Chapter 10: Strictly Business

"I do not shoot with my claw; I shoot with my mind."

I awoke naked save for my PipBuck, roped to a chair, with a headache the size of the moon. What I wouldn’t have done for a cigarette right then.

Is this normally what hangovers are like?

In my life, there had never been much time for introspection. Despite the monotony of my existence prior to my flight from Stable 57, there had always been something to do or something that needed doing. Whether it was performing my duties as a maintenance griffin, or training with Master Grimm, there was still a fair bit of free time.

That free time I filled with gambling for insignificant bits of paper or other items of minute value. And, if either Blunt or Ruby were busy, then there was an infinitely vast library connected to my PipBuck for easy access. I’d find a quiet, secluded corner and read. As much as I would have liked to nap or relax in one of the Stable’s apple trees, griffins weren’t allowed into the underground orchard unless they were working there. Too much temptation to steal, or so I was told.

Although monotonous, there was comfort in the routine. It was predictable, and safe. Not for a single instant, would I have traded my freedom for the security of slavery. Of course, being drugged into unconsciousness and dragged out of a bar in a civilized town did not rate highly in my list of things to do with said freedom.

I was in a small square room with four other ponies, two in front of me, and two guarding the only door. A dingy fixture bled greasy light, and the grubby checkered pattern tiles were cracked and sad. There was a small metal drain below my paws scabbed over with rust and biological waste. It stank of piss, blood, and fear.

“’Ey there sleepin’ beauty.” said a woefully familiar green unicorn. Feral Hoof punched me once in the gut and once across the beak with his power hooves off. Wind gusted from my lungs and it became impossible to breathe for a brief moment. I worked my tongue around my mouth a little before spitting a glob of phlegm and blood straight into one of the stallion’s hateful eyes. He wasn’t wearing his metal helmet and my aim was good.

Feral cursed and recoiled in pain and blindness, trying to get the thick glob out of his sensitive orb.

“Wow, you’re even uglier up close.” I wheezed in casual observation. Perhaps it wasn’t the best plan to taunt my captors, but I was already working at my bonds quietly. They’d learn soon enough not to bind a griffin’s claws with rope. If all else failed I was confident I could break apart the flimsy wooden chair.

Feral Hoof reared back, about to strike me again when another unicorn in a fancy vest with glasses held the stallion back with a little directed telekinesis.

“Now, now, Feral, vee musn’t damage zee subject before I can work now can vee? Ragtag vould be most displeased to find out you had killed zis one before vee can interrogate him, no?” At the mention of retribution from Ragtag, the hulking, metal plated pony subsided with a grumble.

“Too bad you won’t be around much longer, griffin, I’d have liked to break your legs first.” The unicorn walked to a corner of the dingy little tiled room to rub at his eye. The pony with the glasses and fancy getup filled my vision.

“Hello, my name iz Doctor Amnesia. Fortunately for you, I’m here and therefore vee can eschew zee messier methods of information extraction.” The unicorn floated up a small, eager scalpel from a tray next to my chair and I felt my heart beat a little faster. He set it down again and grinned widely. “Pain tends to fog zee mind, and makes it almost impossible to find zee right memories.” the slightly mad pony gripped my head excitedly.

“Oh how I love zis part! I vill invade your mind, strip away your memories, and leave you as nothink but a drooling shell of a griffin. Vee shall see how you got zee treasure of Ghoul City. Unt it shall be ours.” Amnesia said with a little too much relish for my taste.

“Doc, you really need a new hobby. As I told others before you, there was no treasure, just a ruse, and death.” I didn’t think they really cared about the truth. I had learned in my Stable that if a pony was convinced you were lying; no argument or evidence could sway them to the contrary.

“You honestly expect me to believe zat? Tut tut, I would expect a better lie from someone who managed to elude Feral Hoof here. I’ve heard more believable stories than zat from foals.” He said as he double checked my bonds. I stilled my claw sawing for a moment and he didn’t seem to notice the fraying trough I had made in them thus far.

“Believe what you will, it’s still the truth.” I said with as much of a shrug as the ropes allowed.

“Hey, don’t mean to interrupt, but shouldn’t we use that potion that Ragtag said to give him?” said one of the guards at the door with an affected expression of one who’s only following orders. The red earth pony had a battle saddle with a pair of rifles and I was already thinking about how many steps it would take me to reach him and turn his weapons against the other occupants.

“Don’t insult me, I need no aid in pulling out memories, it iz my special talent after all.” said the doctor with a haughty toss of his short blue mane. His horn began to glow, and I knew what was coming.

“I really don’t think you want to do that.” I warned.

“Don’t vorry, zis von’t hurt a bit. For me at least.”

***

I opened my eyes to a familiar sight, the blank canvas landscape of the psychoplanes. I wonder if all mental intrusions occur within this place? Based on Amnesia’s expression of fear and confusion, apparently not.

“Vot iz zis place? Vere am I? I demand you tell me zis instant!” whined Doctor Amnesia.

Hmm, if he was in my mind, was he subject to my rules? With a gesture he suddenly fell silent. His mouth kept flapping however. He flailed like a meat puppet with its strings cut and I found it bothersome. Black thread appeared, sewing his mouth shut with simple strokes. Blood leaked from his mouth as he silently screamed, tearing out some of the stitches.

It was a simple matter really, just imagination. All it took was a little creative thinking.

In my mind, I was king.

And the king was not in a merciful mood. My honor looked away, and my conscience was absent on the matter. This pony had forfeited any rights he had from me for compassion when he tried to give me a magical lobotomy. The thought of having myself stripped away, mind-raped and discarded, I felt terror almost greater than that of death. That fear turned into rage against the ponies that would perpetrate such a crime.

The fire within became the fire without and my talons blazed into conflagration. I saw the flames dance in the reflection of his eyes, and I quite happily smiled in response as I approached. The stallion tried to turn and run, but I would have none of that and rooted him to the spot with spikes through his hooves.

With a single burning digit, I traced a smoldering line from his flank to his neck as I walked by, almost sensually. His muffled screams were much more pleasing to hear. While I debated on how to skin him, a tiny voice inside me begged me to reconsider, to at least pause before my plunge into the abyss. Was the vengeance worth the cost to my sanity and my soul? How could I possibly justify turning into the creature before me, even for a moment?

