Chapter Two: Just in Time

"You learn about life by the accidents you have, over and over again."

Have I told you how much I hate violence? No? Well, I do. I mean, progress has allowed us ponies to solve our problems in a calm, intelligent manner, in a peaceful way, not via the medium of violence. I would always prefer a talk to a fight, you know? Apparently, the Wasteland had other thoughts on the matter (great, now I'm thinking of it as a living being), for the group of ponies that had appeared before us looked by no means friendly or inclined to partake in a conversation.

The three unicorns (okay, now I was pretty sure everything came in threes at this crazy place) that were now standing in our way looked rather frightening to me: each one of them was muscular, in addition to having some sort of weapon in their magical grip. The snow white stallion on the left was holding a rifle, which resembled the one I'd almost been shot with some half a day ago (with the sky covered with clouds, it was really difficult to tell day from night), his long brown mane dirty and dishevelled, creating a disgusting contrast with his pristine coat. The orange stallion in the middle was levitating a large machete, grinning, his dirty, almost black teeth resembling his mane in colour. The dark blue stallion on the right had a weapon of a different design: it looked like a metal apple... some sort of grenade, I concluded. Every other second, he tossed his purple mane aside, which, honestly, was freaking me out a little. Okay, maybe more than a little. But then again, who was I to judge?

"Hey there," the orange unicorn greeted us with an unpleasant grin on his face. I assumed that he was the leader of the three. "What'cha doin' in our domain?" Wow. And here I was, thinking that with an accent like that he didn't know the word "domain".

"Passing by," Turner hissed through his teeth, his muscles visibly tense. I really hoped he was not preparing for a battle.  'Cause, you know, violence is not the answer to all questions. Or any questions at all, if you ask me.

"Passin' by, eh?" The orange stallion let out a bark that only slightly resembled laughter and waved his machete at the blue stallion on his left. That is, on our right. 'Cause we were standing opposite them. "Can you hear it, Boom? Them's passin' by!"

The blue unicorn joined in the laughter. Only now did I notice that his cutie mark was some kind of supernova - probably something connected with explosions; hence the stupid name, I guess.

"You can't jes' go passin' by like that. Yer need t' pay," he continued, addressing us in his disgusting accent, which seemed to grow worse and worse with every passing second. Like a plague or something. I hoped it wasn't contagious.

All right, time to call upon my super-powers. That is, super-negotiation-powers. Which I totally possess. Sometimes I wonder if my special talent really is time-travelling or somepony had mistakenly given me an hourglass cutie mark: quite clearly, it should have been a... tribune? A mouth? Something connected with negotiation... A hoofshake? ...On a second thought, screw that. The hourglass looks nice.

"We are very sorry, fair travellers," I began, stepping forward, putting on my Charming And Disabling Time Lord's Smile [TM] in order to, well, charm and disable the unicorns. At least metaphorically. "But we do not have any bits... caps at the moment..." I reminded myself of the strange currency that for some reason was the main one in this Wasteland. "But I am quite sure we-"

"We aren't paying."

I blinked at stared at Turner in disbelief. Did he... Did he just say that? Knowing that we were facing three (!) armed (!!) stallions, who could easily kill us?!

I chuckled nervously, before any of our offenders could say a word. "Sorry, we need to have a word in private," I said, turning Turner (oh, that was rich!) round as I turned round as well, creating some sort of conspired mood around us. At least I hoped so.

"Are you even sane?" I hissed, looking into the pegasus' eyes, noticing off-hoofedly that they were dull blue, just like the cloud-covered sky. "They have-"

"Shut up and listen to me," he interrupted me rudely, his voice carrying so much power that I obliged instantly. "I am not sharing my caps with a bunch of raiders. So, either you stand back and let me fight or you help me fight," he concluded, turning towards the... "raiders" he called them? - leaving me no choice but to do the same.

"We have considered our options..." I began carefully, trying to buy some time for Turner to prepare for the inevitable battle. *Sigh* A Time Lord who has to buy time... isn't that just pathetic? Anyway, as I was saying, I tried to buy some time for my saviour to get ready for the fight, for I, of course, had no intention to fight. Don't get me wrong - I respect chivalry and all that stuff, but I'm not much of a fighter. What did I tell you? Make peace, not war. Or something along the lines. I continued, "And we have decided..."

"We aren't paying," Turner concluded for me, chewing on the control battle string of his battle saddle (all right, I'll be calling it just "controls" from now on) and firing a perfect shot that cracked open the skull of the white stallion with the rifle, his brains splashing out on the ground, his body collapsing, his rifle thrown away by the blow. Eww. I wrinkled my nose in disgust, stepping back and lying flat on the ground as I covered my head with my front hooves, lest I receive any damage.

Meanwhile, the orange pony charged at Turner with his machete, swinging it wildly. I watched in awe as the pegasus avoided the blow with an elegant step to the side, developing a mighty kick that shattered the unicorn's bones. I swear I could hear them crunch. He finished the raider off with a stomp of his hoof that turned the unicorn's head into a mess of gore and brains. Well, Turner was really good at turning things, I say! Yes, I find time to crack lame jokes even at times like this. Deal with it.

