up.

"... Long story," Crimson scratches the side of his head. "I'll keep it brief." He sharpens his tongue and glances up to the ceiling. "Grew up in a... shack, I guess. A cabin. I was chained up most of my life - a slave to a pony. One of them Black Horseshoes. I was just like other humans, couldn't speak 'r nothin'. I was prodded with needles growin' up. Test 'n such. Don't recall much of it, but the pain was as clear as day. Guess her goal was to give me sapience."

Axel nods with a grin. "Looks like it worked. You can talk just like us, almost better. Even got a little twang, like those kind from southern Equestria. That 'Angel' I referred to earlier? Word is he talks just like that."

"Then I'd reckon it was an aesthetic choice by the manic who made me. Would explain the drawings and portraits she had posted everywhere of some man with red hair, just never knew who it was."

"Bingo, red hair. Unmistakable. Guess your maker was obsessed with the Angel. Wouldn't doubt it too, he's a big topic in the Horseshoes, and you said she was one of them. The shit they manage to figure out never fails to impress. But you've got me thinking, she was a Horseshoe. Who was the Brain that gave this gift to you? Where she at now?"

"Dead. I killed her as soon as I learned to think fer myself. Got up from the table and took a scalpel to her throat when she was too busy celebratin'. Where she was? Dunno. Like I said, in a shack somewhere in the east."

"The east's pretty far taken into account we're in the far west. How'd you get here?"

"Don't even recall. It was dark that night, raining outside. Ended her life before I stole some of the clothes she had around 'n started walkin'. No idea where to, but kept walkin'. Walked fer a long time. Voices in the wind spoke of some Gloriosa belonging to the Black Horseshoes. Not bein' allowed in the cities, I reckon that's why I wound up here."

"So what was the gal's name?"

"Uuh... Lippy, 'r somethin' like that."

Axel sits up in his seat and hits a hearty laugh. "Lippy? Like, Lippy Snare?"

"Yeah. Think so."

"I'd shit a solid gold brick right now!" he beats with enthusiasm. "I just met you, yet you've already done the gang a great service. Lippy Snare has been on the hitlist for eighteen years. Dumb bitch caused a lot of trouble before running away. Even worse, she stole a human too. I was just a teen back then, but I sure as heck remember how pissed several of the honchos were when they heard she got away. Shit got real strict after that, new pages of tenets posted on every member's forehead."

"Was she really that much of a problem? Bit much fer just one pony."

"How can you say that?" Axel spits rather defensively. "You saw the shit she did first hand. She was one of the brightest Brains in the gang, leading the human development department for two years. Probably longer if she wouldn't have escaped."

New to Crimson, his brows raise in surprise. He supposes he doesn't know much about Lippy at all, even if he'd been trapped there for a month. If she truly was a mad scientist with a prominent past, she sure shoved it out of sight. Plus, this sudden act of sympathy isn't doing his disguise any favors. Conceiting to Axel's point, he nods. "You're right."

"I know I am, but now you've got me thinking again. You killed her, AND you got away? I'm not sure what kind of bars you had to jump through to do that, but I'm seeing Moobs' wisdom. You're a natural born killer."

"These eyes nev'r lie," the camel smirks cheekily.

"Had my fair share of tussles," Crimson comments. "Equestria's an unforgiving place."

"No argument here," Axel waves a hoof. "How long's it been since you've joined the higher-thinker's club?"

"... 'Bout a month. Not sure. Easy to forget things. Gainin' sapience outta no where when you've been dumb for so long is... difficult... to take. Tons of knowledge goin' in at once, my brain done-near fizzled out. What y'all absorb in a life-time, I got learnt in a few seconds. Usin' my tongue to talk makes it cramp up sometimes. Gettin' better, but still a burden."

"Couldn't imagine it myself. This is some new-age magic shit." He crosses his arms over his chest and reclines on the couch's armrest, smirking at the musing man. "Still a sight watching you talk. The more you do, the more I like you. You've got an air about yourself."

"Might just be your imagination, dear Axel."