I could find no justification, so instead of mentally flaying the pony alive, I decided if he wanted to ransack my mind, I may as well return the favor. Then I would judge him, see what punishment he deserved. Still rooted, muzzle still sewn shut, the good doctor could only widen his eyes further in horror as a talon wreathed in flame grasped his face.

A single tear slid down his cheek and sizzled to steam before it got far.

I lost myself in the stream of memories. The experience was similar to flipping through a picture book at high speed. Certain details were absorbed as my mind latched onto key points, ripping free certain segments for specific purview.

Most of the early years I discarded, pointless youthful recollections and foal play were cast aside like chaff. I really didn’t care about a mother who died of an infection or a father that taught him his mind plundering spells. Subsequent years of plying his skills for a moderately decent life in the wasteland showed how the doctor’s initial reluctance of working for nefarious groups grew to joy. Amnesia didn’t need to be big and strong himself when his skills made him useful enough that he could have anyone he wanted hurt or killed.

The wasteland required him to enjoy what he did, lest the innocent cries of dozens of victims drive him to eat a gun. His mind was a neat, organized thing, plundered mental loot categorized by the pony from which it originated. Doctor Amnesia had even probed through the mind of a griffin before me and a few zebras too. They contained nothing of any particular note, the griffin just another merc, and the zebras were villagers simply caught in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Oddly enough, Amnesia had never met Ragtag in the flesh. I searched for anything about the elusive pony, but all his orders had been relayed through others. There was definitely a deep-seated fear in the stallion regarding the gang leader though, sitting so high in his airship.

Only one thing was of particular note in Amnesia’s mind and memories, only a single tidbit that I actually slowed down enough to pull apart and examine in detail.

Amnesia had been finishing up working on a pony, setting aside several memory orbs with useful information. The catatonic stallion’s head lolled to the side, his eyes open and dead to the world, only breathing because his body didn’t know how to do anything else. The pair of guards at the door were talking to each other, ignoring the doctor as he went about his work. The subject of their conversation caught Amnesia’s interest for him to listen intently, pretending to busy himself with labeling the orbs.

“Yeah, I found one of ‘em after Feral Hoof was done with ‘em, layin’ there with his neck twisted around and Feral’s spunk still leakin’ out.”

“That’s hardcore, mate, you think he killed the kid then did it, or did it then killed ‘im?” The doctor casually floated up a scalpel and made a careful cut in his patient’s neck. The artery spurted a few red pulses in time with the brain-dead pony’s heart before petering out after a few weakening throbs.

“No idea. I hear that’s how Feral likes ‘em though. The younger the better, and pretty much always colts.”

“That’s fucking sick.” said the other guard, laughing softly.

“Yeah, but don’t say it to ‘is face, else it’ll be your ass getting hammered.” The Doctor washed his hooves as the blood drained away.

“Pfft whatever, Caltrops, I’m a mare.” Caltrops clearly did not share in his companion’s amusement.

“He don’t care. If there’s no colts, he’ll take fillies too. If he does it to somepony older it’s to teach ‘em a lesson. I’m serious. I’m only telling you this shit so you know and watch your fucking back. If he tells you to clean up the mess he leaves, you say ‘Yes, sir,’ and thank Celestia that it’s not you layin’ on the floor with your neck broke.”

“Fuck, okay, I get it alright?” The Doctor’s thoughts concerning the mare set off a brief flare of interest as I sifted through his twisted brain. Accessing his knowledge was as easy as thinking about it. I took my time, being sure to be thorough in my investigation.

I’d be a liar if I said I didn’t enjoy the power, the pleasure of having his mind and soul laid bare before me for my perusal. It was a warped joy, an evil thing, but the temptation was there, and my inhibitions were lost in the wave of euphoria. I could understand how the stallion had become drunk off this kind of interrogation.

Side by side with the mare guard, who I learned was named Succubus aptly enough, was also a little information about Feral Hoof.

Ah, now that was interesting.

It seemed as though Amnesia wasn’t the only pony under Ragtag who could rip out memories, he was just one of the best. Feral Hoof, interestingly enough, knew the spell too. I suppose it wasn’t too surprising seeing as the green stallion was a unicorn as well, if a hulking brute of a unicorn. If Amnesia wielded his memory magic like a scalpel, Feral used it like a bludgeon, more often than not extracting the needed memory along with a clump of brain matter from a shattered skull.

It was hard not to lose myself in the wealth of information, a whole pony’s life of experiences laid out for me to sample like a buffet, desires and triumphs and conquests. Within though, was opportunity. I zeroed in on the little tidbit about Succubus. A plan was hatched, and the Doctor’s usefulness had come to an end.

He was a bad pony because he was craven and had allowed himself to sink to depravity to earn his living. Amnesia had invaded my mind with the intent of giving me a magical lobotomy and then slitting my throat. Killing him wasn’t hard. I had already broken into his memories, so all I had to do was back out where my psychic self held him in a conflagrated grasp.

It was as easy as breaking his neck. The mental shock was enough to sever his higher consciousness and after that, his heart stopped receiving signals to beat.

***

The real world reasserted itself and I watched as Doctor Amnesia toppled over with blood leaking from his eyes and nose. He landed with a solid thud onto the tiles as his crimson vitae drained away. His eyes were still open and held a glimmer of the horror that had befallen him. On his muzzle was a blackened print from which curled tiny curls of smoke. The three other ponies gaped at me in silence and in my bound state I shrugged.

“I told him it was a bad idea.” I sniffed at the small trickle of blood seeping out of my own nostrils. Something felt wrong in my head and my PipBuck was flashing some warning signs around the head of the little red griffin outline. Everything seemed rather… foggy… and distant. Like I was looking through a long telescope at everything. It was hard to focus and an intense dizziness and nausea gripped me.

Electrical current arced through my muscles, causing them to cramp immediately. The shooting pain was quite significant, and nothing I couldn’t deal with. The shock brought me back around to my senses somewhat. The headache intensified by a certain magnitude, yet I regained enough faculties to suppress and execute my plan.

The distinctly erotic moans that left my beak got Feral to back away with a look of disgusted confusion.