Behind the pegasus' back, the dark blue unicorn readied his explosive, taking aim. My eyes widened in fear as I realised what was about to happen. "Turner!" I yelled, running towards the brown stallion, mostly out of instinct. My hooves acted without corresponding with my brain. Turner turned round (not really in the mood for puns, sorry), his eyes widening when he saw the metal "apple" cross the air, flying towards him as the blue raider threw it.

I bet you've read many stories that say, "Everything became slow-motion" or something like that. For me, it wasn't so. On the other hoof, everything happened too fast. I almost reached the pegasus, turning my back at the approaching grenade. And then I bucked it. Hard.

I couldn't see anything, for I had closed my eyes (out of fear, to be honest), but I could very well hear the grenade explode. Somewhere in the distance, presumably, since I didn't feel the shockwave at all. I opened my eyes and looked at Turner, noticing that he was indeed surprised: he raised his brow, looking at me, and nodded, pointing his hoof at some point behind my back.

I slowly turned round. In the distance, I saw... something. I came closer. It looked like a pile of broken bones, and guts, and... was that liver? Or heart? Never have been into medicine. Only after a few seconds of pondering, I realised that this was all that was left of the blue unicorn. The grenade had torn him apart. It had killed him. I had killed him. Trying to save my saviour (the irony), bucking the grenade away in his direction, I had killed him.

You know, some say that when you kill a pony, you feel bad, guilt filling you from the inside. Some say you feel sad, tears in your eyes and all that stuff. I've known some ponies who would say that killing was just as easy as taking a shit, if you pardon my rough language. Most ponies say you just feel empty. Hollow. I didn't feel any of it. I mean, maybe I was so hollow that I didn't even feel hollow, if that makes any sense. The only reaction which my deed triggered was me vomiting heavily on the ground.

It was disgusting, and I should have felt disgusted, but all that the kill - my first kill - brought about was this pitiful natural reaction. I wiped my mouth with a hoof. I was a little surprised and even ashamed that I didn't feel guilty; but that's the way things were at the moment. I felt a hoof on my shoulder. I turned round.

"Never killed a pony before?" Turner asked me. There was no sympathy in his voice, no warm indulgence, no soothing calmness. If anything, his tone was bland, and cold. I wondered if he could feel any emotions. I wasn't really sure he had any.

Nevertheless, I shook my head, stretching my limbs. For some reason, they were really tense, and I made a mental note to have a good ten hours of sleep as soon as possible. Maybe a massage. If there were any masseuse in this post-apocalyptic Wasteland. Strange how my mind quickly jumped from the unpleasant topic to the more pleasant one, isn't it?

"I haven't killed anypony," I emphasised the word. "Or anybody at all. I have fought, and I have neutralised enemies. But never killed." I spoke the honest truth. I had served in the Time War, but the weapons we were armed with were trans-dimensional guns. They didn't kill; they merely neutralised the enemy, sending them to a random time and place in the endless Universe.

"Well, there's a first time for everything, isn't there?" he wondered idly, turning away from me just in time as I sent him a glare. I, for one, had wanted this particular first time to never come.

"Let's go," I said simply. Turner looked at me in surprise, turning his head towards me for a second. I could swear I saw a hint of disbelief in his eyes.

"Aren't you going to scavenge the corpses?" he asked. What. Scavenge... the corpses? As in, claim dead ponies' items?! Okay, now I knew what I was feeling. I was feeling angry. Very angry at this damn pegasus, who, as it seemed to me, had no respect for the dead.

"No," I hissed, trying to hold my anger at bay, mostly because he was my saviour and... Oh, wait a minute. I had saved his life too. Totally. "If you're that fucked up, go on. I won't stop you." Great. Now I'm swearing. What's next? Drinking myself into oblivion? Oh wait, that totally happened.

"No." Turner's voice was just as bland as it had been a minute before. "Scavenging corpses is the only rule of the Wasteland I'll never accept." With that, he began trotting away. I followed him in a moment, my anger fleeing away, replaced with a hint of admiration (at least we agreed on at least on one point) and curiosity. If I was going to survive, and I was going to survive, I had to learn those rules by heart.

"Any other rules?" I wondered nonchalantly, or at least faking nonchalance. "Of the Wasteland, I mean." I mentally scolded myself for that stupid addition. Of course, in the Wasteland there were so damn many rules to choose from! Of course, he would think I was talking about cricket or some other shit! Suddenly, I had noticed I had begun to swear more than I used to. Aw well. Not the most troubling matter, at the time.

"Rule one," he replied without stopping, me following him obediently. "You don't wanna kill, but you have to kill. To survive."

After this, he fell silent. I contemplated the fact, looking at it from different angles, and, whatever angle I chose, I could see Turner was right. You kill or you get killed, simple as that. All reasons, all questions about how I had ended up here and what-not faded into nothingness, became muddled, replaced with the new directive: remain alive.

"Rule two." My ears perked up, eager to absorb valuable information. "There's no rule two."

