Fallout Equestria: Little Boxes

Warning! Those here for the sadistic bastard who murdered an entire town may want to look away. The following chapter is a little sappy.

Deep, deep in Fillydelphia, under one of the thousands of bombed out buildings, a masked stallion covered in thick dark green robes sat on an extravagant command throne which was plated in blued silver, red garnets depressed into the support legs of the lounge. The wall in front of him was covered in television screens, each one with a different view of the Wasteland. Some were moving, bobbing up and down as the bugs attached to numerous Spritebots went from one point to another. Other pictures were stationary feeds, taken from the remains of the MoM Observation System.To his left, a masked mare clothed in lighter robes sat monitoring a large radio hub set, taking in calls and dishing out orders via tapping the microphone with a small metal rod which she held in her teeth. Around the room stood guards of various genders and species, including more than a few doombulls. They carried ornate bolt-action rifles and mysterious orbs full of swirling multicoloured gas on bandoliers wrapped on their flanks. All of them had the same porcelain masks their leader wore, some fashioned as snarling visages, others as simple blank masks, and every single creature in the room had a capital A in a circle as a cutie mark/glyphmark/branded into their flanks. They stood utterly still; silent as the stale wind that blew about in the chamber.

The stallion regarded the screens lazily, his hoof absent-mindedly tapping to a rythnm only he could hear. He didn't know why he still did this; he'd seen it all before. Look, over there; a raider party slaughtering a caravan headed for a town, a whirlwind of blood and gore taking up the screen in a haze of viscera. And over here; Enclave troopers launching an assault on the Dagaari Hellmouth, laser beams and plasma bolts pouring into the lines of the 200-year old necrozebrans and their legions of altered corpses, their last orders to defend the valuable complex from falling into the hands of the Old Equestrians. And there; chupacabrae swarming out of an inter-universal rift to descend upon a griffon settlement; their gold and purple armour reflecting the shots of the beleaguered villagers as their coil weapons spoke the hatred of all other life that they had developed over their 200 years of exile.

Nothing was going to happen today. Discord curse him, he was so bored. He wanted nothing more than to cause a little chaos.

But as his eyes scrolled across the screens, one of them caught his eye. In a burned out apartment building, a platoon of Red Eye’s troops fought a bunch of raiders. Very well co-ordinated raiders. The stallion saw something, and motioned for the bug to be zoomed in on that location. He saw a grey stallion with a strawberry blonde mane motion as if giving orders to the raiders surrounding him. The masked stallion’s eyes took in his scars, his cutie mark, and his eyes widened in realization. He sprung up from his seat and motioned to his guards, gesticulating at the screen with the stallion on it. The guards saluted and quickly marched out of the room.  He looked at the screen determinedly, before walking out of the room. The mare at the radio hub looked at him, concerned, before shrugging and turning back to the microphone, tapping out orders in the musty, dead language of the Anarchists.

Specs hummed a small ditty to himself as he gripped a battered paintbrush covered in a dark green paint in a hoof, slowly streaking the decorative instrument over a set of combat-weathered power armour. The Pip-Buck he had taken from the stablepony sat secured on his wrist, feeding him a steady stream of information about his health, surroundings and equipment. Currently it was broadcasting the same song that Specs hummed tunelessly to himself as he painted the armour with green stripes running down the sides of the main body and helmet. Occasionally he would stop painting, frown for a moment, before pulling out a toolkit and tweaking a set of armour or a helmet until he smiled and resumed painting. Despite his callous nature, he actually enjoyed it when things were quiet and calm, and bullets weren’t flying around like deadly horizontal hailstones. The tent flap opened and Turmoil came through the opening, whistling in admiration once he saw the work Specs had put into the armour.

“Discord’s breath, Specs, you’re a damned artist!” He quickly trotted up to the suits and looked over them, admiring the faded-out strips of paint Specs had slathered over the suits, especially a suit with swirls around the eye pieces and with a capital A surrounded by a circle painted onto the flanks.

“This one’s fantastic! It’s beautiful!” Specs smiled proudly.

“Eyep. And she’s all yours, boss. Please take care of her this time.” Turmoil turned around and smiled; not with the veneer of snide insanity he seemed to constantly wear, but a proper, genuine smile.