“Oh… Why’d you stop?” I asked in a pleading tone. My sitting position made it quite clear just how my body had reacted to his attempt to torture me. There were very special switches in my brain, like circuit breakers that I could flip under extreme duress. Pain turned to pleasure, screaming joints or muscle turned to singing nerves. It was like a filter that I could enable in my brain to add euphoria to agony. The pain was still pain, it was just interpreted differently.

The lascivious leer that crossed Succubus’ muzzle let me know that I had her hooked. I was also counting on Feral’s taste in younger members of his own species to turn him off to my show. Succubus of course had no such qualms.

“Hey boss, why don’t you let me handle this one. I bet I can get the info we need out of him.” Feral Hoof mumbled something and shook his head, disgusted. The brief irony of being judged for deviance from somepony of his appetites was not lost on me. He and Caltrops exited through the door and shut it behind them.

It was just the mauve earth pony and I.

“I’ll tell you everything you want to know if we have a little fun first.” I offered suggestively. The mare licked her lips and shed her battle saddle and raider armor, taking a moment to circle me like a lion savoring a coming meal. Crop did have one item left clenched in her teeth: a short leather whip with a forked head.

She trailed the edge along my shoulders as she circled, letting the deceivingly soft end trail through my fur and feathers. A swift swat to my chest brought a gasp of pained joy from me. The mare kept her pace; delivering a leisurely smack to any exposed area that tickled her fancy. I played along perfectly; toning my moans to the exact frequency I knew would goad her on.

It excited me because I allowed it to. Because I had to survive, and be free.

The mare got more emphatic with her blows, drawing the stinging ends of it across the parts of me she had already struck, making the sensations doubly strong. Really, Succubus was rather inelegant in her work. Her strokes were frenzied and her ministrations crude. Had our positions been reversed, I could have made her flesh sing and her nerves tingle. Imagining it helped me sink further into the role.

Soon enough she bored of simply using the whip and climbed up onto the chair, straddling me. The mare grinded the warmth between her legs against me in a teasing way. I groaned and tried to shift into a better angle. She chuckled softly and nipped harshly along my shoulder, biting just hard enough to draw little point of blood. Now she was doing a little bit better in her role.

Succubus leaned back and gave me a sadistically tinged coquettish smile. She ran her gaze over the welts visible across my chest and the love wounds on my neck.

“Tell me where the treasure is, and I’ll do a lot more than this.” She emphasized her request with a lurid grind of her nethers. My claws trailed through the fur of her flanks and up her sides to cup the mare’s soft cheeks. Of course, in her narrow focus, Succubus had failed to appreciate the implications of me slipping my bonds.

At least until my thumbs, tipped with razor sharp talons found her eyes.

I felt the tips pass through the fragile ocular organs with ease. The warm jelly parted until I scraped the thin bone behind. As soon as I felt that, I retracted my thumbs, coated in a viscous mix of blood and optical fluids. With my knees I locked the mare into place and twisted her neck to the right. She screamed in blood curdling agony and her muscles locked down, stopping my motion.

Only momentarily foiled I looped my left forelimb around and caught her muzzle in the crook of my elbow for better leverage. My right talon pushed at her face to aid my twist as my back contorted painfully to accommodate my still bound legs. Tendons ripped, muscles tore, and eventually after a few seconds her vertebrae separated with an audible snap. The mare went limp, her head twisted at a grotesque angle.

I tossed her off me to slump to the floor alongside Doctor Amnesia. She wept empty tears from the ruined holes in her face. I might have felt remorse under different circumstances, but they weren’t necessary to survive. So instead I grabbed her rifled and was about to charge out of the door when a deactivated power hoof cracked me in the chest and sent me twisting to land right back in the chair.

The hulking unicorn loomed over me and I made no move to aim the rifle across my lap. The last surviving member of his entourage crouched by the dead mare and backed away.

“How ‘bout I make it real easy. Tell me what I wanna know, or I’ll kill you right now,” Threatened Feral Hoof.

“What’s the matter? Are you too scared, or have you gotten soft from fucking colts that you can’t handle me?” His hoof caught me across the beak, snapping my head to the side. My face throbbed and stars crossed my vision, but it would take more than that to put me down. “C’mon foal fucker; I know mares that hit harder.”

“You shut your fucking beak, griffin.” growled Feral Hoof. He leaned closer to me. I could smell the stink of his breath and bloody teeth.

“Oh? I know you know that memory spell too. Think you can take me? Think you can fuck my mind? I’d like to see you try stud, or is that horn of yours as limp as your dick?”

“Hold him.” Feral Hoof instructed Caltrops. Although the stallion was wary, he complied, more fearful of Feral than me just enough. I felt legs wrap around my neck and Feral’s horn glowed. I felt my nostrils blocked by his magic and had no choice but to open my mouth as I struggled to breathe against the choking grip. At that moment he floated out the glowing flask and poured the contents into my beak.

I struggled; I thrashed, and worked my limbs to the breaking point trying to disrupt the hold I was in. The moment that red liquid touched my tongue though, I felt all resistance leaving me. It was a thick, cinnamon taste. My eyes lolled in their sockets, and I strayed out of thought. My body was the only thing I was aware of, and the growing warmth in my belly.

It was so good.

A bottle of the finest vodka couldn’t equal the burning, the oh so wonderful burning in my stomach. It spread to my limbs. I felt my skin flush, my heartbeat rise, my eyes widen as I moaned aloud and my muscles slackened in the chair. It was like someone had stuffed me with six shots of Stampede laced golden vodka with an extra twist of rainbow.

I cackled in madly. It bubbled up from some part of me that should never see the light. Everything was just so funny! I couldn’t stop myself, the laughter poured through me until tears streamed down my face and I rocked uncontrollably in my restraints. Everything that was happening and had already occurred, no matter what it was struck me as hilarious.

Even as Feral’s horn glowed with the coming spell, I couldn’t help but laugh in insane glee.

***

The moment I entered the psychoplanes I knew, Feral’s mind was a rotten thing. His flesh was a diseased facade; rotten pustules throbbed among knots of mangy fur. The sickening perversions of his self manifested as visual metaphors.

That was funny, right?

