And a little twist here and...

Oh! It’s whirling! Hello Mr. Recorder, can you hear me?

Ooooh, where am I? Who am I? Who are you?

Oh no! YOU HAVE... AMNESIA! You’ve been in a terrible accident! My Name’s Paharita, your best friend and supreme ruler, but you can call me Rita.

Oh dear, what happened to me?

I have no idea! You were nearly dead when I found you, so you’re lucky that I came along! Anyway, I guess let’s just take it slow since you’re still recovering.

As you wish Rita. And may I just say if I had the function to record video, I would say you are looking lovely, simply radiant. Easily the prettiest griffon I’ve seen all day!

Oh fuck me, she’s talking to it again.

Again? Is this a regular occurrence?

Oh Mr. Recorder, you don’t remember a single thing from before a minute ago! You’re right though, and I appreciate your honesty and good taste! MWAH!

Oh my!

This is great! Let me tell the others. Hey, guys, I think I got this thing working again! The light’s on and everything!

Oh, that’s just lovely!

Rita, if you’re done playing with garbage and making stupid fucking voices, we could use some help.

I’m sure it is such a chore keeping your new best friend from eating you alive, but I’m sure you’ll manage. I’m rooting for you!

There’s no need to be rude, silly goose. I’m not trying to ruffle your feathers.

That’s racist!

Oh, I’m sure. But really, if you’re so worried about your partner’s burdens, perhaps you could contribute more than silly voices and insults.

So he’s got a lot on his plate these days. Not nearly as much as you, of course.

But can you waddle off now? You’re making me feel claustrophobic.

Hmmm....

Maybe I should be nicer to her, Mister Recorder. She’ll probably die soon. Die horribly. Cursing the day she ever crossed me. That’ll be nice.

But do you want to know a secret?

I’m just happy to hear your sweet voice, Empress Rita. Please caress my microphone and data tapes with your soothing words.

Oh, you little flirt!

Seriously though, I don’t like her very much. But that’s not the secret, she is horrible and ugly and only a truly diseased mind could find her anything but entirely repellent.

No, the secret is, she kinda worries me. She’s totally screwing with the dynamic of my personal narrative. I have my story all planned out. It has a beginning, middle, and end. And then she swooces in and starts rewriting as though I weren’t the main character.

Doesn’t she know who I am?!

Anyway, I gotta go for now, Mr. Recorder. Bye-bye!

Paharita ran her scaled fingers over the warm, glowing tubes of the jukebox. She brought her talons down to the controls. On the screen, at the face of the device, the display flipped through pages of different artists and songs. She stuck her tongue out at the “S” page.

“Why is Sweetie Belle so popular?” she asked, turning to an older unicorn sitting on a small barrel chair, enjoying a pipe. The pony took the pipe from his mouth to speak just as she turned back to the jukebox. “Her songs are so gloomy!”

Rita reached her claw into her Stable-Tec Security flak-jacket, feeling for the pockets in the stained and oversized work shirt which hung off her tiny frame. A smile curled the corners of her mouth as she withdrew a small cable.

With an edge of mischief in her voice, she murmured, “Time to add a little flavor.” She jammed one end of the cable into the face of the jukebox and the other end into the small computer on her left wrist. The griffon’s eyes lit up past her dark-pink eye markings. “Here we go,” she chirped, rapidly raking her talons across the buttons of her modified PipBuck.

She took the cord from both devices and slipped it back into a pocket, giving her PipBuck a celebratory slap and watching it spin on her wrist. With a push of a button, the new songs showed on the screen. She clutched the machine with both claws, her smile blinding, her wings giving a quick flap, all while her tail twitched expectantly as the machine whirred.

When the jukebox purred out a booming bass riff, Rita turned back to the rest of the saloon. Several patrons looked up from the drinks on their weathered, but clean, tables. Rita dropped back to all fours and began to strut her way to the bar, bobbing her head with the beat as she slid across the creaking floorboards. The long green bag she had strapped to her shoulder wobbled far past her head, jabbing a chatty mare in the hindquarters who had failed to get out of the griffon’s way. She whistled to a clean looking mare being lead up the stairs on the far wall by a stallion wearing a series of leather straps which clung to his trunk and rode up between his haunches. Rita knew the lady would be having some fun with that one.

A pair of earth ponies at a nearby table had lost track of their dice game, staring intently at her. The one furthest from her was covered in scars, tribal paint crisscrossed his face in a pattern identifying him as a member of a nearby raider tribe called the Piranhas. At the other end of the table sat a rough-looking farmer, his weather-beaten face making him look much older than his youthful eyes which were focused on her swaying hips.

The Piranha looked up at her hungrily, his grin wide as he ran his tongue over his filed teeth. Rita dropped her elbows heavily on the table, rattling their beer bottles, and propped her head up on her claws. She winked at the Piranha and ran the tips of her talons down the fluffy feathers of her cheeks and neck, gently clicking them against the thick metal ring of her slave collar. The pony slid back in his chair, his face full of confusion as she tugged at the collar of her vest, showing off more of her puffed-out chest feathers.

