Chapters Fallout Equestria: Little Boxes
Chapter 2: More Than you can Chew
Theme Music: Boogie Man- Sid Phillips
The Canterborough Ministry of Peace hub was once a place where ponies of all shapes and sizes could go and receive medicinal care at the hands of the Ministry doctors who populated the place. It was a place where ground-breaking medicines, spells and drugs were discovered and researched. It was a place where the Ministry monitored all its activity over the entire area. It was once truly magnificent.
It is now a burnt out shell that a raider party has taken for its own.
Let me clarify something here. Raiders are the salt of the earth. They are insane psychopaths hopped out on five different drugs at a time, and will think nothing of torturing fillies to death for a laugh. Every single one deserves to die. No exceptions.
The problem is, is that raiders are like vermin; they are very, very difficult to get rid of. And especially if they are well organized and equipped, such as the ones infesting this MP hub. This particular raider band was known as Boss’s Boys, and what made them so dangerous wasn’t their numbers nor their sheer bloody-mindedness, but their leader: Boss.
Boss is something of an exception to the raider gang leader rule. Whereas most raider leaders are massive, hulking brutes that radiate authority and testosterone/oestrogen, Boss doesn’t have the physical qualities of the others. Instead, he has something far, far worse. The mind of a general. Boss is a genius when it comes to warfare and organization, and he has managed to transform this meagre group of bandits and thugs into one of the largest raider parties known to civilization. Using maps and stolen Pip-Bucks from the occasional Stablepony, he has managed to ensure that his boys have the best equipment they could find. Coupled with a military-like organization, and every Boy knowing a few more military drills than just ‘run at the enemy screaming and firing’, this has ensured that this group has a fearsome reputation that they more than live up to, as one unlucky mare was about to find out.
The heroine slowly snuck towards the large tower block, weapons raised and eyes swivelling about in their sockets. She hugged a wall for cover, slowly walking alongside it. When she came across a break, she rolled over to the other side and continued. All the time, she was filled with mind numbing terror, of what the soulless monsters that were the raiders would do to her if they caught her sneaking around their little patch of hell. But she went on, emboldened by Monkey Wrench’s words and the desperation of New Canterborough inhabitants.
She slowly progressed like this for half an hour, hugging the walls and making as little sound as she could. All the time, she could only think of the fear of the raiders, and the fear of New Canterborough. At last, she came across a courtyard. There were neither walls nor rubble that she could use to sneak about and avoid detection, and as misfortune would have it, the entrance to the building was just across the other side of the plateau of tarmac. So she galloped. She ran as hard and as fast as she could to the other side of the courtyard. All the time, fear of a sniper or a landmine was in her mind as she pelted for her life. But in the end, nothing happened, and she was the entrance. The heroine chuckled quietly at her misfounded fears, her jumping at the shadows.
On a window on the fifth floor, Marksmare saw the mare that Boss was talking about make a beeline for the front entrance. Lines thought of dropping the heroine with a single shot, but thought better of it. After all, they were much, much more fun when they were alive. She activated her microphone and spoke down it hurriedly.
“Boss, the heroine’s here! She’s all yours, sweetie. Over.”
“Marks, what have I told you about being intimate when we use these things? Over.”
“Aww, Boss, give a mare a break!”
“Gnnn.” Marksmare heard hoof strike flesh. “As soon as I deal with our unwanted guest, I want you in my office, pronto. Over and out.” The comm line switched off. Marksmare smirked and continued to target the mare’s forhead.
