Fallout: Equestria - Dazed and Confused

It begins to rain. Drizzling at first, the precipitation quickly picks up into a full-fledged rainstorm. While I dislike the feeling of ice-cold needles pounding into my coat and skin, I decide to trek onward. Any alternative is better than going back into that horrid shack anyway.

Another feeling I dislike is being unarmed in the wasteland. It's a terrible sensation, realizing you can't exactly defend yourself and all; hell, that goes doubly for me, who can barely walk, what with my barely-healed legs. In a futile attempt to dull the pain, I start humming to the tune of an old song that felt relevant.

That quickly gets irritating, so I refrain from doing that any longer. I stop at a dilapidated shack down the road in order to take inventory. Luckily, my saddlebag wasn't taken while I was out. Inside, however, is just a half-eaten can of Veg 'n Beans and some leftover 9mm bullets that belong to a gun I no longer own. I sigh as I check my caps pouch, finding it depressingly nigh-empty. I decide to enter the shack, hoping that nopony either owns it or is inside.

To my luck, I find it empty. From the looks of the room I entered, it appears to be a foyer or living room of sorts, complete with a rotten wood coffee table and a sunk-in, moldy couch. I enter the next room which turns out to be a kitchen. From what I can tell, the refrigerator still works. I check inside to find some oddly-placed food items, such as a disgusting-looking fried radigator on a stick and--

I freeze as I hear the clicking of a handgun's hammer being drawn back. My head slowly turns to face my assailant, and stare into the eyes of an earth pony raider. His eyes are yellowed and his coat is mottled brown. Bangs of a blood-red mane poke out of his pony-leather pilot's cap, and his barding appears homemade and rugged as well. In his mouth is a .357 revolver that appears more rusty than the metal plates on his barding. He says something along the lines of “Don't you fucking move, or I'll blow your fucking brains out,” but it is hard to hear due to the adrenaline in my body and the fact that he's toting a gun in his mouth. I don't dare to turn around and face him as he approaches, as I'm in no condition to fight. One terrifying step after another, he comes closer and closer, crossing the rickety wooden floor an inch at a time.

Thud... Thud... Thud...

He presses the cold, corroded steel barrel of the revolver to the back of my neck, and I shut my eyes tightly in silent waiting for death. Just as he's about to fire, I hear him gasp, followed by the clang of the revolver dropping to the floor. I open my eyes and turn around to see him following soon after, a misused butcher's cleaver embedded in the back of his skull. As he slumps to the ground, another earth pony is revealed to have been standing behind him. She looks down at the corpse and grimaces, but appears grateful for the death of her captor. Her dirt- and urine-stained maroon coat gives me the impression that she was his slave... perhaps in more ways then one. I wince and reach out a hoof in an offer to remove the shackle around her hind legs. She folds her ears back and shakes her head rapidly. ...I can see why she wouldn't trust a stallion to touch her; she was likely more than just a slave to that raider. Poor mare...

I sigh, taking a seat to let my numb legs rest. Deciding to start some conversation in an attempt to ease the freed slave out of her shock, I ask her for her name. She shrinks back at first, defensively holding a hoof to her chest, but then apparently gives in and lowers her hoof. After clearing her throat a bit, she looks at me and responds in a tired voice, “My name's Hot Shot... was a sniper before I was caught by that asshole.” She points at the twitching corpse of the raider.

There are a few moments of silence, during which I begin to space off. Suddenly, she speaks up. “Speaking of which, aren't you gonna thank me or something? You were about three seconds from dead, kid.” I quickly snap to attention, forgetting the reverie I lost myself in. I flash a cheeky, embarrassed grin.

“Right, sorry... Thanks for saving me. I thought for sure I was going to get shot!” Hot Shot waves a hoof dismissively, a cool smile playing across her face.

“Don't mention it, kiddo. What's your name, anyway?” I suddenly realize I hadn't introduced myself.