“You fellas want to dance with the prettiest griffon in the house?” She grinned, shaking her tawny, feline rump closer to the farmer’s face.

The tattooed pony scratched at his spiky mane, shifting in his chair. “This is awkward, but, I wasn’t flirting. I was actually trying to be threatening and scary.” He gave a lopsided smile. “The implication was more ‘I will kill you and eat you’ and less ‘we should get to know each other better and maybe I’ll buy you a—”

Rita whipped her head around her shoulder to the farmer, still staring in a trance at her constantly shifting hindquarters. “How about you hay-seed? I’ll let let you give my hiney a smack!” She put a talon against her teeth, smiled, and batted her eyes.

The farmer looked down at his forehoof and lifted it, glancing nervously towards her shaking rear. Rita dug her talons in the table’s surface in anticipation. Her beak fell open as he drew his hoof back and set it down.

“I-I don’t know if I should,” he stammered. “My mamma always said that I should treat a lady—”
Rita puffed out her cheeks and stomped away from the table, whipping both ponies with her tail as she went. She bounded the rest of the way, her small leaps timed to the beat as she approached the heavily stocked bar in the back. With a small leap, she landed in a perch atop the bar stool, spreading her wings proudly. The griffon shrugged the long, thin duffel bag from her shoulder and caught it by the strap before letting it drop softly to the floor. She straightened back up in her seat and looked at herself in the large mirror; the feathers from the top of her soft peach-colored head were squashed and tangled around the welder’s goggles strapped across her forehead. She reached up and swatted at the prominent feathers that dangled limply against her face, the dyed tips hovering by her beak.

Just as she prepared to shriek along to the closing wails playing from the jukebox, the song ended sharply and was instantly replaced by the sad sounds of a mare singing. Rita looked back, her mouth hanging open again. An old unicorn in straw hat shuffled in place, looking embarrassed to be caught.

“Really?” Rita called back to him across the room. She flopped her butt down on the stool, letting her hind legs sway freely. “Some ponies are just rude,” she muttered to no one in particular.
When the griffon looked up, she was staring into face of the oldest earth pony she’d ever seen. His wrinkles were so deep they looked like canyons etched into his face.

“Hey again,” she said brightly. “As you can see, I’ve not only fixed up your box back there, but I took the liberty of increasing the selection.” The old pony slowly craned his neck to look over at the jukebox. After several long seconds he looked back to the still smiling griffon.

“Now, as per our agreement, the drink I’d like is called a Raspberry Rickey.” Rita reached into her jacket and produced a faded piece of paper; her eyes followed the paper as she spoke. “You’re gonna need three ounces of raspberries, an ounce of lime juice, a half cup of mineral wah-wah, not just purified mind you, mineral—”

She was cut off as the bartender dropped a small glass from his mouth, it landed under her beak with a loud klak. He quickly went to the heavily stocked shelves and grabbed up the cheapest looking brown bottle. Holding it in the crook of his foreleg, he yanked out the cork with his teeth and spat it to the floor before taking the bottle in his mouth and pouring what could generously be called a double shot into the glass.

Rita stared down at the glass. She shoved the piece of paper back into her jacket and retrieved a small bit of wood with a pink paper top, holding it delicately between her thumb and index talons. With a slight flick of her wrist, the tiny umbrella unfolded and she dropped it into her glass. At last looking up from the glass she gave the bartender an acidic, “Thank you.”

The grumpy griffon held up the glass, tsk-ing at the lip marks and drool stains from the bartender.

She brought the glass to her beak and tipped it back, letting a bit slide into her mouth. She swallowed with a sputter, and her long tongue hung from her mouth as she set the glass back down. Bored already, she looked around at all the pretty, colorful bottles she’d rather be drinking from. Her eyes ran across a sign by the mirror, it was identical to all the others she passed coming into town and plastered around the bar: Salt Lick City was re-founded in blah blah blah by a pony with a simple dream of whatever and to ensure peaceful cohabitation, he buried a series of explosive devices around the entire town, etcetera, he’d rather kill himself and everypony else than give up on ponies being able to act civilized.

It was all summed up nicely, in Rita’s opinion, by the simple phrase at the bottom: “When the staff says to take it outside, you better damn-well do it.”

What caught her eagle-eye most was that this sign had a little bronze portrait next to it. It showed the oldest earth pony she’d ever seen, his wrinkles were so deep, they looked like canyons etched into his face. Underneath were the words: Old Hops is the re-founder, mayor, and brewmaster of Salt Lick City.

“Oh wow! So you’re the bartender and mayor of this entire city! That's so great for you!” Rita shouted into the weathered earth pony’s face. She never had much of an “indoor voice” and the alcohol had removed her already lax volume control. “Although, I guess Salt Lick City isn’t really that much of a city. It’s pretty much just this bar and a bunch of tents and shanties!”