"Nop! Thinkin' these ol' bones feel it too!" Moobs interjects. "Tough as nails you look, mister Sky. Way you dodged mah knife, then almost makin' Axel there shit his drawers!" The stallion glares angrily at him. "Intimdatin' one ya' are, but after ya' started talkin', felt you was a neighbor from back'n the day."

Crimson rolls his eyes, "Quit it, y'all'll make me blush. That's enough 'bout me, what of you two? Hardly look like thugs, 'n I've seen a few. You two part of them... Black Horseshoes?" he asks with a hint of ire. Both Axel and Moobs note his risen intensity.

"Hmh," the stallion huffs dismissively. "I've still got ties with a few of the members, but that's on a personal level. Don't have any business with them as a whole - not anymore, at least. Moobs there was never affiliated with them. He's just some old camel that runs a perfectly reasonable motel."

"Really?" the man glances to Moobs.

"Nah," the camel shakes his head with closed eyes and a smile. "Part of a gang, I was. Sandwalkers. Gang'a camels based east of the Badlands. Harder'n steel, we were. Fuck'n griffons tried takin' our land number'a times, but we shot 'em down like flies 'n used their feathers fer our arrows. Life full'a killin' and dyin'. Moobs got old quick, life's tide set him down here in the Slums to retire. Don't ask why, longer story than yer ears can hold."

Crimson lifts his brows in surprise to the oddly gory story held behind the passive-looking creature. He glances to Axel next, "'N what of you?"

"Treasure hunter for the Black Horseshoes. Just a treasure hunter now. Make a killing off of finding what was lost, artifacts, clothes, heirlooms, the kinds. Got a sixth sense, it's guided me my whole life."

"What made you leave?"

"Hmh... too many things to number. Politics and shit. A lot changed, couldn't find myself anymore. Had to break away. You wouldn't understand." His lazy eyes suddenly sharpen and lock with Crimson's; his carelessness soon replaced by mischievousness. "But I know what you want. I don't even need to see your eyes to know, I can tell from a mile away."

"Enlighten me."

"You want revenge on the Black Horseshoes. For that bitch keeping you like a lab rat. You want to step on their skulls - every last one of them."

Crimson crosses his legs and rests his hands on them, leaning forward. "This yer sixth sense talkin'?"

"Hyeah, you can say that. Am I right or am I right?"

"Too soon to say... but if you're able to point me in the right direction, we'll see how it goes."

"Perfect. In that case, we can get down to business. Since we just met, we need to make sure we can trust each other. There's a few... odd jobs that I need to take around the Slums. Want you watching my back incase things get spicy. Good trust builder. But! I know I said incase, though letting you know right now we're going to be getting dirty. If you aren't prepared to bust some heads, then we can drop this all right here."

"More details. Form my opinion on them."

"Alright. Details. I'll give you the nutshell, hopefully this'll sate your curiosity. For right now, we've got a week of chores." Axel shifts his attention to the camel. "Moobs, today's Friday, right?"

"Ye'zir," he replies, still looking forward lazily with an equally tired smile.

"Good. We've got seven things for the next seven days. I'll gather more on what we need for Saturday then-on, but for the first three days, I know what we're in for. The first task will be simple: a retrieval. Couple of low-lives that had connections to Gloriosa abused their trust and made off with a lump-some of bits. No matter what, we need to make sure those fools learn not to tug the graces of the honcho."

"The basics of respect, I'd reckon."

"Eeexactly! Damn, whatever magic that Brain used on you, it's got some street smarts!" Crimson shrugs nonchalantly. "So we've got that in the pocket. Next task? Take out some tourists that have been hassling us. By 'us', more specifically, Moobs. Isn't that right, old timer?"

"Yehp," Moobs frowns and plants his cloven hoof on the desk. "Damn wrinkly som'bitches that used to be part'a tha' Sandwalkers done caught wind'a me livin' in the Slums. Out fer my neck, they are!"

"Why're yer own gang after you?" Crimson prods.