I didn’t want to touch him, so repulsed was I at his appearance and the aura of filth surrounding him. He was stunned for only a moment before his mouth split in a maggot ridden grin. The stench was unreal, and a tidal wave of his lusts washed towards me.

With an instinctive gesture, I burned away his attack and I brushed against his memories.

Hundreds… There were hundreds. I glimpsed only a fraction of them. Singular deaths wormed their way into my thoughts, appearing as wispy images before my eyes. Broken and mangled, there were mostly colts, some fillies, and a few older mares and stallions, all treated to the same torture then ignoble death.

The nature of Feral Hoof’s crimes did not shake me, I had steeled myself for that and was unmoved by the manner of his atrocities. It was the detachment with which he viewed his victims. The feathery touches of his soul gave me understanding. Comprehension made it no less reprehensible.

To the unicorn, his fuck toys were less than ponies, less than alive. They barely qualified as quivering meat for his private release of violence and cravings. Apathy didn’t quite cover it, as there had to be caring for there to be apathy.

The only thing he regarded with an ounce of love, if not affection was himself, and his power hooves. There was only hate and lust.

He hated Ragtag because The Jag had more power than him. He hated Amnesia for being able to perform the spell better than him. He hated anypony who had something he wanted. He hated the ponies of Rust Town for thinking themselves above him. He hated his armor when it chaffed him. He hated the wasteland for not being his plaything.

And he hated me.

Oh how he reviled me.

He despised me because of every little slight I had dealt to him, from taking back Ravelin to spitting in his eye. Feral Hoof wanted to tear my wings off because if he couldn’t fly then no one else should. And most of all, he wanted to kill me simply because then he could gloat over my corpse.

It was not the hate, not the selfish nature of his entire being and existence, his lack of empathy or caring that damned him in my eyes, it was his last regret. And it was all about what he wished he could have done to Ravelin while she had been pregnant.

In only that brief contact I decided not to plunder his memories, no matter what information they might have held. It was not worth my corruption to stare into that abyss. The grin on his psychic self faded as he realized that I was in control.

Red hot spears of iron skewered him from the ground, impaling him and separating him into chunks of sticky gore.

Some ponies didn’t deserve the life they had been given.

Some of them just needed to burn.

***

Almost of their own volition, my talons gripped Feral’s head. Most interestingly of all, they burst into flames, torching the green unicorn’s skull. Which was of course impossible because that only happened in the psychic planes. And yet, it was happening. And it happened so fast.

The fire consumed his cranium with a hungry whoosh before disappearing, leaving it blackened and smoking. The stench of burnt meat and hair filled the room. Where my talons had been was scorched to the bone, leaving clean white outlines. Whatever that thing was that he made me drink wore off with that last burst of energy and I regained control of some of my lost faculties.

Before Feral Hoof had finished falling over, I was on the last pony. Caltrop backed away in fear, but his backside bumped against the wall of the small room. My claw snaked around to snatch my pistol from his side and push it under his chin. He shivered slightly but uttered no whimper of fear.

“Blood debt!” He cried out just in time to cause me to hesitate.

“What?” I asked, making sure I wasn’t in the path of either of his rifles. The stallion made no move to aim them at me.

“I will swear a blood debt to you, in exchange for not killing me.” I felt the temptation to squeeze the trigger then and end this pony, but now that my freedom was in my grasp, my honor and morality raised its nagging head, telling me that his death was unnecessary.

“You don’t seem to be very loyal. Why should I trust you?” Caltrops gestured to Feral’s smoking skull.

“He held my blood debt, and now that he’s dead it’s void. Only in death does the debt end. That’s how my gang works. Whoever has the most owed to them is our leader. We’re one of the old gangs, used to war with the others until Ragtag the Jag came along. Now, whenever there’s a new leader the first thing they do is swear a blood debt to Ragtag.”

A ganger with a sense of commitment? It didn’t seem plausible, but it made a twisted sort of sense. And every bit of sense out in the wasteland was very twisted.

“So what do I get?” I still held my pistol under his chin but no longer pressed it hard into his hide.

“I’ll do whatever you want unless I die, or you die. And if I kill you then th’ Debtors are bound to kill me.” I was skeptical, but willing to give him the benefit of the doubt. Caltrops didn’t seem like a cruel pony by nature, he simply followed the lifestyle that allowed him to live out in this unforgiving world.

“Take off your guns.” I instructed firmly. Caltrops shucked off his battle saddle without hesitation, taking my command as acceptance of his debt. It smacked of slavery, but not slavery. It left an odd taste in my mouth that had nothing to do with the metallic tang that lingered. He kicked his saddle into the corner and I backed off, keeping my gun trained on him.

“So, with Feral dead, who’s the leader of the Debtors?” Caltrops smiled very wide at that.

“All debts considered, it would have come down between Succubus, Wire, and I. Since Wire was in Ghoul City with Feral when you did your little rescue thing and Succubus… well…” He glanced at her broken form. “It would be me. Ragtag is gunning for you hard, griffin. I could be very useful in putting him off the trail and feeding you info.” This stallion was crafty, having come up with such a tantalizing offer in a split second under threat of immediate death.

“And what if I don’t need help with Ragtag?” Honestly, I was unimpressed with the mysterious pony thus far.

“The Jag is a lot more powerful than you think, Stable griffin. You saw Rust Town. That’s th’ only thing holdin’ him back. That’s th’ only reason every pony in a thousand miles isn’t his personal bitch. With me on your side, you stand a chance. I got no love fer the fucker, so I won’t shed a tear workin’ behind his back.”

“So, as leader, could you go get my gear and let me just walk out of this place?” There Caltrops frowned.

“Unfortunately, no. This isn’t a Debtor’s outpost, it belongs to Ragtag. The different gangs are pretty good at policin’ themselves on his behalf, eager to please and gain favor. They’d kill us both if they saw me helpin’ you.” The expression on the stallion’s muzzle made it clear what he thought of that. “He mixes us up as much as he can but still allows a little bit of feuding to keep us separate and in line. We’re too busy tryin’ to undermine each other to buck him off our backs.”

“So then you’ll have no problems with me shooting my way out, but you can’t help me either. And if I happen to get killed then you’re free of the debt.” The stallion smiled. I harrumphed and went about stripping Feral Hoof of his power hooves.