From a maintenance ladder, Boss saw themare attempt to break in through one of the myriad back doorsHe didn’t bother with slipping on his disguise. He levitated a small revolver and a combat-issue knife and quietly snuck over to the heroine’s concentrating form. She didn’t even notice him, too busy embroiled in the insanely frustrating task of attempting to break into an unlocked foyer. He tiptoed up to her, and watched her. Noted her curves, her coat, her cutie mark of a button, her Pip-Buck 3000 displaying him as an enemy. Boss ran his tongue over his cracked lips. She looked delicious. She’d probably taste delicious too. As the mare broke her sixth bobby pin, he decided to act, throwing his knife at the wood door directly above her head, splitting more than a few hairs. To say that the mare jumped out of her skin would’ve been an underexaggeration. She shrieked, jumped a good two feet in the air and dashed to the side, diving for cover as she pulled out her 10mm. Almost instantly, Boss fell the telltale treacle-like air of the S.A.T.S spell envelope him, and he watched the mare slowly rise up from the rubble she hid behind, pistol raised, verifying the part of his body that would take the most damage. He knew that there was nothing that he could do, and he pushed his way through the treacle-like spell, the crack of a gun impacting the dirt around him. The spell ran its course and the mare swore bodily, ducking behind the rubble as Boss fired with his revolver, smashing holes into the concrete block. Once he stopped firing, he made a mad dash for another fallen block of concrete, narrowly missing the pot-shots taken at him. As he reached the concrete cover, he opened fire again with his gun, successfully hitting the mare in the foreleg. As she cried out in pain and fell back, Boss vaulted over the concrete and made a beeline for her, throwing himself to the side as a bullet missed him-again. Bloody hell, her aim’s awful, he thought to himself. He fired again with his revolver, wounding her again. Boss ducked down, expecting a flurry of bullets, but he heard nothing. Slowly, he poked his head up. The mare was injecting herself with the tranquilizers he had given her earlier, professing that they were in fact syringes filled with Med-X. When she finished injecting the one tube she suddenly slumped and fell still, slowly moving and moaning. Knowing that she was harmless in this state, Boss walked up to her. The mare looked up at him fearfully. Boss raised a hoof.
“Nighty night.” Boss brought the hoof down onto her temple.
She was in a field full of green grass and the sky was blue and the sun was yellow as the drawing on the wall of the Stable nursery said it would be and there were her friends Blue Ribbon and Torch and they were running about and laughing and having fun and she was running and laughing with them but then the sky went dark and birds came and suddenly the field was full of brown dirt and the sky was grey and the sun was lost behind the grey and she was cold and wet and cold and cold wet cold-
The heroine jerked up, gasping for air, mane and coat wet with the irradiated water a raider had thrown on her. As she slumped back down on the chair she was tied to, she realises she was blindfolded. She couldn’t see. Suddenly, all her fears came rushing back to her in a snap, and she started bucking and shrieking for help. Suddenly, she heard hoofsteps, and then the cold force of a hoof impact into her cheek. Blood spattered the wall to the left. She felt the raider invade her space, felt rubbery fabric brush against her cheek. The raider spoke in a muffled yet snide feminine voice.
“So you’re the pathetic excuse of flesh that Boss decided to waste my tranquilizers on. Disgusting.”
The mare suddenly felt a cold needle press against her skin. The raider didn’t jam it in. She left it there. Perhaps that was worse. Suddenly the blindfold came off, and blinding light flooded her eyes. She instinctively looked away, but a hoof twisted her head and forced her to look. The raider mare spoke again.
“Now, I’m going to tell you what will happen. You are going to tell me absolutely everything. Who you are, why you’re here, your motivation for this, et cetera, et cetera. If you lie, if you omit anything from your confession, I will make it my business to slowly break you down into raw meat until either you break, or you die. I’m not picky about which one comes first. Do you understand me, or did Boss fuck you up so bad you can’t even speak?” The needle pressed even harder, and yet still it didn’t break. The heroine whimpered.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t catch that. What did you say?” The heroine began to shake. Suddenly the needle broke through her skin, and stayed there. She screamed.
“This is the Zebrican drug known as Manteca. This stuff is a potent hallucinogen, so potent that a few cc can kill. This was used by the Zebricans during the Great War as a method of torture. And if you don’t tell me everything you know, I’ll inject fifteen cubic centimetres of this...shit... directly into your jugular vein. Kapeesh?” The mare remained silent.
“Really now? How interesting.” Morphine paused for a moment, reflected. Then she injected the high octane nightmare fuel into the heroine, whom be-
-rows upon rows upon rows of hanging bodies, twitchi-
-gan to exper-
-fields of fire and fillies on them, burning and laughi-
-ience horri-
-a dead face, the jaw gone, screaming and screaming-
-fic hallucinations-
-dry skulls in a dusty valley with all the tops sawn off-
-which ended as abruptly as they had began. The heroine turned over o the side and vomited out the dish of preserved soya she had eaten earlier. Morphine put the almost full needle down and wiped it with a cloth.
“I just injected half a cubic centimetre into you. As you probably saw, it’s very potent shit.” She pressed the needle against her neck again.
“Tell me who sent you or I’ll inject double the amount this time.” That was the straw that broke the camel’s back. The heroine broke down in a food of tears. Morphine was unimpressed. Then again, she had just experienced Manteca.
“N-no! I-I’ll tell yo-you! New Canterborough. T-they sent me. They,” The mare gulped. “They needed somepony to take out you bastards.”