My face faded a little as I heard that. That was it. Survive to survive. Stay alive to kill and kill to stay alive. There was a certain dialectic beauty in this conclusion. Something reminding us all of the freedom we'd never had. But who needed freedom at such a high price? Or maybe some ponies did, after all?

We had trotted in silence for a few minutes when Turner suddenly said, "Thank you." He frowned a little, as if those two words hurt his throat coming out. "For saving me."

I blinked in surprise. Did he just talk? Like, begin a conversation? "You're welcome," I replied.

The short verbal exchange was far from a full, proper conversation. But that wasn't the thing that was troubling me. The thing that was troubling me was the simple fact that I was hungry. Honestly, after a few minutes of walking in silence that was all I could concentrate on. Yes, I'm a slave to my own stomach. Sue me.

I very seriously started to consider eating cacti, and tried to think of a way to avoid piercing my delicate tongue with the poisonous spikes (it wouldn't come as a surprise if they were radioactive, too), when a sudden, bright idea entered my mind. Well, not bright, and maybe not that sudden, but hey, I'm trying to be a good writer here!

"Turner," I said carefully, weighing each word. "Can we have a little break and have a meal?"

The brown pegasus didn't stop, his silver grey mane swaying slightly in the vernal breeze. "We don't have food."

Aah. Ever so laconic. But this time, he was wrong - I was fairly certain I had seen him pack some scorpion meat in his saddlebags some few hours ago. Meaty scorpion meat... And I wasn't even bothered by the lexical repetition this time - dealing with my hunger was far more important.

"We do," I retorted boldly. Now that we were quits, it was easier for me to talk to him. It felt as if we were on the same level, even though he was experienced in the ways of the Wasteland, while I was not; even though he was cold and emotionless, while I, despite being over nine hundred years old (yes, I'm old; laugh at me), was vigorous and quite active. I didn't know if the feeling was mutual; but at least he was replying to me! That's something, you know.

"We do," I repeated. "The scorpion meat that you have in your saddlebags, remember?"

To my surprise, Turner merely chuckled. "If you wanna get poisoned, be my guest." I blinked. "Those are radscorpion poisonous glands."

Oh. That made sense. Except it didn't. Why would he... why would we - since we were now travelling together and all - need poisonous glands?

"Why would we need those?" Yes, I'm always fast to voice my thoughts.

"Bullets," came the reply, and Turner fell silent, the sound of our hoofsteps hitting the ground being our only companion. I decided not to press the issue further: after all, I was a newbie here, while my companion was a real veteran. I mean, really! You must have seen the ease with which he evaded those attacks and the calm power that was flowing through his entire body. A real vet.

Instead, I looked up to the sky, inspecting the thick, silver cloud layer that was covering the whole semi-globe that, as far as I knew, should've been blue. At least some spots of it. This sky, however, was different: the clouds weren't exactly dark, but they looked rather... grim? If such an adjective can be used to describe clouds. I'm no writer - told ya! I couldn't exactly make out whether it was day or night, for no light pierced through the everpresent clouds. The general sombre attitude of this wasteland was only topped by the mild darkness that the cloud curtain provided.

The subject piqued my interest and, as any curious Time Lord, I resolved to enquire into the matter, my only source of information being a particular brown pegasus. He'd been round for quite a long time, I assumed, so he'd seen things.

"Turner?" I called out, hoping that the stallion would turn round at least now, being called by name directly. No such luck. He kept on walking so I decided to carry on. "It's not going to rain any time soon, what?" I faked a chuckle, because, you know, talking about weather has never been my forte. Yes, I'm British. No, I don't see any contradictions.

"The cloud curtain is permanent," Turner answered my unspoken question, instead of replying to the one I asked. Cutting to the heart of the matter? Good, I like that.

"How come?" I wasn't sure if I really wanted to know... no, screw that, I really did want to know!

A few uneasy seconds had passed before the pegasus finally replied, "The pegasi locked up the sky when the bombs fell. To protect their kin, and separate themselves from the rest of Equestria."

Wait, what? No, that actually did make sense. I mean, right, the pegasi control the weather, right? So they locked up the sky with clouds and... and that's where Turner's minute speech ceased to make any sense. To begin with, why 'they'? It should be 'us', both gramatically and logically. Fast to voice my concerns, I didn't hesitate to do so. "You're a pegasus, too. Why 'they'?"

To my deepest surprise, Turner resolved to live up to his name and turned round, facing me, a painful frown on his face. "I'm not a pegasus, not anymore." He sighed. "Not a real one, at least."

"But... You have wings?" I blinked in lack of understanding. Aah, that, ladies and gentlecolts, is a perfect example of yours faithfully being stupid. Cherish it, for such moments are rare in a Time Lord's lifespan. "You can fly!"

"Tear my wings, and then I'll fly," Turner replied in a somewhat sombre tone.

Great. Now he was speaking in riddles. Or something. I'm not really sure if that could be qualified as a riddle. If I wasn't in the middle of nowhere at the time, I'd definitely consult the dictionary. Either way, it sounded really creepy and made me want to forget any attempts of speaking on the topic. However, to my genuine astonishment, it was Turner who began the conversation, just after the path we'd been following widened a little (still nothing special to cast a glance at, apart from the sands and the cacti, of course).