“I definitely will, Specs. I will.” Just then, the pip-Buck decided to draw attention to itself, and sharply ended the pre-War song that had blended into the ambient noise, replacing it with the relaxed, cool voice of a mare. DJ PON-3.

“Well hellllloooooo there Wasteland! It’s DJ-PON3, spinnin’ the tracks and makin’ the Wasteland feel goohooohooood with the power of music! But first, a little newsflash. You’d better put on your mournin’ faces for this, ‘cause this ain’t pretty.

The peaceful trading settlement of New Canterborough was hit by one of the worst raids to have ever occurred in recent history. I mean, this place was wiped out. Those raider bastards burned the village to the ground, with everypony inside of it. And thanks to a plucky, plucky mare, I know whodunnit.

"Turmoil. Damn, sayin’ that name gives me goosebumps. A pony with a sort of name like that can’t amount to any sort of good. And boy, did he do bad. Not only did he lead the raiders responsible for the massacre, he personally executed near everypony. My assistant, Homage, secured an interview with this survivor.”

Specs looked at Turmoil worryingly. A survivor? He mouthed. Turmoil simply hushed him down and continued to listen.

"Homage: Can you tell me what happened?

Typewriter: Well, this kind old stallion came into the bar. He seemed such a sweet fella. Disarmin’ smile, up an’ at ‘em attitude, you know that type. He was so nice to everypony, I think we were going to let him live in th’ town.

Homage: Except he wasn’t.

Typewriter: Yeah. Turns out it was that motherfucker Turmoil in a homebrewed disguise. He stood up and shot something bright, like a flare right into the night. And then he reloaded, pointed the gun at Funk an-an-oh Celestia...*begins crying*

Homage: Ssh, ssh. It’s alright. It’s all okay now. He’s gone.

Typewriter: His face melted. It fucking melted! An’ then-then the other raiders came in and...killed, and fucked everypony. Even the fillies. And then Turmoil marches out, smilin’, blood all over his face. He takes a flamer and burns down everything. Everything and everypony I knew, gone up in sm...*continues crying*.

... That bastard. That fucking bastard. My children, I gotta ask you to do somethin’ for me. Find Turmoil. Find ‘im and then kill ‘im. Make him pay for the good ponies of New Canterborough, who lost their lives for his sick pleasure-

OBEYCOMPLYSUBMIT

Though Specs didn’t react to the command, Turmoil fell out of his chair so fast it continued to stand. The radio broadcast continued on, heedless of the apparent panic of the pony that would have the entire Wasteland out for his blood. Specs stared at Turmoil, concerned for his friend, but Turmoil motioned to him to not do anything.

“-and amusement. When he dies, I tell ya, there’s going to be cheering in the streets. An’ Turmoil, if you’re listenin’ to this, I hope that you burn. Burn forever in Tartarus. Because justice is comin’. Comin’ for you.

Excuse me, I gotta catch my breath there for a second there. I think it’s the time to listen to some good ol’ fashioned Smile Smile Smile. Don’t you, kids? This is DJ-PON3, signing off.”

Specs moved so fast, it was as if he didn’t even move. He took his Pip-Buck and almost broke the tuning dial attempting to switch the radio off. As the bouncy carefree music stopped playing, Specs turned to Turmoil, who was sweating and shaking as if he had seen a ghost. With a chill, Specs realised he was terrified. This pony, the stuff of nightmares, was actually scared of a radio broadcast. Specs would’ve laughed at the irony of the situation if Turmoil wasn’t a quivering pile of jelly on the floor. Turmoil suddenly looked up at him.

“Did you hear that?”

“Yeah, I heard it. It was just a radio broadcast, all it means that there’s more ponies to kill.”

“Nonono, not that. I meant the command. Didn’t you hear that...that sheer noise?”

“...”Specs was starting to fear for Turmoil. Maybe he had been finally driven over the edge.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, boss. Are you alright? Want me to send for Bluebell?”

“No. No, don’t. This is something I, and I alone, have to confront. I’ll-I’ll be fine, Hard Drive. Just...”

“Just what?”

“Leave. I need to be alone. Please.” Specs looked at him worryingly from behind the gunmetal goggles that earned him his nickname.