“So, you’re a merc.”
“A merc?” Despite what had happened to her, the heroine still found the energy to laugh. “I’m no m-merc! I did this to m-make the Wasteland better! This...world...needs good-doers like me.”
“You mean like Littlepip.”
“Y-yes! Yes. I mean t-that.”
“So you’re basically just some trumped-up pony with an idea stuck in her head. That she was another Hero.”
“This place needs Heroes. Otherwise it isn’t a p-place. It’s chaos.”
“Right. Anyway. We have all we need from you. Thanks for your time.” Morphine smiled and jammed the needle into the heroine’s neck, injecting 3 cc of hallucinogenic drugs directly into her blood. As her eyes widened to impossible lengths and she began to foam at the mouth, shrieking and moaning, Morphine’s smile finally became genuine.
“It was nice knowing you, kid.” And with that, Morphine walked out of the room.
As the soul-rending shrieks of terror behind her grew quieter and quieter, a worried Morphine ascended the ruined staircases of the MP hub. She took them two at a time, heading for the regional director’s office which Boss had repurposed into his command post. She barged through the doors and was greeted by her comrades.
“You know, there’s a buzzer on the side. You could, you know, use that.” A lime green stallion with fire-red hair and thick black goggles teased her. Specs. Resident technophile and sadist. He appeared to be wearing the now dead heroine’s Pip-Buck, fiddling with it as he did so. Morphine ignored him and marched up the large ovular table that dominated the room. Boss sat at the head of it.
“She talked. Manteca’s potent shit. Said New Canterborough sent her.”
“What? That backwater? They couldn’t afford to pay even some shit bitch merc like her!”
“That’s the thing. They didn’t pay her. Nor did they send one of their own.” Boss was confused at that.
“So then why would someone like her, a simple Stablepony fresh out of whatever hole in the ground produced her, attack us, a group of bloody vicious killers? It doesn’t make sense!”
“She said that she volunteered out of the good in her heart. Said she’s an aspiring Hero. Well, before I injected her with Manteca.” Boss fell silent and appeared to brood.
“That...that’s not good. Heroes, already? I mean, we’ve just moved here!” Marksmare suddenly hugged him.
“There, there, sweetie. We’ll find a bigger, better place to call home, won’t we?” She narrowed her eyes and stared at Specs and Morphine, who nervously backed away.
“Yeah, sure we’ll find a good place! Don’t worry none about it, Boss.” Boss smiled and nudged his marefriend away.
“Yes. Yes we will. Anyway,” Boss shook his head to clear away his melancholy. “Thanks to Morphine, we now have a Raze-class target. New Canterborough.” He indicated on the map at a village a few miles northeast of where they stayed. “We’ve been doing some simple raiding of the caravans nearby, starving it. Perhaps that’s why they sent the Stablepony, I wouldn’t know. Whatever the reason, I believe it’s time to live up to our label.” He rubbed his hooves together in glee.
“New Canterborough’s ain’t gonna never forget this.”
Level Up!
Boss: Sadist:- You enjoy the pain and suffering of others. When aiming for a body part that isn’t the head or the body, you gain a +5% Critical Chance and +10% damage to all hits in those areas.
EDIT: Rewrite! Made the fight scene, the torture scene, and the command scene longer. Also made Morphine useful.
GaryGibbon again. Nothing much to say except procrastination’s a bitch. Also listen to the theme music while reading the interrogation scene. Fun. :D
Fallout Equestria: Little Boxes
Chapter 3: Funk's Foul-Up
Theme Music- Good 2 City Full by Inon Zur and Mark Morgan
Smooth Funk sat on his rocking chair outside of the Salt Lake bar and rocked it slowly back and forth. He was an old pony, but he had seen his fair share of action against the raiders that so enjoyed raiding this little community that he had decided to retire to, after an enjoyable long life spent singing at bars and casinos and breaking dozens of mares’ hearts across the Wasteland. He adjusted the sunglasses perched on his forehead and straightened out his pleated straw hat, and continued rocking the chair. He gazed out into a dark, barren Wasteland, verdant fields slaughtered by balefire and terrible magicks, but yet even in death they held a beauty of sorts. He moved in the chair and kept his vigil. The doors opened and a maid came out with a glass of whisky, which Funk gratefully accepted, the warm liqueur warming his old bones. He replaced the shot glass back on the tray and resumed his watch, noting somepony slowly walking towards the bar. As the stallion got closer, Funk saw that he also was an elderly pony, with a vivid rust-red coat. The stallion approached and sat next to Funk.