"I'm an outcast," he stated in a bland tone, raising his head up to the sky, as if he were trying to pierce the cloud curtain and see his brethren. "A Dashite. One of the few who preferred the barren idleness of the Wasteland to the peaceful Enclave."

Dashite? Enclave? I felt a sudden urge to widen my vocabulary with those words, and my ken at that. "What is a Dashite? What is the Enclave?" I wondered, trotting after the stallion, whose head was now hung low grimly, instead of being up and determined.

"The Enclave is... a state that the pegasi formed when they locked up the sky. To put it simple, one does not simply leave the Enclave. Those who do..." He tapped his flank, where a scorched scar was crowning the place a cutie mark should usually be at. "They branded me an outcast just because I wanted to leave. They did allow me to leave, though. So, now I'm a pony without a special talent, without a cutie mark... A pegasus without the sky." He let out a sad chuckle. "I feel that, soon enough, I'll forget how to fly altogether."

Seeing Turner so emotional threw me into the abyss of misery and useless sympathy. I knew I couldn't do anything to help, not to mention the fact that I was having a hard time adjusting to the circumstances myself. Well, at least, it could get my mind off the thoughts about TARDIS, and how I got here, and... Oh, wait a minute. Now I'm totally thinking about it again. Damn.

Fortunately enough, my stream of consciousness was interrupted by a sudden change of scenery. As we marched on and on, the path became wider and wider, and, judging by the increasing difficulty of walking, we were walking upwards a hill. Or something. Listen, I'm no poet, and describing the scenery has neer been my strong point. Let's just say it became less... desert-y? Occasional patches of worn-out grass were crowning the ground here and there, and the cacti became pretty much non-existent. The trail led us to the top of a small mound, which we did not hesitate to climb.

As we reached the top, a picturesque scenery opened up to me: apparently, this wasn't a hill; on the contrary, we had travelled some sort of cavity, and reached the normal ground level only now. Before my eyes stood a small town, if it could be qualified as a town, of course: five crushed skyscrapers crowned the plain covered with dirty asphalt, while small huts filled it, leaving almost no space to wander about. Still, all the free space, no matter how small, was crowded with ponies - ponies of all colours and complexions.

Seeing so many equine creatures in a place so desolate sent my heart aflutter (yes, it's a word) and a wide grin made its way to my face. From what I'd gathered, this Wasteland was basically post-apocalyptic Equestria, and I had long lost hope to see so many living beings here, not to mention a whole town, albeit made almost entirely from debris, save for the skyscrapers that looked especially proud and stately in their silent grimness.

Wow. I'm really getting a grip on that 'descriptive writing' thing, aren't I?

Ahem, anyway. Turner didn't seem half as impressed as I was, and carried on, unperturbed by my awestruck gawking. I followed him post-haste as he trotted past a row of lopsided huts that crowned the edge of town, foals playing nearby cheerfully. I couldn't help but steal a glance at their happy, innocent game.

A yellow foal, presumably a colt - although it was hard to tell, given how generally dirty he was - was holding a stick in his magical grip, beads of sweat forming on his forehead and his blue mane as he concentrated on channelling the power through his little horn.  

"I'm a Steel Ranger!" he yelled in his high-pitched voice, charging at another colt, who was blue, and amber-maned. The two formed a pleasant show of colour as they wrestled each other on the ground, fighting for dominance. I smiled, passing them. They kept shouting at each other, something including "Steel Rangers" and "Raiders". Colts, what can I say? If I tell you what kind of thing I was some seven hundred years ago... Though, I didn't swear half as much. I mean, seriously! Swearing like an ex-marine sergeant at such an age? No, I fully respect Her Majesty's Navy, but... saying 'fuck' four times a sentence? Really?

Speaking of fucks, one of which, contrary to popular assumption, I did give. "Where are we going?" I asked my companion, who was heading somewhere, following a route that to me was unknown.

"The shop," was his reply. Well, I guess Turner wasn't  in his talkative mood. If he ever had such a mood, that is. Oh, wait a minute. He probably didn't. So... the shop, eh? I wondered if he was talking about a bookshop, or a sweets shop - I sure as hay wouldn't have minded one - or some other kind of shop.

As he stopped before a dirty hut, its grey concrete walls breathing with ancient dignity. Breathing, you get it? Like, you know, it's been scientifically proved that stones do indeed breathe? ...Science puns. Not everyone can get them. But then again, could concrete technically be considered a kind of stone?.. Well, the joke's on me, then.

Anyway, shopping! I love shopping, by the way. No, really. I can spend hours choosing a new tie, for example. (Because ties make the best examples.) There are just so many colours and patterns! Green ties, semi-green ties, dark green ties, light green ties, a-little-greener-that-light-green-but-lighter-than-dark-green ties - everything a gentlecolt needs in his collection!

However, as my pegasus companion opened the door, my high hopes popped like a toy balloon. The only room turned out to be a dimly lit storehouse of some sort, with the rusty metal shelves filled with weapons, ammo and goods I had never seen before. If it weren't for the counter and a bored grey unicorn behind it, who was obviously the vendor/seller/shop assistant/whatever suits your fancy, I wouldn't have guessed that this was a shop. The evident lack of price labels told me that we were going to bargain, and, well, I never was one to be good at it.