They were ugly things, long abused and never properly cleaned. The only thing spotless was the bottom plate through which the magical field was conducted, naturally obliterating any lingering debris. Still with one eye on the stallion, I set to work modifying them for my own use.

“Somehow I don’t think the ponies here will pose much of a threat to you, boss. Besides, I like to be on the winnin’ side, an’ odds are lookin’ better an’ better for you.” He spoke as I clipped, glued, and cobbled together a pair of power fists out of the four power hooves. I wasn’t sure I wanted to know what they had planned to use the Wonderglue that I had found among the torture instruments for.

“So where’s the rest of my stuff?” Caltrops shrugged as I worked.

“Should be in the armory down the hall to the left. Hey boss, I never caught your name. They were too busy cursin’ about you takin’ their hostage to mention it.”

“It’s Ghost, and you’re Caltrops. The good Doctor knew it, so now I know it.” The stallion had a twitch of fear run visibly through him. Good, he should be scared of me.

I pulled the straps tight and inspected my work. The four conducted plates had been salvageable and one pair I had put across my knuckles and the others across the back of my talons. They felt solid, and deadly in a very heartening way. Last were the power supplies and the fists crackled to life.

“Before you go,” Caltrops said as I pushed open the door. “lemme just warn ya ‘bout somethin’.” He had my attention and we locked stares. “Ragtag isn’t gonna take this lyin’ down. He’s gonna send Slaughtershy after you. You live through her, and you’ll be the first.”

“And who is Slaughtershy?” I knew the name should worry me, but it seemed rather inflated.

“The Jag’s best pet killer. All I know is that she uses guns. She doesn’t leave survivors.” That was just vague enough to be ominous. I wasn’t sure what to make of some mare gunning for me on behalf of a faceless gang overlord.

“We’ll be in touch.” I said and pushed through the door. The quiet of the hall enveloped me like a blanket. The darkness was welcoming to my steps as I softly walked through the building that may have been my grave only a few minutes before.

***

My next kill was easy. With my targeting spell and a silenced ten millimeter it was easy to place two rounds into the back of the pony’s head. The ganger dropped silently, having never even known I was there. The buck of the pistol was familiar. And I wondered for a moment at the experiences I had accrued in the wasteland for me to be so accustomed to it.

I would be a liar if I said it didn’t give me a thrill.

It made me feel alive, powerful, masterful over my own destiny. There was a certain vindictive joy in killing ponies, even if they weren’t from my Stable. There had been times when I had sat alone in my little hollow in the generator room when I had fantasized about killing. On who, how, and where. What I would do with the body afterwards. My fantasies were many and brutal.

Rifling through pockets and bags was simple with my PipBuck. The value was easily tagged for everything. I almost kicked the corpse when all I managed to find was a talonfull of mismatched bullets and a rusty pipe.

Jitters still ran through my body, making it rather hard to concentrate on walking straight. Whatever that concoction was that Feral had forced down my throat still lingered. My limbs were full of barely restrained energy. I was a finely tuned instrument of biological thread and was currently humming from being strung too tightly. The kill had sobered me slightly, but only temporarily.

The gnawing hunger in my gut and the raw flesh of my talons rubbing against the power fists did nothing to quell the flood of stimuli. My singed digits still hadn’t fully healed. Zinfandel’s burn salve had taken most of the edge off, but the layers were still red and the nerves sensitive enough to make things uncomfortable. They felt thick and responded sluggishly.

Ragtag’s outpost showed clear signs of renovation. A lot of the debris on the floor had been cleared to the sides of the hall. It didn’t seem like a very large building guessing by the amount of natural light I could see and it probably wouldn’t be too difficult to get out, but I wanted my stuff.

I had only a vague inclination of where I was going, or if it was the right direction. The little point on my PipBuck map seemed to think I was and it hadn’t led me astray yet. I was too busy watching my wrist to hear the sound of pony voices beyond the door of the armory. Rather inelegantly, I just threw the door open and looked up as four equines looked up at me from their dice game.

An odd moment passed between the five of us before in a surprised rush one of them floated up a pistol from the table and fired wildly at me. It was incredibly loud, and in reflex I snapped a few shots in return as I ducked back behind the door frame. A flood of curses and the smell of burned powder filled the air. I fired blindly around the frame of the door, emptying my magazine. The near silent tinkling of my gun sounded like baby breaths compared to the throaty roar of the two rifles that opened up.

The edge of the frame that I was sheltering behind was chewed away by the stream of screaming lead. This would be going much better if I had explosives of some variety. At least they were eager to take the fight to me rather than sensibly wait for an opening. Their rush took me rather by surprise, but I was learning just how tactically acute a ganger is.

The first one was out the door and rounding on me before I had even thought to reload. There was no time so I just dropped the gun and brought up my claws in a guard pose. As I backed away the grey stallion kept up the offensive and gave me no room as the others spilled out into the hall behind him. The pony held a long piece of wood with several rusty nails sticking out of the end. He swung it wildly, driving me back. The three behind him kept pace, shouting and jeering behind their fellow.

The earth pony made a particularly wide and clumsy swing, giving me the perfect opportunity to engage SATS and target the crude weapon. In beautifully decelerated time, my improvised power fist impacted the wooden haft just above where the pony’s mouth gripped it and discharged its payload of magical force. The kinetic energy released was enough to rip out several teeth and splinter the weapon into kindling.

He had enough time to stand there stunned for half a second before my follow up haymaker caught him squarely on the temple. His skull caved in with a soft crunch and he dropped like a ragdoll, his legs folding beneath a lifeless torso. The three remaining gangers did not share their fellow’s hesitation before death and rushed me all at once.

I blocked a double hoof kick aimed at me head only to get another set in the ribs and for a knife to find my leg. I fell to one knee and hobbled backwards trying to ward off the torrent of strikes. Pain, both blunt and sharp beset me. They beat me with furious abandonment, too close to use the long guns strapped to their sides or else I’d have been dead already.

For every blow I blocked, two more got through and my body couldn’t take much more abuse. My limbs were heavy and responded too slowly even as I turned all my attentions to defense. In a moment of adrenaline fueled clarity, I watched one stallion’s right leg lift to buck me square across the beak and aimed a punch in perfect retaliation.

