Keenest Sense Of Duty: Sc.05


                                            >After your introductions and setting up your room, Anon took you to the local eatery and bar.

                                            >Or ‘saloon’, you guess.

                                            >The farming families mostly dined at home, obviously, but much of the rest of the townsfolk could be seen here, if you stopped in on enough consecutive nights, so he said.

                                            >The stallion that is your new roommate declined to join you, the double shock there being that he and Anon are allowed into a place like this as all.

                                            >Special exception for you two, Anon said.

                                            >You’re not sure how you’re going to handle that stallion.

                                            >He’s suspicious of you, that much you could feel even though your empathic sixth sense is severely limited by the spell Twilight helped you devise to hide your horn, essentially sealing your magic.

                                            >But you could also sense he and Anon were close, so your gratitude to Anon for taking you in should extend to him as well.

                                            >He reminded you in a way of the courtly nobles back home, but he’s nowhere near as refined, despite a stallion’s natural predilection for social affairs.

                                            >You have not even been here a full day and you’re already encountering difficult challenges.

                                            >At least that was the type of challenge you’ve been raised to handle.

                                            >However, before you was a more pressing concern.

                                            >A challenge you’re less able to handle, for courtly life prepared you in entirely different ways…

                                            >”It’s not going to kill you.”

                                            >Anon got you some form of alcohol you’ve never seen before.

                                            >He makes it himself, apparently.

                                            >He makes a lot of nasty and noxious chemicals, you have learned, “on the side.”

                                            >Literally, in an addition to one side of the general store.

                                            >Which was your new home.

                                            >Good thing you’ve sealed your magic; a stray spark could send the whole place up.

                                            >You nudge the glass again.

                                            >Stalling for time.

                                            >How do pegasi and earth ponies drink?

                                            “I don’t know. It smells foul.”

                                            >”City folk can’t appreciate nothing.” He lifts his own glass and takes a monstrous swig, then drops it back to the table. “The burn just means it’s good.”

                                            “The… The burn?”

                                            >”Go ahead and find out.”

                                            >You take furtive glances at other patrons.

                                            >There, one is finally taking a sip.

                                            >One hoof through the loop, the other against the opposite side of the mug to keep pressure on the former.

                                            >You peer inside at the surprisingly small amount of amber liquid for the mug’s size, then at the mug’s loop.

                                            >You mimic the positioning, then press hard enough on the side you start to wonder how strong it is.

                                            >Don’t shatter the ba- the saloon’s glassware on your first day, mare!

                                            >But it is a reminder how weak you are compared to the townsfolk you’re trying to blend in with.

                                            >They’re all so strong.

                                            >Even that lanky pegasus stallion.

                                            >He tried playing it off, but you saw the cloud formation he assembled on your flight in.

                                            >Even this ape-creature next to you is no slouch. That long coat, that ‘duster’ of his, hides his physique but couldn’t mask his strength when he was moving furniture around for your new bedroom.

                                            >If you had your magic, it wouldn’t have been a problem.

                                            >But he had to do it for you, while you were almost entirely unhelpful.

                                            >How humiliating.

                                            >Yeah, that thought provokes a drink.

                                            >Finally grasping – not the mood for jokes – your mug, you raise the booze to your lips and let a little slip down your throat.

                                            >The mug hits the table much faster than it left, as you’re left sputtering and coughing

                                            >Even as you recover your breath, emotions from other patrons tickle your mind.

                                            >Mostly concern.

                                            >But next to you, bright and clear as day, is Anon’s amusement.

                                            >At least he doesn’t laugh.

                                            >Out loud.

                                            >Humiliating.

                                            >“Ah, don’t worry. You’ll get used to it.”

                                            >He claps you on your back, shaking loose another cough from your throat as your wings go wide for stability under that heavy blow.

                                            “And you make this? Willingly?”

                                            >”It’s a good source of income. A lot of demand for something this strong. I bet you’re thinking everything’s done with money around here, like in the city, but we still barter. Some of the supplies I stock for this little town are paid for with whiskey.”

                                            >He finishes off the contents of his glass – unicorn style and a size you’re more familiar with; his hands mean he doesn’t need any of the handling accommodations pegasi and earth ponies do – places his glass back down on the table, and leans back on his stool against the wall behind you.

                                            >”Besides, look around you. I want to contribute to the well-being of this town. If I can use a few tricks I picked up back home to do that, I will. Help everyone here get along a little easier.”