Just as we entered the building, yours faithfully closing the door conveniently, lest we be interrupted, smooth music entered my ears - my kind of music, music bound to be loved for ages. Of course I'm talking about jazz. Sweet, smooth, irresistably bawdy jazz that now took the form of Frank Sineightra's voice, with I've got you under my coat. The lyircs were familiar to me, and so was the tune: it was the music from the time I lived in Ponyville; from the time I met Sineightra in person. Funny thing is, he looked absolutely like a ponification of Frank Sinatra, can you believe it?! And sounded like him, too! Coincidences happen, what?

While I was enjoying the pleasant feeling of music penetrating my ears, Turner had begun talking to the grey unicorn, whose mane, by the way, was grey as well; but not the silver grey that usually comes side-by-side with age or experience, just the usual dull grey. Just thought you'd want to know. Apparently, something was going not so smoothly, for the vendor was shaking his head while my pegasus companion gritted his teeth in irritation.

The song ended on an upbeat note (only Sineightra was allowed to swing like that, in my view; well, maybe also John Coltrane... You get it - Coltrane! Ha!) and was replaced by... the voice. No, wait a minute. I'd better emphasise that. The Voice. Or, even better, The Voice. Celestia bless italics. The most wonderful, the deepest and smooth voice in the world... No, make that the whole Universe. It was a relatively low, raspy masculine voice, but not the kind of a-cat-run-over-with-a-truck raspy; on the contrary, the Voice carried gentle, sweet raspiness that wanted you trust the bearer of such beauty with all of your heart. Needless to say, I fell in love with the Voice immediately. ...That's not gay, right? I mean, I fell in love with the voice, not the stallion! That's not gay in the slightest! ...I think.

Good evening, ladies and gentlecolts, this is Mr New Pegas, and, believe it or not, I've got some news for you. The New Coltifornian Republic has rising concerns about the negotiations between the tribes that have been occupying Neighvada for a few dozen years already-

I didn't understand what he was talking about - The New Coltifornian Republic? Tribes? Neighvada? - but that wasn't necessary: the sound of his voice alone was enough to soothe any wounds, to heal any injuries, to invigorate and inspire. It was flowing like a slow, refined river - uphill, downhill - without any rough deviations from the calm, professional tone.

"Hey!"

Apparently, Turner was saying something, but I didn't really care: I was lost in the magnificent, radiant beauty of the voice - Mr New Pegas' voice, apparently - and nothing could make me stray from the path of fervently digging into each word. I guess that was what people called love. I idly wondered if pony-voice marriages were legal in this part of the Wasteland. If there were any laws here, that is.

"Hey, you!"

I winced, diverting my attention from the oh-so-nice news broadcast and on to Turner's not-so-nice form of addressing me. "I'd rather prefer 'Doctor', thank you very much," I mumbled as I tried to cope with the terribly difficult task of avoiding falling back into the soothing cradle of Mr New Pegas' voice.

"I need you to look after these glands while I attend to..."  Turner made a pause that only evoked interest in me; such pauses are usually meaningful and carry a lot of 'second', or even 'third' meaning to the phrase. "Some business."

Ah well. He put it that way; well, let him put it that way. While I was curious as to what that 'business' was connected to, and why in the wide world of Equestria, albeit a wasteland, he couldn't take the scorpion glands with him, I still concluded that, generally speaking, I wouldn't mind doing that, especially if it meant staying at this marvellous place for some more time and listening to The Voice. Celestia bless italics once more.

My pegasus companion trotted towards the door, his saddlebags visibly lighter without the meaty glands that were now lying on a conveniently placed bench just at my right. While the shopkeeper's face expressed mild disapproval and general irritation (I bet all of my bits that they just couldn't settle on a price. I mean, if I had any, that is...), Turner's expression was plain and unreadable as he opened the door, letting in a little... um, I guess I can't technically call it sunlight, for it wasn't sunlight. It was a poor resemblance of sunlight coming from behind the thick cloud curtain; still, it made a contrast between the inside and the outside.

I wanted to tell the pegasus about the basic concepts of politeness, like saying 'Thank you' or 'Please' - what they usually teach you in kindergarten - but decided against it. Dunno why: just... a feeling, I'd say? A premonition that it was better for me to silently nod and watch Turner leave, focusing my attention on the news broadcast again. We Time Lords have those premonitions occasionally, and, well, mostly, they turn out to be true. At least 5% of them. Because 'mostly' is a broad term. Relativity theory, what can I say?

So, I focused my attention on the news broadcast. Which, by now, had ended, replaced with a cheerful jazz instrumental. That Mr New Pegas really knew how to bring some bright contrast into the gloomy wasteland, what? Strangely enough, the music made the shop look really cosy; homely, even. The dirty counter looked nice, and all the stuff filling the rusty shelves seemed looked alluring. Among other things, I noticed some scrap metal, some kind of battery, and... a billiard ball? Yes, indeed, there it was - a black billiard ball, with a white number 8 painted on top of it. I wondered if it was some kind of fortune-telling ball. You know, like those that you shake and look at to see it answer your mental question. I never had luck with those; they would always tell me that 'the future was vague' or something along the lines. Oh well.