“Oh, right. I'm, uh, Dusty Summers,” I reply, wanting to add, “and I have no idea who I am.” This whole 'being-unable-to-remember-anything' state is seriously starting to become aggravating...

She raises an eyebrow and asks if I'm going to loot the bastard. I then shrug and comply, going through the dead raider's belongings. I happen upon his saddlebag, which contains a few spare 9mm bullets and, to my surprise, a beat-up looking 9mm pistol. I graciously levitate it out in front of me, my cyan magic enveloping its damaged form as I examine it. The gun itself is intact, but it hardly looks viable as a weapon in its current state. It's rusty and the slide is held together with tape. While it isn't exactly top-notch, I decide to pocket it for later. Another search over the body reveals a few unopened packets of cake and a Sparkle-Cola. I offer them to Hot Shot, who smiles and accepts them with a nod of thanks before hungrily consuming the haphazard 'meal'.

Reminded of my own hunger, I reach into my saddlebag and levitate out my unfinished can of Veg 'n Beans, emptying the can into my mouth. Discarding the now empty can, I stand with a wince, the pain in my hind legs starting to return. I motion to the body. “If there's anything left, you can have it. Hell, take his barding if you need it.” She acknowledges and I leave the room as she strips the corpse of the nameless raider.

A few minutes later, I hear Hot Shot's hoofsteps entering the room. I raise my head to take a gander at the result of her pilfering. What I see can only be described as genius. The barding itself must have been much too large for her otherwise small and slender frame, so she cut off extra strips from the body armor and fashioned it into makeshift barding for her legs. I find myself blushing at how well the armor... fits her, and she glares at me for a moment before lightening up with a hearty chuckle. “It's fine if you look, just don't stare or I'll slap you.” I nod my head rapidly.

* * * *

We decide to wait out the night in the shack, due to the disorientation it brings as well as the rain. The shack has two floors, the top one having living quarters including two bedrooms, a semi-functioning toilet, and additional slave cages. The latter were, thankfully, empty when we found them. To my surprise, Hot Shot completely ignores me once we get upstairs, choosing instead to go into the first bedroom and lock herself in. I sigh and trot over to the other one, where I come upon a small mattress amongst some wooden rubble. Function over form, I guess, I think to myself before collapsing onto the bed and closing my eyes, attempting to block out the sound of the pouring rain.

* * * *

I find myself in a dream. At least... I hope it is. I'm surrounded by pitch blackness; the only things I can see within it are a few disembodied pony heads floating in the vast space. They stare at me with a look of disapproval, each one of them shaking their heads in contempt. I shrink away from their baleful gazes, feeling smaller and smaller as they bear over me dauntingly. I have no choice but to run away. As I exit the only spot of light in this infinite plane, I feel myself enveloped in solid darkness, as if I'm being frozen to the core. The heads float after me, getting ever closer, until...

My eyes fly open as I spasm on the mattress, feeling a cold sweat develop on my coat. I look down at my body, finding everything intact, if not still wounded. I sigh heavily and get on my hooves, noticing dawn slowly creeping into the sky from the only window in the room. I doubt I could possibly have pleasant sleep after that. I go to leave my bedroom and can't help but notice that Hot Shot's door is open already. Cautiously trotting over toward it, I push it farther open and... discover that she is gone. The room is empty, save for the much higher-quality bed. This must have been the Raider's bedroom.

I scan the room, detecting no other objects of interest, and decide to go downstairs. As I descend the steps, I notice that Hot Shot is not gone, but is lounging on the couch, reading an issue of Milsurp Review and humming a song I don't recognize. I smile and trot over to her, deciding to start a conversation. “You're up early,” I jokingly chide her. She shuts her magazine, stuffing it in her saddlebag. Stretching, the maroon mare slowly stands from the couch and I can't help but glance over her rather alluring figure. Before she catches me, I look away. After a yawn, she replies to my initial statement.

“Yeah... couldn't sleep. Best to be up early anyway. Wasteland waits for nopony and all that, right?” I nod. She really seems to have her wits about her; definitely a good trait to have. “So, where do you think we should head?” she asks, tilting her head as she looks to me.