                                            >That, at least, is a more typical stallion attitude you’d expect. Keep the community operating smoothly.

                                            >At least the strange ‘man’ wasn’t entirely an enigma.

                                            “I think th-”

                                            >A rattling bang signals a forceful entry through the door-like flaps at the front of the saloon.

                                            >A pegasus mare stands there, off-white coat plan compared to her gold-and-pink mane and tail. The goggles atop her head are more robust than most flight goggles you’ve seen, and from her collar hangs a strange device with a small gem set into it.

                                            >You eye her up while she scans the clientele. Even with your severely reduced empathic range and resolution, you can feel she exudes a cocktail of negativity you’ve never experienced before.

                                            >Except a few of the older guards under your aunts in Canterlot, at least.

                                            “I thought Monty was the only pegasus in town.”

                                            >”Just a frequent visitor. She lives by the spring the river emerges from.”

                                            >During Anon’s answer, the mare sees you and him, then starts walking over.

                                            >You get a good glance at her seashell cutie mark when she sits down at your table across from you.

                                            >What would a mare like her be doing so far from the coast?

                                            >She tosses her head at you, but is looking at Anon.

                                            >”Who’s the cityslicker?”

                                            >You don’t let a frown find your face.

                                            >Do you really stand out that badly?

                                            >“Just blew into town. She’s staying with me awhile, going to help out with the store.”

                                            >”Took you long enough. Maybe you’ll have more time for my special orders.”

                                            >“If you got mine.”

                                            >Her face didn’t betray it, but as soon as Anon told her you were living here now, her emotions became a roil, with not a small amount of hostility towards you.

                                            >You’ve had enough training to remain stoic in the face of the assault.

                                            >Anon leans forward with one elbow on the table, raising his other arm, but the barkeep is already on her way over with another glass like yours.

                                            >With twice as much whiskey as you’d gotten, and still have not finished.

                                            >You and Anon watch in silence as she hammers the whole thing back in one go, sighing as she slams it back down on the table.

                                            >”’ts already handed off.”

                                            >She gives you the briefest glance, then squints at Anon. “The colt okay with her there?”

                                            >”He hasn’t told me otherwise.”

                                            >The mare doesn’t relax – at this point you’re not sure relaxing is something she knows how to do – but the kaleidoscope of hostility fades from her mind.

                                            >”How’s he doing? I passed by some of his cloudwork on my way in.”

                                            >”The usual. He’s resting it off.”

                                            “If you’re nearby, couldn’t you help him? It’s a lot for a stallion to do on his own.”

                                            >The mare fixes you with a glare.

                                            >You don’t let it phase you.

                                            >You’ve seen frustrated nobles with a more piercing look.

                                            >Her raw intensity may top them though.

                                            >”She don’t do clouds,” Anon says. “I should properly introduce you. This is Kissy Wings. Kissy, this is Sea-”

                                            >”They call me Bombshell.”

                                            >With that, she turns back to Anon.

                                            >None of the expected gestures of greeting or recognition.

                                            >Not even a flip of feathers in acknowledgement.

                                            >Nothing.

                                            >Obviously she can use her wings; she must have flown in.

                                            >How still and tight against her barrel she keeps them reminds you again of your aunt’s guards.

                                            >But even they know how to salute.

                                            >”Is she gonna help him?”

                                            >”She wants to learn, at least.”

                                            >Bombshell shoots you another glance. “She doesn’t know how?”

                                            >Anon shrugs, prompting Bombshell to shake her head. “Cityslickers.”

                                            “Excuse me.”

                                            >Polite, but you put an edge on it and force behind it, just like how dad commands the household guard.

                                            >When she looks at you again, it’s stripped of contempt.

                                            >Just sort of blank, now, but you can tell a shot of confusion goes through her emotional mix.

                                            >It’s not confirmation, but it’s some pretty good evidence in support of your hunch.

                                            >You can feel a confidence you hadn’t felt since arriving.

                                            >You know how to direct conversations to learn about people, that’s court life basics.

                                            “If you don’t manage weather, what is it that you do?”

                                            >After a few more moments of inspecting you, she lifts the device hanging from her neck with one hoof.

                                            >Finally one of her wings moves, the tip of her leading feather tapping the inset gem.

                                            >Tiny, faint arcs of electricity jump from it to her feather, and when she slowly pulls the feather away, the gem follows it.