Anyway, the only thing that could make the atmosphere even more peaceful would be sunlight. Flickering light punctuating the shelves, falling onto them in a peculiar manner through the stained glass window... Only there was none. The cloud curtain, I reminded myself. The pegasi who had locked up the sun and stuff. Which led me to a thought... I hadn't seen a single pegasus in town, apart from Turner. And the weird looks he was receiving all around surely signified that the ponies about here weren't used to seeing pegasi either. And if the pegasi were living in safety somewhere above the clouds, why was he down here? What could possibly lead to such a decision?

"Like what you see 'ere, pardn'r?"  

I blinked, turning the old lump of clay towards the shopkeeper. That was a metaphor for 'body', by the way. The 'clay', not the 'shopkeeper'. 'Cause... The Bible and stuff? Actually, I don't think you ponies have read it. So... Moving on, I guess!

Surely, his form of addressing was more than peculiar to me. I mean, I wasn't his 'parnd'r', technically speaking. Sure, I wouldn't mind having a share in a small business like this - regular income and all of that stuff. 'Cause we Time Lords don't really get paid well. Not that we get paid at all, to think about it... I suppose we need to form a trade union of some sort. That would be easy, given I'm the last of my species. I, me, and myself - what a lovely trade union that would be! Also, I have grown to associate the phrase 'like what you see' with certain not-business-not-in-the-slightest situations, mostly involving mares. Sometimes, stallions... You know, actually, forget that one last sentence. It didn't exist. It never existed.

"Beg your pardon?" I replied, faking ignorance. That's what I'm good at. That's something I could do - fake ignorance. Sometimes I think I'm too good at it; so good that I forget that I'm actually a genius!

"I said, like the wonderful stuff I have to offer?" he asked, making me wonder how he managed to keep a Marexas form of addressing, not actually using a Marexas accent. I'm not using the politically correct term, 'Southern' because ponies don't speak that way in the South of Gallopfrey. Or anywhere but Equestria.

I took a quick glance over the 'wonderful stuff', which mostly consisted of rusty metal and bent tin cans, and raised my brow questioningly, basically saying, 'Oh really?' Or  something of the kind.

"The radio, I mean," the stallion clarified, immediately commanding my utmost attention. He certainly had an eye for potential customers, that was certain! Indeed, the wonderful box, albeit old and rusty, was music to my ears, if you pardon the lazy (and lame) pun. Most importantly, it contained the most wonderful voice in the Universe - Mr New Pegas' voice. Now, I know radios just transmit the sound, but hey, all's good in love, war and lyrical narration, what?

All right, play it cool, I told myself, faking nonchalance. For your information, I'm just as skilful at that art as I am at faking ignorance. Maybe even better; I haven't estimated. It would be nice to have some sort of device that could record the level of your skills and depict it in figures... Nah, dreams are for rookies.

So, I needed to give him a clear impression that I was not interested in buying a radio from him at all. Because I wasn't. No, actually, I was. I just wanted to get it for free. Also, the fact that I had no bits whatsoever surely hindered the possible transaction.

"Oh, you mean that piece of junk?" I wondered lazily, eyeing the Wonderful Rusty Box of Magical Voices not without a hint of envy, an emotion that I tried to hide from the shopkeeper's piercing gaze. "Yeah, it's kinda nice... I guess," I quickly added, lest my faithful vendor assume that I had any interest in barter.

The grey unicorn chuckled, levitating a stained mug to his mouth, taking a gulp of some dark brown liquid. I had no idea what that was, and I was in no mood to guess; I assumed it was some sort of alcohol, for the stallion grunted in content and slammed the mug against the table, making me wonder how in the world in didn't shatter. "Don't lie to yourself, son. You know you want this baby." He grinned, revealing a row of rotten teeth. Oh, looks like somepony doesn't know how to handle a toothbrush.

Great, now I wasn't a 'partner', but was a 'son'? Please, I'm over nine hundred years old, for buck's sake! Moreover, what did he expect? Maybe he thought I would fall onto my knees, wailing, "Oh, yes, forgive me, the wisest of all, I was blind but now I see! Just sell me this radio and take all you wish in return, inlcluding my flesh, freedom and soul!" or something of the kind? Well, he was gravely mistaken, for we Time Lords-

"Of course I want it! I just don't have any money!"

Wait, what? Who said that?! ...Don't tell me it was me. Oh Celestia it was me. Why? Why would my tongue disobey the commands of my brain? It was a clear violation of subordination! ...Dammit. My tongue had just broken the smooth plan I'd been outlining, and now I found myself at a disadvantage, having revealed not only my intention but also my lack of funds. And here I was, thinking I was smart. Still... You know what? Blame my tongue. My brain is smart. My tongue is not. Obviously, that slimy red organ is the one to blame. I mean my tongue. 'Cause it's red and slimy. ...On with the narration!