Rita waved her forelimb at the room, sloshing her drink and nearly tipping the umbrella out of her glass. She rolled back into her seat staring at the stone faced pony glaring at her. “But this is the nicest bar I’ve ever been to and I’ve been to some nice bars. Well, it’s in the top ten anyway. Top three if I don’t compare the actual drinks served.” She leaned in candidly and cupped a claw next to her beak. “And between you and me, you need to really work on your customer service skills.”
The bartender made a noise between a grunt and a growl and ambled down the bar, far away from the chattering griffon. Rita drummed her talons on the bar to the rhythm of the sad music crooning from the old jukebox as her eyes drifted over the nearby patrons. To her left, a tough- looking unicorn in a bulky black jacket sat slamming shot after shot of whiskey. But what caught her eye wasn’t his alcohol tolerance or his muscled physique, it was the patch on his right shoulder depicting a lightning bolt coming from a cloud.

Rita’s eyes lit up like sparklers and she immediately began jabbing the pony in the side with a curled finger. “Excuse me,” she said quickly, poking with each word. “You, sir, hey, you. Hey, Sir. Hey.”

With all the speed of mountain erosion, the horned pony, turned to look at her. “What the fuck do you want?”

“Hi,” she said, sitting back and giving a warm smile. “Are you a fellow fan of the fastest, bluest, and coolest pony to ever dance on clouds?”

The pony stared at her slack jawed and bleary eyed. Rita reached out and tapped twice on the patch. She spoke fast, excitement raising her voice, “This here. This is the mark of one of the six Ministry Mares, Rainbow Dash, head of the Ministry of Awesome and the first recorded pony to perform a sonic rainboom.”

Rita’s eyes rolled up as she went through her mental index, counting on her talons. “She was the last captain of the stunt flyers, the Wonderbolts, before the group was dissolved and reformed into the elite tactical strike force known as the Shadowbolts. Of the six Ministry Mares, she was the only one to see front-line combat. She had the most confirmed kills of any pony during the war and that was before she went into the more hush-hush kinda jobs! Just her name was enough to strike fear into the hearts of zebra scum.”

When Rita stopped to take a breath, the dazed unicorn spoke up. “Lady, I have no idea what the fuck you’re blathering about. I bought this jacket from a merchant years ago. The patch just shows that I strike fast, ya know, like lightning.”

“Oh.” Rita slumped on her bar stool, her entire body deflating, the light going from her eyes. She perked up instantly as a thought popped in her head. “Do you remember the merchant’s name or description, or their route, or where they are now?”

“No.” The unicorn tilted back his head and let out a harsh laugh. “It was fucking years ago, and whoever he was, he’s probably dead by now. What the fuck do you—” When he looked back to Rita, she had turned away from him and was back to sipping her drink, as if she’d never noticed him. His face went red. “Hey, I was talking to you! You bothered me, ya fucking chicken puss!”

The sound of the front doors slamming open quieted the bar. The ancient looking bartender looked to the source of the disturbance and then went back to tending the bar with something resembling a smile on his face. The brutish unicorn looked back to the door with a sneer on his lips. His eyes went wide and he grabbed up his last shot in a levitation field and gulped it down. He hopped off the barstool and all but galloped away, leaving far too many caps on the counter.

Heavy hoofsteps echoed through the bar, accompanied by the sound of rattling chains. Rita kept her eyes on her drink as a shadow fell over her. The barstool next to her creaked loudly as the large, armored individual took his seat.

Out of the corner of her eye, Rita looked over the newcomer; more than half of his body was draped in heavy iron armor that was held together with a series of chains. What drew her attention most was the helmet topped with two branching spikes, swept back and stained red. What little was visible of the pony underneath was coated in brown with patches of white, his uncovered tail was hay colored, matching the few errant strands the escaped his helmet and clung to his lantern jawed face.

His dark, deep-set eyes turned to her. “I’ve been told that a short griffon with a PipBuck and a bomb collar is looking for me,” he said evenly. “I was told that she has need of my services in removing some raiders. Are you she?”

“You’re the Iron Stag?” Rita asked the armored pony who only held his gaze. Rita tossed back what was left of her drink, scrunching up her face at the taste. She daintily set the empty glass on the bar and rotated on the squeaky stool to face the stallion. She looked him over for a moment before settling back, claws in her lap and head cocked at angle. “You’re not a stag at all,” she said, a frown tugging at the corners of her mouth. “Your name is dumb,” Rita looked up and away, tapping the side of her beak with her index talon, deep in thought. “You should be called the Big-Pony with the Stabby-Horn-Hat.”

Rita turned her face back to his, not a twinge of either humor or annoyance showed on his chiseled features. With a only a slight slump of the shoulder, the griffon put on a smile that was all teeth and extended her claw. “Yes, I’m Paharita, but you can call me Rita. Nice to meet’cha!” Her eyes darted from his still face, to his still lowered forelegs, and back to her unreceived claw. “Right to business then,” she said, giving his armored shoulder a pat. He looked down at where she had touched, as if to make sure she hadn’t left anything there.

Rita looked around to make sure no curious parties were paying attention; half the bar was still staring at them. With a roll of her eyes, the petite griffon leaned forward and the large pony did the same, his chair groaning at the weight being shifted.

“There’s a raider den,” she said in a hushed voice, “a little over a day’s trot from here. Inside the building there’s a...” Rita paused and clicked her tongue, thinking on the right word. “Treasure. One that they’re not likely to realize the importance of. I was only able to get close enough to see that it’s still mostly intact, but with raiders that could change very quickly.”

