[b]Hoover[/b]

Shelled and collapsed, the warehouse's roof was a patchwork of tarps and heavy sheets tied to close the massive hole that had formed in the massive storehouse's ceiling. But torn and frayed over the years and many of the chords dry-rotting the hole itself was coming back. And with the day growing older, so did the rain become stronger. Thunder rumbled in the distance and the sound of the heavy drops raining against the metal ceiling and old tarps was a constant drum roll. Thick rivers of water ran from the roof down to the cement floor below where it collected and pooled in craters formed decades – or centuries – ago.

Despite the roar business was as usual underneath. Throngs of ponies, ghouls, griffons, and other intelligent creatures of the north wandered the stalls and booths scattered over Hoover's market chamber. Perched atop towers made of discarded steel parts and wood mercenaries stood watch on the business below, rusting and age-worn rifles and pistols in hoof, talon, or magic.

The sounds of the market was cavernous. Echoing demands and arguments circled heavy in the air. And more often it seemed arguments over prices were clearer on the far-side of the chamber than they were next door. A phenomenon due in part to the sagging bowed roof and walls of the pre-war installation. Foals and fillies cried in protest against their mothers, quickly bored with daily grocery shopping. And the hammering of metal as ponies went about repairing traveler's and resident's broken gear.

It was all a mechanical thing. Carried on out of necessity and with hooves and horns so well trained to the practice they were a machine. Even the tongues of the merchants were well practiced and timed.

In the far corner of the market center Rusted Bits stood at a pen of Brahman. The smell of the beast in one corner was overpowering, even more so than the unwashed smell of over many hundreds of heads of ponies in one close space.

“The fuck do you mean this one is in great shape!?” Rusted shouted, half over the general noise of the market and the other in legitimate anger, “Her hooves are chipped, and she has sores on her legs! There's no way she's in great physical condition! She looks like she's been ran in this pen for far too damn long!”

“I assure you, she's in perfect shape. The sore are merely birthmar-”

“Yes, and so is my fucking cutie mark, bitch!” Rusted boomed, “No, they're not. I can tell they're clearly inflamed! And those hooves like that, what's to say they won't develop an infection on the road and I'll be forced to put her down? I'll be shit out of luck there, 'friend'.” he snarled.

“Very well, I can tell she's not to your liking.” the merchant said, backing off. He was an obviously young buck. Younger than Rusted perhaps. In an effort to look like a pre-war sales pony he dressed in a suit he obviously dug out of some ruins somewhere, gashes and deep smudges patterned the coat everywhere, showing his bright yellow fur underneath. His pale-blue mane oiled and slicked back against his head.

“L-let me show you another.” he said retreating, “This is another of my choice breeds. You'll like her, strong and only seven years old.”

Smiling nervously he planted his hooves on the back of the battered and wrinkled Brahman he had brought out to show Rusted. With a surprised “moo” it trotted hastily back into its pen. Its owner following, trotted through the thin layer of dung and straw to fetch another.

He soon came back with another two-headed overweight beast. Its thick balding hide twitched agitated at the assault of flies and its dull listless eyes stared forward as its owner pushed it gently to the pen's side. “Here!” he said proudly, “Only seven years old with plenty of life ahead of her. Strong legs, a high endurance beast. Experienced and at home to the wastela-”

“Strong my ass. Her udders look too big. Has she delivered calves!?” Rusted frowned, “Because if I have to milk it on the road then I'm going to shoot you. I'm a fucking caravaneer, not a dairy farmer for Celestia's sake. Find me another!”

The Brahmin dealer visibly sweated as he pushed the bovine away. Only the will of taking Rusted's caps was what kept him dealing with the aggressive caravaneer. But Rusted had an excuse, his head still burned with the fury of dynamite and the ambient noise of the enclosed market wasn't helping at all.

The dealer returned with another fat cow. But Rusted took one look at the two head's milky eyes and frowned. “Nothing with cataracts. Next one, dammit.” he spat.

The dealer jumped back, and turned the blind cow around and pushed it off. It predictably walked on until nearly colliding with the wall, stopping only inches from the cold wet concrete. “S-see, it can see.” the dealer said nervously. Rusted wasn't impressed. Nervously, he caught this and surrendered to getting another.

“Alright, alright.” the dealer said. His voice wavered defeatedly as he walked up to the pen's fence another Brahman. A stout, strong looking cow. Rusted's only issue he could find with it thus far was it size, it was built on the small size.

“She's only six-years old. Traveled Route 52 and East 31.”

“How'd you come across it then?” Rusted asked skeptically.

“We found her with a sackful of gear. I can only assume its owner was taken out on the road by raiders or wildlife and it escaped.”

Rusted eyed it cynically. “Six?” he asked.

“Six.” the dealer said.

“Open the mouths, I want to look at the death.” he ordered. The dealer obliged, simply surrendering at this point. Rusted leaned in, looking at the gum and teeth of the beast.

“How much are you asking for?” he asked.

“Seven-thousand caps.” the dealer replied.

“Seven-thousand sounds a bit much. She looks to be more closer to ten!” he pointed out, “Her molars are too worn.”

“Right, right. Six-thousand.” the dealer said.

“No, five-thousand.”

“Five-fifty.”

“Good enough.” Rusted puffed, “Sold.”

“Thank you sir, anything else?” the Dealer asked, tired.

“I got some more shopping around to do. Can you hold onto her for an hour?”

“I can.”

“Good.”