"No caps - no radio," the stallion barked, sending me a somewhat cold glare. I usually don't like those, but this one was rather justified. Not to mention that it eased my inconstancy by killing any chance of my acquiring the magical box of awesome.

After a minute of silence or so - I'm not really good at estimating time, as ironic as it may seem - I sighed, admitting my defeat. "What do you call this place, if you don't mind my asking?" Yes. Might as well make conversation. Still better than standing in place, doing nothing and waiting for Turner to return. ...I think I have just committed a pun. Again. Somepony call the Coltness World Records!

"Nuketown," the shopkeeper replied with a very-much-visible frown, paying me as little attention as possible. Oh well. I guess I was no longer important to him, being a potential customer no more. So long for high hopes.

Nuketown? "Wait a minute... It isn't like this town is centred around an atom bomb, is it?" That would be creepy. And plainly terrifying, to say the least.

He eyed me in a very are-you-stupid manner, shaking his head. "No, that would be just dumb. Where have you gotten the idea?"

Ouch. 'Gotten'. I knew it was inevitable, but to see, or, rather, hear, my long-time nemesis to strike so soon was unpleasantly evocative. Seriously. How can ponies use that long-forgotten word and feel all right with that bugs me. 'Gotten' is dead! Stick to 'got', for Celestia's sake! But I digress.

"Just crossed my mind." I shrugged. No, seriously - a town built around a nuclear explosive? That would be plainly silly. Not to mention terribly dangerous.

Aaand cue in awkward silence. Well, at least it was awkward to me. I mean, that one moment when you've just been turned down on a very peculiar offer and now you don't know what to do? You don't want to experience that one moment. Trust me. I'm The Doctor. (Punny Time Lords are punny.)

"So, you want that radio pretty badly, eh?"

I eyed the stallion's contemplating smirk, his bawdily emphatic eyes filled with false compassion. Clearly, he was just trying to get the best of me. Hell, turn me into a slave, possibly?! Now, lemme tell you something: Britons never ever ever ever ever ever shall be slaves! Add a couple of "ever"s, to your liking.

"Well," I began with caution. Always say "well" when unsure what to say. "Well"s save lives, just so you know. Here, let me ponder for a moment and try to turn it into a pun. ...No, I've got nothing. Aw well, back to the narration. "Well," I repeated, casting an estimating (and utterly love-struck) glance at the radio, then a slightly-less-estimating (and by no means love-struck) glance at the vendor. "Let's say, I am quite interested in this particular item," I said with dignity, tossing my mane slightly, so that he would know just how serious and determined I was. Time Lords. Serious business.

"I think we can arrange something." The vendor's words were smooth, even silky, and that certainly gave away the fact that her was trying to swindle me. Ha. Let him try.

"I believe this 'something' is a reasonable arrangement?" I wondered, voicing my concerns. To be honest, I didn't really have a right to argue, being completely penniless and all; only my natural Time Lord skill for barter kept me going.

"I will give you the radio in exchange for these," he pointed at the loot Turner had collected from the scorpions recently, "glands here." The stallion frowned, making me wonder if he thought that that was too cheap for a radio of such quality.

I frowned, pondering over the suggestion. On one hoof, those scorpion glands weren't mine; they were Turner's. On the other hoof...

Good evening, ladies and gentlecolts, this is Mr New Pegas, and I'm back with some music. Part of my mind wondered why he was using such a greeting, given that it wasn't evening as the radio came alive with The Voice again, but a more emphatic part of my mind could only squee in the wake of listening to some more raspy goodness. Now  some folks say I'm not real; that I'm just a recorded voice... Mr New Pegas chuckled, sending a shiver of genuine pleasure down my spine. Well, lemme tell you something. Come to the Lucky 56 and meet me in person, if you have your doubts. Now, as promised, some classics.

As Colt Stewart started rasping his Forever Young (still 20% less raspier than Mr New Pegas), I realised that, regardless of the price, I had one thing I had to accomplish: no matter what, I just had to get to that "Lucky 56", wherever it was, to meet the bearer of that rough, smooth, raspy voice. Since I had no idea where my TARDIS was, anyway. Having a goal always seemed to give my life a purpose, in some twisted way.  

What were those glands worth if I could have an infinite supply of The Voice in return?

"You've got yourself a deal." I extended my hoof, but held a proper pause. The vendor's face seemed to light up as the morning sun. "These glands for the radio..." I smiled, casting a glance at one of the shelves, where, among rubbish, lay an object that, to put it plainly, was quite appealing to me. "And these shades." Yes, the sunglasses would definitely look cool. I mean, I usually look cool by default, but a Time Lord with swell shades? That would be much cooler. How much exactly? You can do the math.

The grey stallion smirked, nodding in approval. "You know your shit well, son." Oh, really? I haven't noticed. He took the radio, turning it off, to my displeasure, and levitated the sunglasses. Those unicorns and their fancy magic. "Don't have much need for those, since there's no sun and all." He'd still have to learn that shades weren't meant for protecting one's eyes against the sun: they were meant to unleash the wearer's coolness.