“How many raiders?” the Iron Stag rumbled.

“Thirteen. My lucky number,” Rita said with a wink.

“Their ‘den’; what is it?”

“A one story building, wholly intact. The insides are mostly open with only a few doored rooms inside. I made a sketch...” She flattened out a crumpled up napkin. The interior was mostly one big room, with walls separating it into sections, the doored rooms all towards the rear, off to the side of what was marked the entrance, was a large room circled in red ink. Rita tapped the circle. “That’s where the prize is. I need somepony who can kill them all and not cause a lot of collateral damage inside, the treasure is delicate.”

The Iron Stag stared at the crudely drawn floor plans for several long seconds. “I can do this,” he said without uncertainty. “You know my fee: a thousand caps, plus supplies. All upfront. I’ll need the exact location and—”

Rita smiled and waved a talon in his face, “Ah-ah-ah, no dice.” The stallion tipped his head forward, his eyes disappearing in the shadow of his helmet. “Oh don’t get all sulky on me. You’ll get fifteen hundred caps after they’re all dead and the prize is secured. And I’m coming with you. That’s the deal.”

“In my experience,” he said, looking her hard in the eyes, “such a deal is usually a guarantee of betrayal and an attempt on my life.”

Rita met his gaze and stared at him, the corners of her mouth twitching. She snorted before bursting out in laughter. “Like I’m going to overpower you.”

She held her belly and rocked back and forth on the stool, peals of laughter spilling from her beak. The Iron Stag only glanced at the other staring patrons who quickly returned to their own business. After nearly a full minute of this, she quieted to just the occasional cough of a laugh.

“Hoo boy,” she gasped and wiped the tears from her eyes with her knuckles, “and here I was afraid you didn’t have a sense of humor. Anyway, silly, that’s why I brought this show of trust and good faith.”

Rita reached a paw down from the rungs of the bar stool, pressed it against the duffel bag on the floor and slid it under the Stag’s hooves. “Inside, you'll find a high powered, point-three-oh-eight caliber rifle, in pristine shape, fitted with a scope and a silencer." She grinned, kicking her hind legs a bit. "I call it the Head-Hunter! Also, I've included twenty-six claw-crafted F-M-J rounds. I gave them all a little dip in some zebra hoop-a-goop from the war. It’s supposed to make it hard for healing potions and spells to plug up the wound." Her tail twitched in anticipation as he set the bag on the bar and flipped open the flap. "Oh! And one more thing!"

“What’s this?” he asked, peering into the bag.

Connected at the trigger was a series of thick panels held together with hinges and a thin cable all coming to end in a harness. Stag lifted the rifle and the panels moved freely in the air.
Rita smiled, chewing the corner of her mouth. “This is something special.” She reached out and pushed the small lever by the trigger bit, the whole contraption went rigid. “It’s called a steady arm. You strap it to your back and then if you push on the trigger bit, it locks in place, freeing up your mouth except when you need to shoot.”

At the push of the lever, it went limp. She folded the contraption in half, the front panel locked together with the back with a loud click. Rita watched as Stag strapped the contraption under his chest and over his withers, with the rifle folded securely against his side. Rita pointed at the button on the panel extending just past his shoulder. With a tap of the button, the rifle sprung forward, the trigger bit level with his mouth. One of the patrons whistled.

Rita smirked. “How’s that for a down-payment?”

Iron Stag pushed the Head-Hunter back against his side until the arm locked. “I accept,” was all he said.

Rita clapped her claws and leapt from her her stool, landing with one paw and forelimb stretched in air. “Excellent! Now let’s—”

She went quiet as he held out a massive hoof. “There is one more piece of business I have to conduct. You may accompany me if you wish. It shall not take long and will make for a demonstration of what you can expect from me, but you must remain silent.”

Rita held her index talon and thumb pinched together in front of her beak and made a sideways zipping motion. The Iron Stag stared at her for a beat before walking to the front entrance with Rita skipping close behind.

The pair marched down the broken road, through the wreckage that the inhabitants called a city. Through either some cosmic jest, or just really good construction, the saloon was the only pre-war structure that had been left standing by the final day of the war. Every open space they passed was inhabited by ponies crowded around burning rubbish bins to keep warm from the pre-dawn chill.

As Rita and her conspicuous partner continued towards the edge of town, past the tents and thrown together shacks, she was unsurprised to see that all eyes were on the Iron Stag. Many of the locals, especially those with the telltale markings of various raider tribes, either tried to act inconspicuous or flat-out tried to hide. She had expected that. He was a bounty hunter, after all.

There were others, though. The common citizens had a wholly different reaction. The few foals they came across looked up at him with gaping mouths and faces full of awe. She heard whispers of thanks to him for removing this threat or avenging that loved one. The Iron Stag seemed to take notice of neither their fear or admiration.

From one of the tents, a filly ran toward the pair before her parents could reign her in. When she stopped in front of them, Rita noticed that the pony’s back left leg stopped below the hock. In her mouth, she held a bruised apple. She extended her neck as far up as she could towards the Iron Stag. He regarded her without expression, but gently took the apple from her.