His hoof connected with my power fist with the combined strength of both our limbs. The ankle of pony broke with such force that shards of bone were ejected through the ripped flesh. If it hadn’t given way, then the energy transfer would have come back into my ankle instead. However due to the added punch of my power fists I had the edge and all the potency went towards crushing his skeleton instead. He fell screaming, clutching at the blood spurting from his mangled hoof. I hardly felt a thing.

Physics are fun, and the odds were slightly more in my favor now.

These ponies, they had grown up in the wasteland, living hard, unforgiving lives. These weren’t just survivors; they were killers and thieves, dying toughing it out by their success or failure. But there was still a gap between them and me: Actual training, by a master no less. Really, Ireena had been better than me. Maybe the griffiness wasn’t quite as strong or crisp in her forms, yet faster, and able to best me in sparring again and again.

And every time, I would get back up.

Through an exertion of will, my muscles tightened to the point of cramping, tendons tensed and primed like springs. The gear and clockwork of my abdomen and legs locked together, holding my combat chassis stable. Even sliced and bleeding, my injured leg obeyed. I cut through the fog of concussion and bruised ribs and bloody sweat in my eyes.

All thoughts were obliterated, and it was just reaction. In a combat situation, to think is to be too slow. Everything has to be prepared prior. The delay between eye, mind, and limb was too much. You couldn’t just watch your opponent; you had to smell their emotions, their fear, and their anger. You had to feel the air that their bodies disturbed in your feathers and fur.

Okay, perhaps there was one snippet of conscious intrusion that came unbidden from within. It was part of the teachings of Sun Tail, the ancient griffin tactician.

‘I do not kill with my claws, I kill with my heart.’

That was how I knew the teal unicorn stallion was going to try and stab me in the chest. It was knowing what your enemy was going to do, not guessing or waiting for them to do it. The proper strikes were programmed into my muscles, the memory of going through such motions ingrained so deeply it could never be forgotten.

All I had to do was tell my body what I wanted, and it would be done.

I flowed to the right, throwing off his aim and blocking the mare from getting to me by forcing her to go around the pony with the shattered wrist writhing on the floor. Don’t watch the knife, watch him is what I told myself. I feinted a hook back left, dancing on my paws, looming over him. Hesitantly, he struck there to fend off my attack and was committed to his telekinetic lunge when my other fist impacted him squarely in the eye.

He fell back with a shout, blinded and reeling. The mare lost patience and knocked him out of the way to try and bring her battle saddle into play. The carbine on her side would fill me with holes in such tight confines so I didn’t give her the opportunity. Even in the narrow hallway there was something that I had never had before: My wings.

One flap launched me airborne out of her line of fire, spiraling with the needed force from my uninjured leg. I had enough charge left in my PipBuck to aim my kick with fastidiousness. A pony’s buck is meant for getting apples out of trees or as a defensive measure, a griffin’s lion paws are meant to maul and maim. The mare was tough though, and was recovering even before my follow through blows with powered fists finished her off, magical discharges caving in her ribs.

The stallion with the cracked eye socket was still trying to clear his vision when I finished him off with a burst of the mare’s assault rifle. Still mewling in agony, the stallion on the floor tried to lift a pistol in his mouth. He got a similar treatment of lead. I noticed a healing potion rolling from the last ganger’s hoof and scooped it up.

The purple liquid went down with great relief. It stopped the bleeding and took the edge off my battered chest and aching legs. With no alarms or shouts of anything else coming to kill me, I slumped against the wall of the hallway. The narrowness of my victory did not bear thinking about. One mistake or one lucky shot would have been the end of me.

I gave myself enough time for the hammering of my heart to slow and my breathing steady. In the company of the dead, I rose and gathered anything of theirs that could be of use to me before heading to the armory where I had so rudely interrupted their game.

There wasn’t really much as it seemed they were still in the process of unpacking a lot of basic things like weapon racks and converting the row of lockers into storage. There was the table, some crates, and the large wardrobe that held my things. Everything that had been with me in the bar seemed to be intact as I turned over my barding and bags. I guess only lieutenants like Caltrops got dibs. Good thing most of my guns, ammo and extraneous bits of gear were stowed aboard the Workhorse.

Barding, knife, tail sheath, ten millimeter clips, pistol, most of a pack of cigarettes, my deck of cards and… where was my lighter? Is it still in the bar? Did someone take it? There was a wrenching feeling in my gut that had nothing to do with my hunger. The lighter was special to me, had been ever since I had found it in the area left over from my Stable’s original construction. Oh the many things I had set aflame with it. Bittersweet nostalgia only sharpened the loss.

However, indulgence in melancholy was not a luxury I could afford at the moment. I swallowed it and addressed the immediate problem of how I was going to have a smoke.

Matches? No. Maybe a bit of gun powder? No. Light it with my pistol? No.

I flexed my claw and heard the faint electrical crackle. Well, that might just work. I played the end of one over the surface of one energized plate and a tiny fork of bright power arced along the tip and the rolled cylinder of strawberry flavored tobacco began to smolder. My first draw was a little too eager and came back out in a fit of coughing. The next was a little more measured and filled my mouth deliciously, taking a bit of the edge off my hunger.

It was time to go.

***

I sat on a low broken wall outside the ganger outpost with a contemplative cigarette and an open Sparkle-Cola. I smoked this one slowly, sipping the smoke like fine liquor. A familiar and welcome dot grew in the distance. Engine rumbling, tires crunching through the fine grit of the prewar road, the Workhorse pulled into a skidding halt. Zinfandel leaned out of the driver’s window while Hammer Horn emerged from the roof hatch, both with overjoyed looks.

Hammer got out onto the roof and looked down at the zebra.

“Ha! You owe me twenty caps. You said we’d find him killing stuff, I said he’d be sitting all cool.” He waved a triumphant hoof. The zebra rolled her eyes and flipped up a small bag of what I could only guess would be the mentioned sum.

“So now I’m the subject of betting? What have you two degraded to without me?” I retorted as I walked to the idling vehicle. “Hey, here’s one, I bet you both you two can’t go without arguing for a whole day. Fifty caps each.” I challenged with a laugh.

“Hey, we got all the way here without arguing. And you wanted to go west.” Zinfandel said defensively while I jumped up into the passenger seat.