“If you say so.” Specs turned around and walked out of the tent. When he left, Turmoil raised a forearm up to his mouth and bit deep in an attempt to prevent himself from breaking down and crying like a newborn foal. In truth, he had been expecting the DJ’s broadcast any day now. He knew, and he relished the fact that more idiotic saps with jelly for brains would come his way, seeking a challenge, and getting a bullet in return. He had also been waiting for the hidden messages to come through as well.  But when it finally arrived, that single out of place word, that insanely loud, monotone command, that hidden message in plain sight that had no right whatsoever to be there scared him so badly he was actually shaking with terror. That... filth... rushed around his skull, burning his mind as if somepony had taken a brand and imprinted it into his mind. The fact that Specs hadn’t even heard the word, coupled with the fact that they had somehow managed to infiltrate the most listened to radio station in the damn Wasteland scared him even more. Specs was one of his most trusted comrades, and if he was susceptible to the PMP...Turmoil took that thought and buried it deep, along with the command. That would never happen. Never. Specs would not, could not do such a thing. Vanilla Orchid “Specs”, the same stallion who had saved his life more times than he could count, would never, ever betray him.

The tent flap opened and suddenly an equally shell-shocked Bluebell was at his side, hugging him tightly. Turmoil welcomed the embrace, and as the floodgates holding back all his fear finally broke, he began to gently sob into her shoulder. Bluebell ran her hoof over his mane, stroking it gently as she too cried silently.

“It’s okay. It’s all right. It’s all going to be all right.” Turmoil pushed himself gently out of his marefriend’s embrace and looked at her.

“It’s not. It’s not all fucking right. You heard it as well. You heard it. You heard that fucking sound.”

“I did. And I can never thank you enough, Turmoil. We need to hear these things, these orders that...they...The Fascists... put into our minds.” Boss instinctively flinched at the mention of the name.

“The Wasteland couldn’t hear that. And now...now they’re dancing to the pipes of the Fascists, thanks to Miss marefucking PON3. I won’t be able to look at anypony the same way anymore. Damn, I-I can’t even trust my own men. For all I know they might be indoctrinated as well.” Bluebell suddenly leaned in and brushed her lips against Turmoil’s, and they kissed. Bluebell smiled at him.

“I love you. I do, I really do. I’ve been meaning to say this for quite a while. And as long as you’re here, by my side, I will never allow them the chance to get into my mind. I won’t even allow them to get a fucking glimpse at it.” Turmoil kissed her again. They sat there for a while, both of them attempting to take a hold of the word that blazed through their minds, The shaking and the tears had finally stopped, and the couple slowly got up to their hooves. The ugly command had been repressed, and though it still burned, Turmoil managed to ignore it. He looked at Bluebell, eyes glistening.

“I...thanks, Blue. I think I needed that.” Bluebell scowled.

“You have been through so much. It is a fucking miracle that you haven’t broken down and gone insane with the collective psychological damage you’ve taken. But l know that you cannot take much more of this. Your reaction to the radio broadcast has begun to make me wonder just how fragile your state of mind is. You can’t take much more. You’ll go insane.”

“I-”

“You have been living of nothing but caff injections and snack cakes for the past few days with you planning whatever genius scheme’s been conjured up in your mind. You’ll burn yourself out. You’ll go mad. Please. Slow down. If only for a few days. Please. For me.” Turmoil suddenly lost his loving demeanour, and his voice grew dark.

“You know I can’t do that. Not now.” Bluebell suddenly exploded.

“Fuck, Turmoil, look at you!” She grabbed her coltfriend by the shoulders and shook him. “Look at you, for Celestia’s sake!”

“Don-”

“Shut up! Damnit, boss, look at you! You aren’t well. You aren’t fucking well. Just fucking stop, at least for a while. Celestiadamnit, the last time I saw you like this you had an entire fucking army snapping at your heels! That time I could empathize with you, I was in exactly the same situation. But now? Nothing’s happening. Nothing’s going to happen for a while. You can afford to take a couple of days off. Slow down."Bluebell lifted the tent flap open and walked through it. Turmoil sighed. "Well, fucking brilliant. First she loves you, now she’s mad at you because she loves you! What’s next, a knife buried in your neck because she wants foals?"

OB-

"No. No! Get out! OUT! GET OUT OF MY FUCKING HEAD!" Turmoil clutched his head and gritted his teeth, his eyes wild, attempting to dispel the angry cloud of mind-warping PMP fogging up his head. He didn’t notice the sudden explosion of gunshots outside.