“It makes me feel safer, knowing there are ponies like you out there,” she said quickly before running back to her parents.

The filly’s parents held her tightly until Rita and Stag turned past the next street corner. Once out of the girl’s sight, the Stag turned around and held out the apple to Rita. She snatched it and devoured it in seconds, core and all.

“Thanks!” she said, rubbing her stomach. She followed her gratitude with a wet burp.
The tents and shacks thinned the further they got from the saloon, until there were only scattered ponies sleeping on the ground, and then the two were alone. They kept walking for several minutes until the Iron Stag held up a foreleg, halting her. The ground gave way to a sharp drop-off ahead of them. Following his lead, they both crept up to the rim and peered over the edge.

At the bottom of the hill sat two emaciated ponies; one with a horn and one without. The pair sat quietly around their meek campfire, sharing a small bowl of what appeared to be a form of porridge. It took Rita a moment to realize that they were dug in. The hill was too steep to descend without making noise, and the surrounding terrain was open and flat as far as she could see. The three bedrolls spread around the fire suggested that they had been staying there for a while. Besides the ponies and their campfire, a lone, gnarled tree was the only thing that stood out against the bleak landscape. Rita spotted a combat shotgun propped up against that tree, well within the reach of either pony and capable of filling the air full of flesh-rending pellets in seconds. She backed away from the ledge with a grimace.

Rita only heard a small click before she turned to see the Iron Stag with the Head-Hunter locked and aimed, the trigger in his mouth. He stood rigid, only making small movements with his head to adjust the trajectory. As the seconds ticked by, Rita started getting antsy, shifting her weight between her limbs as he refused to take the easiest shot ever with the prettiest gun she’d ever constructed. With a click, the aiming rig locked in place and the Iron Stag waved her to step aside.

Staring down the scope, the Iron Stag circled to the side. There was a single thump and a puff of smoke, followed by a short scream from the bottom of the hill. Rita puffed out her chest with pride to see her baby in action, only for her jaw to go slack as the Stag pushed the rifle to his side and jumped over the edge.

The griffon danced in place for a second, unsure which direction to go; her head whipping from the cliff’s edge, to the sky, and back towards town. The sound of a shotgun blast made her mind up and she peeked over the edge. The Iron Stag was running down the near vertical drop, his head bowed, and at the bottom stood the unicorn with the shotgun in his levitation field, firing wildly. The pellets panged loudly against the Iron Stag’s armor, but did not break his stride.

The unicorn’s shotgun clicked empty and his eyes went wide as he saw the horns of the Iron Stag heading straight for him. He only had enough time to drop the gun before he was struck with all force of a train. Rita heard as much as saw the horns punch straight through his lower ribs. He vomited blood over the Stag’s back as he was carried forward. The grisly ride continued and the Iron Stag lowered his head further to drag the unicorn’s hindquarters against the rocky ground.

The Iron Stag leapt into the air and dipped his head even lower. He planted both forelegs on the unicorn’s distended belly before landing with a wet crunch. Another mouthful of blood and bile spilled from the unicorn's mouth. He lay with his back on the ground struggling to breathe, still impaled, and with the crushing weight of the armored pony pressing on his belly. Rita saw him try to whisper, his eyes drifting to the Iron Stag’s face. That was when the screaming started.

The Iron Stag visibly shifted his weight forward, pushing his bloody, armored hooves deeper into the screaming unicorn’s body. At the same time, the stag slowly raised his head. The sound of flesh and muscle wetly tearing joined with the sound of crunching bones. The unicorn’s scream never stopped. The armored pony turned his head sharply to one side, then the other, and the scream became a horrible croak as the unicorn’s vocal chords gave out. With one last, loud crack, the Iron Stag raised his head towards the sky, showering himself in the gore that poured from the half of the unicorn still skewered on his helmet.

With a shake of his head, the half-a-pony was thrown from the Iron Stag’s horns, and he slowly approached the camp. Only then did Rita bother looking for the other pony. He was lying in a small pool of blood where she had seen him sitting before, a bloody hole on his the back of his neck. No, not a hole. A gouge. What really surprised her, though, was that he was breathing. His eyes darted around, entirely alert, as he tried to talk with his face planted in the dirt. Then he saw the Stag walking slowly towards him.

The blood drenched, armor clad pony stopped by the downed pony and yanked his head up by the mane. “You fucking animal,” the stallion screamed before he was dropped back to the ground, his chin striking a rock. He spat up a mouthful of blood.

“What did you do to me?" the pony demanded. “I can’t move,” he screamed as his head was barely able to twitch on the ground.

Iron Stag kneeled down low, and pulled up the plate of armor on the side of his haunch, showing his cutie mark to the pony on the ground. Rita could make it out clearly; it was a small rock striking a boulder, and the boulder was shattering from the impact. He let the plate drop.

“This is my talent,” the Iron Stag spoke evenly. “I look at something, and I know how to break it. In your case, I’ve blown out a chunk of your spine and severed the nerves.” He raised a foreleg and brought it down quickly, tearing a chunk of skin from the crippled pony’s cheek. When he opened his mouth to cry out, Iron Stag kicked forward, sending shards of teeth into the dirt.