“No, you wanted to west, I said to go south.” Hammer Horn countered. Incredulously, the banded mare turned to glare at the unicorn.

“The pony working for that… Ragtag fellow was quite effusive in west until I threatened to disintegrate him.”

“No, he didn’t spill it until I nearly crushed his head in. Then he decided to talk.” Both tried very hard to kill each other with evil stares.

“Wow, I think that was the easiest money I’ve ever made.” I poked fun at the both of them as they realized they had lost the bet in record time. “So, how did you two know that I was gone at all?”

“You left this.” Hammer floated a familiar silver lighter to me. With a barely contained caw of delight I grabbed it and flicked it open with as much wonder as I had the first time. “Seen you play with it enough to know you wouldn’t just forget it. After that it was pretty easy to find somepony who had seen you bein’ dragged outta town unconscious.”

***

“Left up there,” I instructed Zinny. She nodded and made as if to continue driving. The zebra had clearly mistaken where I had pointed. “Left… left… LEFT!” I said with increasing vigor. This portion of the wasteland had rolling hills and a few small mountains peeking out to break up the otherwise flat landscape.

“You want to go left?” She said with surprising irritation. “Okay.” With that word she turned the wheel with such force I feared we would flip. Centrifugal forces pulled me into the door as I shouted in alarm. We missed ramming into an outcropping of rocks by inches before coming to a lurching halt that nearly sent me into the windshield. My stomach was doing little flips like I had just been stunt flying.

Hammer Horn had not fared so well and dizzily fell out of the Workhorse, groaning from the ground.

“Woohoo!” I cried in excitement. “That was awesome, Zinny, I didn’t know this beast could pull a turn that fast.” I patted the dashboard affectionately.

“Nor did I.” She said with a final huff before bailing out herself.

The location my PipBuck indicated was little more than a gap in an outcropping of large boulders. There was a particularly flat slab that lay at a slanted angle hidden by a half-buried chunk of stone which accommodated an opening big enough to fit through. There was only darkness so I flicked on my Stable-Tec light and held up my forearm to illuminate the way. Hammer and Zinfandel followed behind me curiously.

There was a short tunnel and a wooden door that sort of reminded me of the exit to Stable 57. There was a little ping and my wrist-mounted computer informed me that I had found Backwater Cave. The door opened and then fell off its rusted hinges with a groan and tearing of ancient metal. Inside the cavern opened up quite a bit, steps cut into the floor down to a placid pool of water. The black silence was interrupted only by the steady gurgle of a little stream feeding the pond.

My light was just enough to brush flickering fingers across the far walls and ceiling. And across the skeleton resting brokenly on the far side of the pool. There were a few other signs of violence: Lines of bullet holes scarred the walls and a few casings still collected dust on the floor. Whatever showdown had happened, it had been a long time ago.

I moved to the bones and was relieved to find that it wasn’t a griffin. They had likely been here for a few years. There was no flesh to speak of remaining, only a few crumbling bits of leather and some metal buckles. Of interest though, was the PipBuck still attached to a desiccated limb. There was only a single audio recording and a long string of letters and numbers.

Strange voices filled the cavern as it played.

“This is getting ridiculous, why hasn’t he shown up yet? Shouldn’t he have shown up yet? He called us here didn’t he?” said a stallion.

“Some of us didn’t exactly have an easy time getting out of our Stables thank you very much.” That voice! It was my mother’s… But what was going on here? Or, what had happened? Why hadn’t she come home?

“Bah, excuses,” Replied the first utterer.

“Speak for yourself, your Stable had hydroponics. We had to hope the door opened before our food ran out in ours,” Said a rather snide voice.

“This is getting us nowhere. How do we know the call wasn’t an automated one? There was supposed to be a griffin leader for my Stable’s confirmation of the signal. It had to be passed down through the generations to get to me.” I felt my brow knit together in consternation as I tried to figure out what signal my mother meant. Her last message to my father had made it seem like it was an unplanned escape. What forces were at work here?

“How are five of us supposed to-“ Started the snide one before my mother cut him off.

“Shut up! I think that’s him.” A few seconds of tense silence passed in the recording when only a single set of hooves on stone could be heard. The final voice that rumbled forth from the tape sounded like it was coming from some forgotten depth, weighted with stone and tainted by the abyss.

“You have all been summoned here to answer the call of the Ministry of Awesome. As ordered by Ministry Mare Rainbow Dash in cooperation with Stable-Tec and its affiliates, your Stables were designated to propagate a black ops protocol in case of the event of Megaspell war and subsequent devastation. Your PipBucks have been passed down from one generation to the next in accordance with this law.

“This was deemed a necessary, albeit regrettable measure for the continued survival of the pony race.”

“So are you from Stable-Tec?” Asked the first speaker.

“No, you may consider me a direct representative of the will of the throne of Canterlot and the princesses. In their absence I assume full direct executive control over this group of operatives to wield them as I see fit.”

“To do what, exactly?” Sniped the sarcastic voice.

“The final execution of the war, of course. The enemies of Equestria are weak, and vulnerable. The zebras are ripe to be toppled at long last. Not just that, but the pegasi tribe have deserted their comrades and must be brought back into compliance. Betrayal shall not be tolerated. You are all to execute your orders with extreme prejudice.”

A moment of silence passed before the recording erupted into a garbled mess of uproar. The authoritative voice eventually shouted them all down.

“You dare question orders handed down by Luna herself!”

“I’m sorry, but what orders?!” raged Blazing Glory. “Attack a shattered nation with the six of us? Assault the pegasi? Pegasi who weren’t even alive at the time they closed the sky? This is a farce and a gross error in realistic judgment.” A few others voice their agreement.

“Your understanding is not required, only compliance.” He growled. “In a last ditch effort before the last bomb fell, it is believed that the majority of Zebra stockpiled megaspells were destroyed by a precision bombardment. There remain several silos of pony megaspells that can be called upon to exterminate the striped bastards once and for all. When that is done we will force the pegasi to reopen the clouds. With all the codes in your PipBucks this can be done. The holy will of Celestia and Luna shall be done, even in death.”