If it weren't for my business-like attitude, I would've squeed in delight as the vendor took the glands, thus sealing the deal. Not only did I have awesome shades now, I could also listen to Mr New Pegas any time I wanted! A win-win situation, really.

Now, I take it you are familiar with the term "party pooper". A person described using the aforementioned term is an individual who is genuinely delighted to rain on your parade, so to speak, and tends to do so fairly often. Now, I wasn't sure if Turner was into killing all fun ten kilometres away on a daily basis, but right now he was a book-ish example of a party pooper as he entered the little shop, his expression as grim as ever, a frown on his face radiating an unpleasant chill all about the place.

"We're leaving," he barked, not even sending me a glare. Not that I minded it, of course, but a stern glare would've definitely topped up the general disgruntled impression he was leaving to a curious eye. "Get the glands."

Oh. Here come problems. I could hear them knocking at my door. How was I to explain it to him? Sorry-Turner-I-Just-Love-Mr-New-Pegas'-Voice-So-Much-That-I-Sold-Your-Stuff? Not a very good explanation, I admit. But was there anything else I could say? "Well, um, you see..." I chuckled sheepishly, attracting an expected glare from the brown pegasus. Finally, the image was complete. "I kinda exchanged them for this radio..." I tapped the magical box of wonders.  "And, well, these amazing shades." I put on the sunglasses, only to take them off immediately in the wake of Turner's glare, now improved in terms of grimness and irritated-ness. I know the right word is "irritation". But that wasn't irritation. That was sheer, pure irritated-ness.

Strangely enough, and a little disheartening, he didn't say anything. He didn't ask, "What?!" or yell at me, or anything of the kind. Instead, he turned sharply to face the vendor, whose smile had faded a little by now. All shop assistants probably had some sort of trouble-o-metres, and his was surely click-click-clicking.

"You will give me my stuff back," he said firmly, closing the distance between him and the counter. If I got it right, shit was going to get real. Very real. Top-tier real, even. "I'm not responsible for whatever trade that idiot makes." Hey! I'm no idiot! I'm a goddamn genius, with an IQ of 9001, which, as you can clearly see (if you're good with figures), is over nine thousand. Ain't that something?

Still, I knew better than to scowl at him. I didn't want to be a dead Time Lord; being alive seemed much more alluring. The vendor, on the contrary, did scowl, and quite unpleasantly at that. He shuffled, not averting his eyes. "I'm not reversing the transaction. Blame your friend."

Turner intensified his glare even more. "He's not my friend. Give me my stuff back." I winced. I thought we were friends! ...Not really. "Those glands are worth ten radios." Oh, and here I was, thinking that my estimations had been correct. Well, time to add maths to the list of the things that Time Lords are not good at. The pegasus stood his ground, firm, majestic, a little sweaty... Oh Celestia, was I getting excited?! Please don't tell me I was getting excited looking at his strong, muscular- Grrrr, brain! My worst enemy. "Or else..." he finished on an unstable note, his glare almost literally cutting the air.

The vendor squinted his eyes in disgust. "Or what?" he hissed, drawing dangerously close to my winged companion. "You would kill me?" He tapped his chest, his eyes wide and daring. "Go on! Kill me! And if my friends try to get you? Kill 'em too!" The grey unicorn suppressed a cough: it was obvious he was having trouble yelling like that. "You aren't new to wiping out entire towns, after all," he concluded grimly, in a low hiss.

Well, now I expected bloodshed. Don't get me wrong - I'm all for solving problems in a completely non-violent way, but that remark? Hell, I knew Turner wouldn't let this one slide, especially given that... it was true? Could it be true? I guess it could. Given the infinite number of parallel universes, my companion could easily be a mass-murderer in this one. Celestia, even I could be a mass-murderer in some galaxy far far away!

However, the bloodshed never came. Without as much as a twich of an eye, the brown pegasus turned towards me, pouring pure hatred all over me with his glare. I wondered if it could make me melt into a pile of goo. What a miserable death it would be, killed by a glare. Maybe I would get a Marewin Award, at least.

"You." Turner pointed his hoof at me, but I saved the remark about his action being impolite. 'Cause, well, I didn't want to be melted alive by his stern gaze. "You will repay me. By Celestia's shiny beard, you will repay me, in caps," he specified, glancing at the door. "Until then, you will be travelling with me."

Wait, what? I blinked, trying to fight my confusion. So, he was just going to drag me along? Well, that was just what I needed! Having somepony to protect me, with a wide knowledge of the Wasteland, and such strong, muscular legs, and... Let's just stop there. Anyway, that was right up my street, and if I had to pay him some bits - erm, caps - in process, then so be it!

I tried hard to suppress a grin as Turner headed towards the door. It was going to be one hell of an adventure, if I understood it correctly. And what Time Lord doesn't like some adventure? And the best thing?

Now I had a radio, packed with Mr New Pegas' soothing voice.

***

Footnote:

Level up!

New Perk: In Love With The Voice - You've totally fallen for the raspy awesomeness of Mr New Pegas. Who wouldn't, though? You gain +1 to all S.P.E.C.I.A.L. stats when the news broadcast is on.