The broken pony sobbed into the dirt. “I’m sorry,” he bawled. “We were just gonna ransom the girl! We didn’t mean to do it, it was an accident!” The pony’s scream ended in a wet cough, more of his blood spattering the ground as he strained to look up at his tormentor’s face. “You gotta believe me. I’m so sorry...”

The Iron Stag stared down at the bleeding and sobbing pony at his hooves. “I believe you,” he said simply. He brought his hoof down again, catching the tip of the pony’s ear. He ground it into the dirt until it was nothing but a ruined flap of skin and blood.

“But that what you did was an accident, I do not believe,” he said walking to the pony’s side.
The pony on the ground just cried, whimpering over and over that he was sorry. Rita cocked her head as the Iron Stag pulled four pieces of rubber tubing from a satchel he had beneath a plate of armor. It was only when the snap of rubber echoed into the early morning that the battered pony tried to look behind him.

“W-what are you doing?”

“I’m tying off the circulation to your legs,” the Iron Stag replied. “I’m going to cut them off and I don’t want you to bleed to death.”

The pony screamed and pleaded, getting louder with each snap of rubber. “Please! Please don’t do this! In my bag, I got over a dozen things of Dash. They’re yours! You don’t even to take me to a doctor, I’ll just scream until someone comes, just please. Please! In the name of Celestia, don’t do this!”

The Iron Stag reared up and brought his hooves down well below the tubing. The bones crunched loudly, and he repeated this on each leg. After the bones were shattered, he drove the spikes of his helmet into each mangled leg in turn, twisting until there was a sizable hole. Finally, after biting down on a fetlock while holding the torso steady with his foreleg, he would yank. As each leg gave way, he stacked them in front of mutilated pony’s face.

His work done, Iron Stag lay down on his belly, his chin over the pile of legs. “This was how they found her,” he said in his deep, emotionless voice. “I want it to be the last thing you see.”

The pony laughed as he sobbed. “It was an accident, she ran off in the night and fell off a cliff. We tried to hide the body, and so we... we cut her up and put her in a bag. We got attacked by raiders on the road and we lost the bag getting away.” He looked at his legs piled in front of him and forced himself to stop crying. “It doesn’t matter anymore, just kill me.”

“I’m not going to kill you yet.” Iron Stag bowed his head, one of the horns coming to rest against the other’s cheek. “I just said that this will be the last thing you see.”

The pony’s eyes went wide before the Stag turned his head sharply. When he stood, Rita saw a deep bleeding gouge across the ruined pony’s face where both eyes used to be. He was now just moving his mouth in an endless babel; she couldn’t pick out the words anymore.
The blood drenched stallion grabbed the wreck by the tail and dragged it toward the small campfire. He dropped the tail into the fire, then watched the flames catch and climb to the coat. He stood entirely still, watching the fire crawl across the body, until the fire blackened lips stopped moving.

Rita jumped from the cliff, spreading her wings to glide down. She landed next to the Stag, giving her wings a flap before tucking them at her sides. He said nothing, and just stared at her, blood dripping from his heavy armor.

“So, you done?” she asked brightly.

Hello there children, it’s me, Dj Pon3, your voice of reason in this world gone mad. Now, what tiiiiime is it? News time!

You know him, and, if you’re listening to me, you either hate him or work for him, iiiit’s Red Eye!

Our little mad mustang of the airwaves has a whole new message for you good people of the Equestrian wastes, "give me your kids."

Yep! Nuclear winter has long past and it looks like Nuclear Summer is over too because school is back in session.

That wacky Red Eye is reaching out to all you parents out there and just offering to take that pesky family of yours off your hooves. You can rest assured that your little filly or colt will grow up safe and educated and won't be brainwashed into his cult at all!

And if you believe that, then I'm surprised you were able to figure out which hole to stick it in to get kids in the first place.

I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again; Red Eye is BAD. NEWS. STAY. AWAY.

Now when I first heard Red Eye with his soothing voice and gentle words, I'm sure I was thinking the same thing as you. "Oh boy, can I mail this guy my erotic stories to read on the air?" And then he kept talking. Started making ‘promises’ vowing to make things "better". And, like the rest of you, I wrote him off as an optimistic kook.

The humor became less charming when he began going on about the glory and magnificence of the Goddess and "Unity." Which just happened to be the same stuff that those freaky-deaky mutant Alicorns would spout endlessly at the drop of a hat. Ya know, when they weren't abducting ponies or flaying them alive.

Then the lights came back on in Fillydelphia and I started to really listen to him. And children, I was scared of what I was hearing. He spoke of "sacrifices for the greater good." Then the slave trains started chugging his way.

In the last year, he's been making offers of comfortable living and piles of caps to any pony who can shoot straight and follow orders as well as anypony with enough brains to put their horse shoes on straight. I've seen some of Equestria's most dangerous mercenaries, including a whole clan of griffons, disappear into that city. Most terrifying, is that dozens of our most brilliant minds minds have bought into Red Eye's bullshit.