“And what then?” Challenged the first speaker. “After we turn the world back into hell, what then? There is no zebra nation left, no war. There hasn’t been for two hundred years. All that’s left is a few shattered souls trying to live. I didn’t sign up for this. Neither did my parents, or their parents, or the ones before them. So I’m out. Shoot me for all I care. But fuck y-“ A hideously loud gunshot broke the rant and made me and my companions jump.

What I had taken to simply be natural decay affecting the lonely bones was in fact a result of a massive bullet that had taken the poor soul’s skull off from the forehead up. I didn’t need any weird visions to tell me how they had met their fate.

I can guess what happened after that based on all the bullet holes in the cave, but as to who walked away from this shootout was anyone’s guess. Had my mother survived? Zealot had said there was more to it than just this. Even if the masked pony with the mysterious benefactor had found her corpse, would he have told me? His information had been accurate; this had been where the trail led after her departure from Rust Town. But where had she gone from here?

The pony who had wanted them to keep fighting the war wasn’t too surprising to me, not after meeting Hammer and Zinfandel. There would always be idiots willing to war and burn down the sky around them doing so.

My mind was working so hard and fast I didn’t even think to light a cigarette.

***

When we left the cave, there was a group of ponies inspecting the Workhorse. Several of them turned to face us. They fell in behind a pale white mare with a scar running from her temple to her jaw. There were five, all heavily armed and armored with very hostile, deadly intent. They seemed like an outfit of some sort with their matching barding. I froze in my tracks and my companions did as well.

We were all locked in that moment of indecision while I contemplated what to do. My gaze flicked to their weapons, guessing their caliber and measuring how much damage I could take. I was worried about Zinny and Hammer behind me; if they could take cover fast enough. Going straight up should draw their fire enough for my friends to get behind some rocks or back into the cave. From there we could fight back.

My pose shifted slowly, subtly, tightening in anticipation.

That’s when the mare bowed.

“Master Custard, we’ve been looking for you. Thank Celestia you are not hurt. Please come away from your captors, you’re safe now.” The four others shifted their weapons to Zinny and me pointedly.

I turned to look at Hammer. The unicorn was paralyzed with shock. He seemed almost completely detached from the situation, like he wasn’t there in his mind. And what was with the name change? Who was this pony? Answers would come later. Clearly this mare had some preconceived notion about the zebra and the griffin standing between her and her charge.

Time for improvisation.

“Oh, miss, there has been some misunderstanding.” I took a friendly, open step towards the group and all the weapons turned to me. “You see, this good fellow has had the courtesy of accompanying me on my expedition. I just so happen to be a…” I thought of Zealot and his mysterious benefactor. “Collector of rare artifacts and old world treasures.” She regarded me with some suspicion but no less fury. With a pointed shake of my PipBuck some of the others glanced to each other.

“Hammer Horn has proved to be a stalwart guard and an excellent guide. Why, he’s saved my life and it’s doubtful I would have made the progress I have without him. I’m not sure why he chose not to share his no doubt illustrious past, but I understand we all have things about our past we don’t discuss.” I gave the stallion a frosty look that made it clear we would be having a long discussion after this was over.

“Mister Ghost is an excellent employer. He hired me to umm… help with zebra translation and also drive the… err… truck. He’s taken excellent care of us.” added in Zinfandel, trying to nudge Hammer out of his stupor. The scarred mare didn’t seem like she was going to shoot us anymore at least.

“Be that as it may, I have been sent to retrieve the young master. And I’m not leaving without him.” She stomped a hoof.

“Miss, might I have a word?” It was a bit of a gamble, but before she could answer I looped an arm around the shoulders of the mare and guided her a little distance away. I spoke quietly so the others of her group couldn’t hear. A little carefully guided appeal should do the trick.

“You seem to understand duty miss…”

“Iris Bloom.” She finished.

“Iris Bloom, you’re a mare who is utterly unwavering in her duty. You pursued Custard, your charge across the Wasteland. A no doubt dangerous endeavor that you undertook without a moment’s hesitation, am I right?”

“W-well…” She looked away, her cheeks flushing in quite a fetching way even with her scar.

“Of course you did. I can tell that you’re that kind of pony. Which is exactly what I saw in Hammer as well. It’s the reason I picked him and I have yet to regret that decision. Now as a mare who understands that you must also understand how important it is to keep your word. You would never go back on your word to bring Hammer back, and I would never ask you to compromise your honor in such a way.

“But Hammer has given his word to help me, and I know that you would never ask him to go back on his oath either. So, I suggest a compromise. There are several more things that I’d like for him to help me find, but I also understand familial obligations so how about you meet us…” I looked at my PipBuck. “Here,” I indicated a nice looking patch in the middle of nowhere that was in the opposite direction of where we were heading. Iris Bloom was flustered enough by my forwardness to actually consider it.

“I… Suppose that’s not unreasonable. Just don’t keep us waiting alright? The young master has not come to harm so far, and it would be wrong of me to besmirch his reputation.”

“Quite so! All he has spoken of is being able to make his own way and prove himself. You are indeed a fair guardian, thinking not only of his safety but his future prospects! I dare say you are an example to be aspired to.” Iris shifted uncomfortable by my contact and flattery. With a few terse movements she signaled her company to depart.

Heh, ponies. Fill their heads with a bit of hot air and it’s easy to sway them.

Level Up.

Perk Gained: Fire Mind (Rank 2) – Attacking your mind isn’t just hard, it’s nigh suicidal! Any mental attack performed against you will backfire on your attacker.

Trait Gained: Addled in the Attic – Damage to your psyche and brain may have left some scars. -1 to Intelligence. Increased chance of your head being crippled.

(Author’s notes: Really guys, I’m trying to model a lot of the experiences of Ghost around my own playthroughs of Fallout (praise the gods of post Armageddon rpgs!) and also my own narrative inserts. Fallout: Tactics remains one of my very very favorites of the series (followed closely by 3 and New Vegas (and especially the expansions of Vegas (sorry 2, still love ya))) and in following Kkat’s glorious hoof steps trying to encapture that feel with a pony (or griffin) twist to it. I’ve been writing anthro or non-anthro furry stuff since I picked up the pen so this is pretty fun for me. *BLAM* Heresy!)

(Feedback! Give me feedback! Your hungry writer craves it… it even has ‘feed’ in it. What’s not to love about that?