"Hehaah, weeell... admit ah didn't leave in the best of spirits. We was bein' attacked by the Sleepin' Talons on a particularly cold evenin'. Me 'n mah closest friend made a beeline outta the family with a shitton'a loot we had stashed away at base, stole as much as we could from our own kind. Sandwalkers were gettin' ravaged left 'n right, our numbers were dwindlin'. Didn't wanna wait till next matin' season to get our numbers up. By that time, probably get raided again 'n get wiped out fer good. Hehah, turns out the Sandwalkers made it through the fall. Group'a ol' friends 'r still pissed I abandoned 'em 'n now they're out fer mah blood."

"And friends help friends," Axel begins, "so we're helping Moobs out for old time's sake. Moreover, the Sandwalkers will definitely start a war with the Black Horseshoes if they found out an ex-member was helping out their deserter. Don't need that happening right now, not with all the crazy shit that's been going on in Equestria. We'll kill them and make sure none of them get away. Don't worry about them getting extra hooves, they're technically deserters too. Broke off from the family to kill Moobs, despite orders not to. If these guys die, main body of Sandwalkers wouldn't give a damn. Just don't need them reporting back with sensitive findings."

"Right," Crimson acknowledges. "So that's two. Next?"

Axel grins wildly, "My favorite. A shakedown."

"Simple enough."

"Damn right. Some moron, spreading rumors about the honcho, needs to be taught a lesson. No killing, and preferably no lasting damage. So don't break any of their bones or tear something important. It'll make beating him in the future more enjoyable if he doesn't learn his lesson."

"All these jobs link in with yer honcho there. Coincidence?"

"Not at all," Axel smirks while shaking his head. "Like I said, I don't have official ties to her, but we go way back. Keeping the streets clean for her is just my way. So what do you say, you in or you in?"

With a moment to ponder, he lets out a sigh to finalize his decision. "I'm in. When're we plannin' to move?"

"Tomorrow morning. Gives us a few hours of sleep. Motel's got plenty of rooms, take your pick. Each has got a bed with a blanket, a mirror, couch, coffee table, and a bucket. Moobs makes sure they're all up to par. Just don't pick the first room, that's mine. And what was that shit about the last room, Moobs?" the stallion asks while glancing over.

"Chiggers," Moobs replies quickly. "Gettin' them tamed as we speak. Ain't gotta worry 'bout the spreadin', ain't goin' no where. Got a secret ingredient lined on the doorframe, real toxic. Value yer life, you don't open that door."

Crimson nods twice. "No first door, no last door. Righty'o... hope I don't regret puttin' my trust in some strangers. I'll be headin' to bed. See if I don't wake up with my neck slit open."

"I'd be offended, but it's a good concern to have," Axel chuckles. "Keeps those survival skills up. I like that. You crash out for the night, Sky, I'll be here with Moobs a bit longer."

The man rises to his feet and arches his back in, shrugging his shoulders. "Y'all have a good evenin'."

"Likewise," Axel nods.

"Do the same, mister Sky," Moobs waves tiredly.

The man glances behind him. From the receptionist desk to the left, a saloon double-door is found before a hallway where the rooms are held. Proceeding into this hallway, six doors are located to his right, and the left is only a wall which has boarded up windows that do not allow view outside of the motel. Skipping the first door as instructed, he finds pleasantries with the third door, considering it's safely between Axel's and last door. Taking the whiny door handle, the door complains its opening.

He steps inside and glances around. Axel's description was more than accurate: a couch and coffee table in the middle, a mirror directly to the right with a stool, a bed on the far right corner, and a bucket on the far left corner. It doesn't look very homey, but it serves its purpose.

He closes the door behind himself, noting he's unable to lock it due to no lock actually being on the handle. Nevertheless, he treks to the bed and falls atop of it. He's kindly surprised that a mass of dust doesn't come up onto his face on landing. It's happened too many times before in the saloons he's rested at.

Crimson rolls onto his back and faces the ceiling. He's well aware that he won't be getting a good night's rest, instead, his mind wanders. The very first thing that pops into thought makes him smirk ever so slightly; words spoken by a peculiar griffon quite some time ago.

"As much as they like to look tough, they're not gonna do shit against the crowns. My advice? Stick with them. Stay away from gangs if you can help it."

...

"Stay away from gangs if you can help it."

Either Fawl didn't realize the true implications of what he said, or he was really trying to look after Crimson by offering genuine advice. Whatever the case, it was advice not heeded. Gangs might just be apart of the man's unending curse.