Children, this guy is not your messiah. Those guns he's hired are being turned against you, used to round up slaves to fuel the furnaces. Hell, from what I've heard, they might well be throwing the slaves straight into the fire. And to you brainiacs out there, we need you. Without you, there is no good fight. Please, just stop and use those great minds of your's to think, before you go signing away your souls for a little bit of comfort.

Thaaaanks for listening Children! Next up is a favorite of mine from that old gal Sweetie Belle—

Rita clicked her tongue as she took out her earbuds and let the cord yank them back into her Pip-Buck. “Bleh.” She gave an exaggerated gag. “What is the deal with Sweetie Belle? How can somepony who grew up with one of the Ministry Mares as her sister sound depressed all the time? Doesn't she have any happy songs about kitties or pretty dresses or anything? And if she has to sing about each and every gripe she has, couldn't she put a little energy in it and give me something to dance to?"

"You don't like Sweetie Belle, do you?" Rita called to the fenced in stall, idly tracing the piping that trailed from the stall back into the Salt Lick City Saloon. As Rita had swiftly come to expect of the Iron Stag, the walk back to town was one without much said on his part.

"I tend to avoid the radio,” he said, raising his voice over the sound of sprinkling water. “It's a distraction."

"I can't believe that bartender likes you enough to let you use his shower for free." Rita dropped onto her haunches and pressed her back against the fenced wall, crossing her forelimbs and puffing out her cheeks in a pout. In front of her stood a line of ponies, waiting with family or friends to wash off a layer of Wasteland grime.

"A few years ago, he hired me. A group of a dozen anarchistic raiders wanted to detonate the explosives he'd buried throughout the town,” the Stag explained through the door. “He was pleased with how I dealt with them."

Rita thought of the big billboard she'd passed coming into town from the north, the one with six cages dangling from it. She hadn't paid too much attention to the bodies inside, but one of them had still been moving on its single hoof. The billboard had read: "Salt Lick City Jail."

"How much longer are you gonna be anyway? This is torture, it's been more than three minutes," Rita whined, stamping her paws in the dust. She turned around and put her face against the wall, trying to peer between the fence boards. "Do you need some help with those intimate hard-to-reach areas?" she fiddled with the clasp on her vest with a grin. "I can be very handy."

"No, I'm done," he said at the same time the water shut off. "I just need to dry off my armor to prevent rusting. It should only take a few more minutes."

Rita groaned and slid to the side, her head landing on the satchel the Iron Stag had taken from the kidnapper's camp. With a cautious look to the shower door, she dug her claws in the bag and came back holding the small blue inhaler. She tucked the mouthpiece behind her beak and gave the lever the tiniest squeeze.

The world around the griffon came to a satisfying crawl. A young pony in line for the shower shifted his weight impatiently, Rita mentally drew pictures in the dust he kicked up for a second. She gave the inhaler a gentle toss straight up and watched it spin through the air for an eternity. Her eyes traced over the scars on its plastic body, the semi-transparent gas bottle seemed to glitter in what sunlight made it past the clouds. She duly reached out and plucked the bottle out of the air with two fingers an instant before it struck the ground.

“Good call on taking the Dash from those chem dealers,” Rita called at the shower stall as the world returned to its normal speed. “Nothing like a little slow-mo to help tip the scales in a scrap. Especially with the up close and personal stuff.”

“I do not poison my body with such chemicals,” the Stag rumbled just past the door. “Nor do I trust anyone who does so.”

“Oh, I see.” Rita hastily shoved the inhaler into a shirt pocket. The sound of rattling chains and metal banging plates told her that he was getting dressed. “So then you’re going to sell these, make a few extra caps to keep your armor nice and shiny?”

The door to the shower flew open, slamming hard against the wall. Rita scrambled away from the door, tangling her legs in the bag as she tried to get on all fours. With a clatter, she tumbled back to the ground, Dash inhalers spilling from the bag. The Iron Stag stood over her and she saw the first hint of emotion in his eyes: anger.

"Are you accusing me of being a drug dealer," he rumbled, his eyes narrowing.

Rita laughed too loudly as pulled her legs free of the bag. She rapidly gathered up the inhalers in her forelimbs as she spoke with the voice of a child caught misbehaving. "No. No, of course I would never suggest such a thing. Though, I mean, if you're not using these then the only reason to take them would be to sell them, right?"

"You are correct." A long pause followed before the Stag begins to speak again. "I am going to sell these, but to doctors who can use them to make medicine or otherwise use them to help others, not to line my saddlebags from the weakness of the desperate."

"Well aren't you just a big old sweetie bear," Rita said with a wide smile as she tossed the last of the Dash back in the bag.

The Iron Stag looked Rita over from tail to beak. He stopped at her mouth, his gaze drifted down, not quite looking her in the eye. He took a single massive step towards Rita and put a heavy hoof on her shoulder. The griffon froze in place in the middle of securing the bag's top flat. She could still see flecks of blood on his horse shoes.

"I'm sorry if I scared you."

Rita's eyes darted left and right before coming back to his. "Huh?"