Earlier

“By Celestia’s succulent nipples, are we going to DO something constructive?!” the unicorn slaver yelled at the ceiling. She was sitting in the burnt remains of an old Pre-War dwelling, along with several other slavers. They were listening to an old radio; At the Gala, the song was called. A shaven-headed earth pony stallion looked at her bemusedly.

“Filly, this is the graveyard shift. ‘Bout no one but ponies like us gets put on watch duty. All we do is sit here and hope trouble comes looking for us.” The mare snorted in reply and ruffled through a saddlebag she had put down in front of her, pulling out a strip of cured meat that she chewed on noisily. Another slaver, this one a zebra, regarded her amusedly.

“Obviously you didn’t sign up for a life of standing around a fireplace, did you?”

“Shut up you Celestia damned zigger.”

“Hey, I’m only saying, monomare.”

“Shut up! Listen, PON-3’s on!”

“I wonder what she’s going to say this time,” the unicorn mare rolled her eyes knowingly.

“Listen!” At this the slavers were silent.  The zebra reached out and turned up the volume, allowing everypony to hear the broadcast clearly.

“... That bastard. That fucking bastard. My children, I gotta ask you to do somethin’ for me. Find Turmoil. Find ‘im and then kill ‘im. Make him pay for the good ponies of New Canterborough, who lost their lives for his sick pleasure- OBEY”

At this, a subtle change came over the slavers. They sat up ramrod straight immediately, their eyes focused intensly on the radio, and as one, all their ears swivelled towards the radio. At the same time, the PMP command pranced about their synapses with a metaphorical pen, daubing their nerve cells with one simple sentence:

FIND TURMOIL KILL TURMOIL FINDHIMKILLHIMFINDHIMKILLHIMFINDHIMKILL-

Co-ordinates, the GPS location of a Pip-Buck, the  leering smile of a concrete grey madbuck-

And then, three seconds later, they were back to slouching around, listening half-heartedly to that psycho mare’s rant. Eventually, it went back to music. The unicorn slaver turned to a griffon examining his talon with utmost interest.

“Yo, birdbuck, we still got those wanted files?”

“I think so. Lemme just check. You want that turmoil stallion they were talking about on the radio?”

“Yeah! How did you know!”

“I had a hunch. Ah,” the griffon clucked, and pulled out a tattered poster featuring a wildly grinning stallion. The word WANTED was stamped across his face, and only one extra word was present on the sheet. Dead.

“Says here that Red Eye wants this sap’s head on a silver platter for 10,000 bits.” Suddenly everypony was paying attention.

“10,000? That’ll keep us afloat for months! Why, what’d he do?”

“Says here treason, murder, arson, and jaywalking.”

"What the fuck's jaywalking?"

"I don't know, and I don't care; that payout can send us all on a trip to Las Pegasus!" Everypony in the room smiled at this; not many ponies got to go to the City of Sin. An earthpony grabbed a heavy machine gun, loading a belt of soft-point rounds into the rifle. He looked at the others, realisation dawning on his face.

"Wait a minute, do we even know where the hell he is? We can't exactly go hunting for him across the Wasteland." Before someone had a chance to back him up, another unicorn spoke, twiddling the dials on her Pip-Buck as she did so.

"Don't worry, colts; I know where he is." On her screen, a little blip repeatedly flashed. Everypony realised that she had somehow managed to track down the raider king. The griffon finished tying the straps on his heavy armaplas plating. Grabbing a revolver, he opened the door, grinning triumphantly.

"Come on, fillies, we've got us a king to kill."

Level Up!

New Equipment: Scavenged Power Armour. You can now equip up to 5 officers (including yourself) with Scavenged Power Armour. Though non-powered, the ablative metal plating affords a good degree of survivability.

Perk: Centre of Attention. Thanks to DJ-PON3’s broadcast, the entire Wasteland knows of you. You are now utterly Vilified by Factions with Neutral and Good Karma, and certain factions with Bad Karma. Heroes, Bounty Hunters and Steel Ranger Patrols now have a larger chance of appearing, and Bounty Hunters now carry heavy weapons.

The bright side?

There is none.

This is the Wasteland; get used to shit happening.