I shrug. “Hell if I know, I don't even know where I am right now.”

Her violet eyes roll in their sockets as she opens the door to the outside, taking a peek around to help get her bearings. I catch myself staring at her flank unawares, snapping out of my trance. Hot Shot comes back inside, her brows furrowed in thought. “I think we're about... five miles from Old Appleloosa. At least, that's the image I'm getting here.” I nod.

“Well, should we head there?” I ask her. She looks at me like I just asked her if she enjoyed being raped.

“Are you kidding? That place is swarming with slavers! To go there would spell death for us both!”

I feel extremely frustrated. I want to tell Hot Shot about my... amnesia, I guess, would be a 'good' description for it. I just don't know if she'll believe me or not. Would she leave...?

Throwing caution to the wind, I decide to go for it. “Look, Hot Shot... I have to tell you something... I've got amnesia, for Celestia's sake. I can barely remember my own name, much less locations. Yesterday I just happened to wake up in a shack full of dead ponies not remembering where I was or how I got there. I don't exactly have time for you to judge me like this.” During my rant, she visibly shrunk away from me, appearing deeply apologetic with her ears folded back. She voices her apology and a silence makes its way into the room, finding a nice spot to settle right in between us. I am immensely grateful to have that off my chest, but I feel that I may have hurt Hot Shot with my words. To help remedy that, I apologize as well. “I'm sorry for going off on you like that... I've just had a rough night.” She nods in understanding, her muzzle reflecting her solemnity.

* * * *

In silence, we exit the shack with a few bits of food we found inside the refrigerator and head west toward New Appleloosa. This will prove to be a tricky feat, considering the fact that we will have to go around the narrow canyons the trains pass through. We begin our journey by continuing down the very same road I followed until I happened upon the slaver's shack. All is going well; we even (slightly fortunately, slightly unfortunately) find a few dead ponies who didn't look more than a day old. On their corpses we find a tin of gun-oil, which I pick up to help repair my 9mm pistol, and a mostly-intact 10mm pistol that I give to Hot Shot, along with a magazine and a half of ammunition. This reminds me to check my own ammo stores. As it turns out, I've accumulated enough shots to fill two magazines. Good enough for me.

The clouds, coupled with the rainy weather, leaves us with an unpleasant, muggy environment in which to travel. But still we go on in hopes of finding respite at New Appleloosa. Water from last night's rain sloshes around our hooves as we make our way to the canyons. Looking up to the skies, I can tell it's going to rain based upon the darkness and heaviness of the clouds themselves. How can one place rain so damn much? I look back to Hot Shot, who also appears to share my hatred for the current weather. Her expression quickly changes to one of surprise as she rushes toward me, tackling me to the ground behind a wrecked sky carriage. Before I can object, Hot Shot shoves a hoof in my mouth and shakes her head rapidly.

She gestures over to the road in front of us with the other hoof, speaking in hushed tones. “There is a band of fucking raiders right over there. You almost got spotted, you dolt.” Shit. I really need to be more careful. She releases me from her death grip as I stand. I grit my teeth, beginning to feel the fractures in my hind legs due to the medication wearing off. We need to get past these raiders, and fast. I levitate my pistol out of my saddlebag, and Hot Shot has hers at the ready, in a holster on her breast. She goes over the plan formulating in her head with me. “I'm thinking I'll distract them with gunfire while you flank them from the side and take them out. Sound good?” Not being in a place to object, I silently nod, pulling back the slide of my mediocre pistol and preparing to run out of my cover once Hot Shot draws the raiders in.

Hot Shot dashes out of cover, running to another wreckage just a bit farther up the road. She looks back at me, waiting for my signal. I give her a nod, and she nods back, bursting out of cover with her guns blazing.