"It was not right for me to get mad at you for asking a logical question. You just wanted to know more about the stallion you hired; there is nothing wrong with that." The Iron Stag's eyes dropped in shame. "And more than that, my behavior on the whole has been most disgraceful. I have tried to intimidate and scare you since we met. And while it is certainly not in my contract to be your friend, there was no reason for such rudeness. Especially not to somepony in your position."

Rita sat completely still for a beat before coming alive with a bursting smile. She slid his hoof off her shoulder and poked him on the nose. "No harm, no foul, big guy," she said crinkling her eyes. "Just don't let it happen again.”

The Iron Stag’s eyes flicked over, looking past Rita’s shoulder. In the next instant, she had a beakful of sand and his hoof pinned her down. Rita rolled her eye to look up and saw the Stag move his armoured head to the side, a yard long metal pole sparked against the side of his helmet as it slid by and into the shower stall. Rita heard it pierce the network of pipes. The line erupted in screams.

Released by the Stag’s hoof, Rita looked back to see ponies running in every direction. All save one; a unicorn mare with coloration like sand and rocks. She stood entirely still, her head bowed and her horn glowing. Tin cans and random scraps of metal surrounded her, suspended in the air by her levitation. The pony looked up, giving a distant stare with her cold, amber eyes. With a horrible screech, the garbage around her warped and twisted, becoming deadly blades in the blink of an eye.

Rita was on her feet and running before the first projectile made contact, shrieking at the shower of dirty, sharp metal that peppered the ground all around her. She didn’t dare to look back until after she dove for cover behind the heavy wood panels of the shower stall.

Peaking from behind cover, Rita saw the last of the metal shards spark harmlessly off of the Iron Stag’s armor. A few bits of shrapnel had found the small gaps in his armored plates, but he took no notice of them. The mare in front of him had his undivided attention.

“Hello Sandy,” he said calmly. “So you were involved.”

“Murderer,” Sandy screamed, throwing another barrage of scrap shurikens. She sprinted forward, surrounded by the metal daggers.

The Iron Stag nudged the panel of the steady arm, his head lowered to guard his face from the assault. The rifle snapped forward from his side. He lifted his head and grabbed the trigger bit, firing without pause. With a thump a fist sized hole was punched through Sandy’s right foreleg, spraying blood and bone shards.

Without missing a step, the unicorn threw herself into the air with a burst from her horn. A nearby shack’s rusted, tin roof was enveloped in the glow of the attacking unicorn’s magic field and was ripped away. In the instant it took to join her side in the air, the sheet of metal folded in on itself, becoming a mighty blade. She howled as she descended upon the Stag, the blade flying towards his neck.

Rita held her claws in front of her face, peering between her talons. The Iron Stag only had time to take a single step. There was a loud crack as the make-shift sword struck the side of Stag’s face. The blade split against his helmet, with the top imbedding itself in the dirt while the hilt went across his face, a ribbon of blood following it.

Sandy finished the arc of her descent an instant later. She never made it to the ground. With a wet noise, the mare came to a swinging halt in the air, her hind legs striking against the Stag’s chest. She stayed in the air, thrashing, her eyes wild. The only sound she made was a choking gasp, blood seeping around the metal horn lodged in her neck.
With a toss of his head, the bleeding mare was flung over the Stag’s back. Rita saw the ragged hole in the mare’s throat before she struck the ground. Before Sandy could even raise her head, the Stag turned around and leapt. His front hooves came down on her back with a crunch.

As the Iron Stag ground his hooves deeper into the would-be assassin, Rita saw the damage the sword had done. His face was laid open, a deep gash ran just beneath both eyes. Through the red that gushed around the wound, his face was entirely passive and neutral.

“I had suspected that the girl’s bodyguard may have participated in the kidnapping,” the Iron Stag said as he used his spiked horseshoe to snap the unicorn’s horn. “Your employer refused to entertain the possibility. I see that my instincts did not lead me astray.” The Iron Stag kicked the pony hard enough to roll her onto her shreded back. “I wish it were otherwise.”

“But the moment I recognized your friends, I knew that you would not be far behind.” the Stag said before grabbing the pony by her mane. He dragged her past Rita, into the shower stall.
“Though he only meant the two chem dealers, my contract was to bring justice to those responsible for the death of my employer’s daughter.” The stag put a hoof on her jaw, halting her thrashing. “Goodbye Sandy, it was good to see you again.”

The Stag looked at the spike that impaled the main pipe to the shower, water seeped out around the pole. He jerked the spike free, releasing a thick stream of water onto the mare’s face. The water turned pink and foamy as it poured into the hole in her throat. The Stag held Sandy’s head head between his forehooves as she attempted a burbling scream. In less than a minute, she was still.

The Stag looked to Rita, still huddled by the doorway to the stall. “So as I was saying,” he said as he stepped over the corpse of the unicorn, “there’s no reason why we can’t be civil. The Wasteland is ugly enough without such needless cruelty.”

Rita stood on her hind legs and spread her forelimbs wide. “Took the words right out of my beak,” she shouted happily. The griffon leapt over to the armored pony’s side. She wrapped one forelimb over the back of his neck and rubbed the knuckles of her other claw on the top his helmet. “Staggy, I think this is the start of a grand partnership.”