                                            >Her other wing comes around them, touching the gem’s other side with its own play of sparks, and the crystal then sits suspended in mid-air between two of her feathers.

                                            >”I make these.”

                                            >It’s a thundergem, you recognize.

                                            >If you remember your education on the subject, weathermares use them to induce clouds to rain if they refuse to on their own, and with certain techniques can create lightning even if a cloud lacks enough charge.

                                            >But besides that, she’s perhaps unintentionally revealing to you how steady her wing control is.

                                            >Even the best-trained pegasi have a little wobble, because feathers are always subject to local air currents, and primaries have a lot of surface area.

                                            >A weathermare, you suspect, would be a waste of her talents; this reminded you more of martial-flavored flight teams like that your aunt’s friend is a part of, the Wonderbolts.

                                            “Your wing control is remarkable.”

                                            >”Means I don’t got enough booze in me.”

                                            >You inspect the device she carefully inserts the thundergem back into.

                                            >Some spring-loaded mechanism set on a latch, a switch to release the latch, some socket for a plug of a type you can’t immediately discern, a striker tip on an-

                                            >Oh.

                                            >It’s a detonator.

                                            >That explains the nickname.

                                            “Is that part of your job too?”

                                            >”The colt gets the water from the clouds. I get the water from under ground.”

                                            >So she’s some sort of terrestrial engineer.

                                            >Even if a pegasi’s moisture-sense would be useful for the job, you’d expect earth ponies to do that work.

                                            >But considering how remote this place is, Equestria probably doesn’t have a geomancy team assigned.

                                            >She tosses her head towards Anon. “And the big guy gets some gems too.”

                                            >”And I get her some materials she needs. Like I said, bartering.”

                                            >You eye the barkeep’s return.

                                            “You get her whiskey?”

                                            >Anon shrugs again. “And other things."

                                            >Despite her surly demeanor, you can tell that she has a connection to Anon she doesn’t share with any other patron in the saloon. Not even, despite her apparent unquenchable thirst for alcohol – there, she just downed another double in one gulp again – the barkeep.

                                            >You wonder what that could turn into.

                                            >No, this probably isn’t the best place to channel your mother.

                                            >But that much booze has got to fall into some crack in her soul otherwise unfilled.

                                            >Anon says he has a duty to use his unique talents from home to help the community.

                                            >Well you have a few unique talents of your own you can put to use.

                                            >Until you learn to help in more conventional ways, maybe you can find something to do with them.

                                            >As long as you stay subtle.

                                            >Let’s probe that a little more, shall we?

                                            >If she has a connection to Anon, maybe…

                                            “You keep mentioning Monty. The colt. He seems plenty capable, why the concern?”

                                            >Her head followed the mug halfway down to the table this time. “Promise to his sister,” she mutters into its rim.

                                            >But when her eyes shoot to you, they’re still clear.

                                            >Not like the alcohol’s had a lot of time to work, you suppose.

                                            >”And if you do anything to him, whatever city you’re from is going to get sad news delivered in a very tiny box. The big guy’s told plenty enough stories about you cityfillies.”

                                            >A note of irritation creeps into Anon’s mind, though your blunted senses prevent you from discerning why. For Bombshell’s threat, her hostility hasn’t returned to as high a degree as it first appeared.

                                            >Maybe the alcohol’s working a little bit already after all.

                                            “I’ll be careful.”

                                            >”You’ll be dead.”

                                            >Yeah, you picked up on that already.

                                            >”And on that note,” her eyes flick back and forth between you and Anon, “I don’t want to come back and find out you took advantage of the big guy.”

                                            >”Don’t worry about me,” Anon says, leaning back against the wall again, hands behind his head. “I can take care of myself.”

                                            >”I know you can. I also know you didn’t. Shoulda dealt with those Canterlot unicorns same way you deal with things out here.”

                                            >Anon winces, but doesn’t change his relaxed posture. “That would have been messy.”

                                            >Something replaced the irritation in his mind. A bit of regret, a bit of shame.

                                            >Maybe the combustible substances he makes aren’t the only reason he’s living in a town with no unicorns.

                                            >Good thing you decided to keep your wings rather than your horn.

                                            >”Hey. Cityfilly.”

                                            >Bombshell’s voice and pointed look bring you out of Anon’s heart, back into reality.

                                            >She shoots a glance down at the mug in front of you. “You gonna finish that?”