One of the five raiders goes down in her first volley as she rushes up. Once I hear her swapping magazines, I charge out of cover with a wordless shout, my own pistol aimed at a pink raider mare toting a caravan shotgun. Caught in surprise, she goes down easily, slumping to the ground with two bullet holes in her chest. The rest of the raiders begin focusing on me now, and a grazing shot ricochets along my leather barding. I wince as I hit the deck, ducking behind a pile of concrete and reloading. My legs are seriously feeling the burn now. I look over to where Hot Shot is. Her face is calm and cool; she is utterly focused. I decide not to worry about her and concentrate on my own situation. I'm bound to be found momentarily, so I have to do something and fast. I spring up, firing shots at the first target I can lay my eyes and gun upon.

Turns out, a crazy-eyed white stallion was well within range. He is taken by surprise and is unable to fire his revolver in time as a shot hits him directly in the eye. He releases a bloodcurdling scream, passing out onto the ground in shock and blood loss. Three down. I turn back to Hot Shot just in time to see her tackle the fourth raider to the ground and begin pistol-whipping her in the face. The crude and blunt method of killing is surprising, giving Hot Shot's ironically steady nature. Out of the corner of my eye, I see the fifth raider, an orange stallion carrying an SMG in his mouth, slowly approaching Hot Shot, lining up his shot. “Oh, no you don't,” I say with teeth clenched, sending a volley of shots at him. He hits the floor once four shots hit their mark in his neck and chest.

I sigh and pull out my magazine as I limp over to Hot Shot, now realizing I'd been shot in the right foreleg. Adrenaline does wonders. Only two shots left. At least I figured out that the damn thing fires. I put it back in my saddlebag after replacing the magazine, walking over to my companion. Her belly and chest are coated in blood; something that looked more fitting on the raider she beat to death rather than on her. “Interesting attack back there,” I remark.

She half-grins, half-grimaces at me, replying, “I was out of ammo and didn't want to reload.” I can tell she is in pain by the half-hidden pained expression on her face, and I address it by asking if she is wounded. She frowns, nodding and pointing to her side, where a barely-noticeable stab wound, punctuated with a surprising amount of blood flow, made its mark. “Shit... Here, just sit tight and keep the wound covered. I'll see if any of the raiders had any meds on them.” Hot Shot nods and waits for my return.

Digging through the raiders' belongings is fruitful enough. I find extra ammunition for both of our pistols, as well as the shotgun and SMG from two of the dead raiders. Hot Shot calls dibs on the shotgun, so I think it logical to take the SMG for myself. It's chambered for 9mm rounds, so I empty my pistol magazines and put them into clips for my new gun. After all, it is in much better condition than my shoddy handgun. I also find enough foodstuffs and water bottles to last us the journey and then some. As I approach the last raider, however, I find that she is still breathing. With great effort, she looks up to me and mouths some words. Unable to hear them, I draw myself nearer. In a raspy, barely-audible whisper, she says, “I'm... sorry...P-please... f-finish me...” I back away as my eyes well up. I levitate my SMG out and press the barrel to the side of her head. I close my eyes, letting tears fall to the already-soaked ground as I hear her rasp, “Thank... you...”

I pull the trigger, letting a bullet lodge itself in the defenseless mare. I quietly sob to myself, taking no joy in finally receiving medication off of her body. I trudge back to Hot Shot, not caring whether she sees me crying or not. I withdraw the meds from my saddlebag, including two syringes of Med-X, a partially-expired Stimpak, and a box of Rad-X. I hold out the Stimpak and one of the Med-X needles out to her and she accepts them with a smile and a nod of thanks, injecting both near the site of the stab and visibly relaxing. The bloody wound in her skin slowly shrinks until it is completely gone. I use the other Med-X syringe in order to dull the pain in my hind legs. I exhale harshly, immediately sensing relief.

* * * *

We decide to go ahead and continue on our voyage to New Appleloosa in search of answers. We trot down the road in relative silence, punctuated by small-talk and questions from her and short answers from myself. At least it's much easier to walk, because we've still got a long trek ahead of us.