... Fawl and Tawl. They never survived the urge to leave Equestria, despite their hint of determination. He wonders how their return to Griffonstone is going. Safely, he hopes. Maybe Lightheart will run into them. All things considered, they might know each other... or maybe not. Probably not. Fawl isn't too fond of ponies.

The man brings his palms to his eyes and rubs them for a few seconds, feeling them water from the mix of pressure his hands place and tiredness. His mind trails off again, this time to his sister. He envisages her beautiful face, her silky skin slightly tanned by the desert sun. Her beautiful cyan irises that seem so stern but compassionate at the same time, accentuated by her long wavy eyelashes. Hair as black as night, but a heart of pure gold. How he misses her. Were he the same man from seven years ago, there would have been no way he'd survive being estranged from her. He'd lose his mind. He'd go berserk. He wouldn't care of the state of Equestria, he'd only want to go home. A part of him still feels this way.

He reaches for the collar, tugging on it lightly. Because of this noose around his neck, he can't channel his Arch. He can't willingly draw out the inner soul to reach into the Rift, thus, he's stuck here; he's grounded to existence with no reprieve.

Unable to talk to her, hold her dainty adorable hands, he's... almost glad. The scolding he'd receive for even thinking of affiliating himself with the Black Horseshoes would have no end, and for good reason. Everything he did to the Black Spurs was to finally keep away from such things, alas, here he is again. After years of clawing his way out of the darkness, it seems to drag him in time and again. Viola would be so disappointed. Whatever the hell is happening here in Equestria, he hopes it's just as transient than his old life.

His heart is torn at the middle, each half polar opposites. There's a sense of obligation, a tugging that tells him he should be here, he has to rid Equestria of these anomalies. But then, there's a wallowing hate. A well of frustration that continues to deepen. Everything he thought he knew about Canterlot was instantly shambled by the revelation had to him by Magnifying Glass.

Celestia used him as a tool, with Moonlight following her majesty's orders. He wasn't anything special, he was an over-glorified test dummy. Even now as he thinks on it, his brows furrow and his lips become horizontal; his blood grows cold at thinking he had become something to them. He should have known better. This land and it's magical whims have bested him yet.

Still, he attempts to ease his nerves by allowing rationality to seep into the toxicity. Celestia? Probably everything he now suspects her to be. A politic - one interested in only the bettering of her own cause. But Moonlight...?

... but Moonlight. No. Not her. Not Moonlight. He assures himself that she didn't mean any harm, and if anything, she was coerced by Celestia. There's simply no way that a caring, trepid being such as herself could ever be so conniving. There's simply no way...

... right?

...

"Yer weak. Yer pathetic."

He winces at the voice that whispers in his head. Far too many times has he fallen burden to his compassion. That isn't necessarily a bad thing, right? Being sympathetic is a good trait to have. At least, that's what he tells himself. He knows he should be more upset at those who toyed with him, especially since he's gone farther than necessary in the past to those who've inconvenienced him less. Though, it's drastic to compare. Those he has hurt mostly had it coming. Mostly.

He's weak. He's pathetic. Words spoken by a tasteless figure, Michael. A phrase that would never truly leave him.

"C'mon, pull the trigger already. Ain't nothin' but waste."

The red-haired man glazes his trembling hazel eyes between the crying sobs of the two females before him. The man they were assigned to kill is now dead, his house destroyed, and his fields burnt. All that's left is the wife and child, harrowing in fear at the two looming gunmen. "Fer christ's sake, Michael, it's a woman and her kid. The hell they gonna do to us? Jordas is dead, let's get 'fore the long arm gets here."

"Ch. Fuckin' weak. 'N pathetic. That's what you are, Sky." PAOH, PAOH!

The smoke from Michael's barrel is fresh in his mind. Ironically enough, his revolver was the same exact model of his own. He judged Michael harshly for his way of doing things, but in the end, he must of looked like a mirror image.

Jaded and tired, he closes his eyes and lets his heart sink him to sleep.

Next Chapter: Time and Again Estimated time remaining: 14 Hours, 57 Minutes