“Greetings, friend! Welcome to New Canterborough, the last stop before Opal in Four Village Ridge. You can spend some time here at the Salt Lake bar, or you can sell or buy at Penny Pincher General Store over there!” The other old-timer smiled.
“Thanks, partner. Name’s Monkey Wrench, and I’m travelling to Opal to trade some goods. I’ve been walking for a while, and you know what it’s like being old. Just have to rest for a while. I could also do with a shot o’ scotch, if this establishment here has some.”
“Why sure we do! Waitress! Another round of whisky for me and a glass of scotch for my new friend here!” The young mare smiled affectionately.
“Sure thing, Funk. Just don’t drink too much; you remember what happened last time, right?”
“Sure I do. Don’t worry about it.”
As the young mare pushed the bar’s door open and waltzed through, Smooth Funk turned to Monkey Wrench. Smooth Funk always enjoyed bombarding new folk that came to town with plenty of questions, and this old-soul wasn’t going to be an exception.
“So, where’d you come from?” Monkey Wrench hesitated, unsure of what to say, before continuing.
“New Appleloosa. Lived there for most of my childhood, but trouble reared its ugly head, so I moved to Manehattan, and started a job as a repairer and a mechanic, explaining my name. Lived there ever since.”
“Manehattan? Wow! That’s a long way from there to here!”
“Tell my hooves about it. They’re aching something fierce. Glad I got here before my legs gave way.”
“Lucky, that is. Name’s Smooth Funk. I was a singer before I moved here to enjoy some peace and quiet. That is, until the raiders got here.” Monkey Wrench sighed wearily.
“Raiders, eh? Fucking arsewipes, the lot of ‘em. A couple of parties used to swing by Manehattan every three or four years or so. Granted, they’d soon be gone, but in the meantime they’d cause as much shit as possible before they either died or left. So, tell me about these raiders of yours.”
Smooth Funk appreciated the audience and was about to speak, but he was interrupted by the waitress bumping out of the bar entrance, holding a metal tray with a glass of whisky and a glass of scotch. She placed the tray in between the old souls and smiled again before entering the Salt Lake again. Smooth Funk glowered at the door before continuing.
“As I was just about to say, there’s a bunch of raiders that call themselves Boss’s Boys that hang around the Old Canterborough ruins. They moved here and began sending in a couple of ponies a day. Each time, we’ve managed to repel them, but I fear that they’re only testing our strength. It’s a good thing we sent that mare to deal with them; just about the entire town’s hope lays on her shoulders. I hope she’s alright.”
“She’ll be fine. A mare with a good soul can easily best a stallion with a black heart.” Monkey Wrench finished drinking the scotch the bar had so thoughtfully provided and stood up. He began walking out into the street, but then suddenly stopped. He turned around to face Smooth Funk.
“It was nice meeting you, Mr. Smooth Funk. Real pleasure talking with you, and the alcohol as well was nice. Thanks.”
“Don’t you worry about it. Goodbye, and take care now!”
However, Monkey Wrench didn’t leave. Instead, he rummaged through a knapsack that he carried on his flanks and drew out an extremely odd-looking pistol. It had a very large calibre, about .30 cal, and it looked like it was built to hold some grenade of some sorts. It had a very large black cocking handle and was painted in a red paint, the colour flaking away to reveal burnished steel underneath. Monkey Wrench walked out a little bit more until the sky was directly underneath him, aimed the device at the stars, and fired a bright red shrieking star straightinto the air.
Half a mile away, Lines saw the flare arch up into the sky, illuminating the area beneath it. There was no time to lose. She turned to her squad of raiders.
“The signal’s been sent! Get the lead out of your asses and move !”
Monkey Wrench calmly reloaded the old flare gun, slipping in a new iridescent round. Behind him, Smooth Funk was freaking out. He had never seen something like that, even with all his years of experience.
“What did you just do?! What the hell was that thing?!” Monkey Wrench didn’t reply, cocking the safety off and performing what he assumed to be a safety check. Smooth Funk wouldn’t take his silence for an answer.
“Answer me, dammit! What did you just shoot up into the air?! Was it a signal? Give me an answer !”
Monkey Wrench fired the archaic signal device again, this time in Smooth Funk’s face.
Boss watched the old stallion shriek as his face melted and his fur charred with a passing disinterest. He had other things to do, pulling out a submachine gun and spraying the bar entrance with bullets, punching a hole through the same waitress that was in the middle of taking in their used glasses. As the body of the shocked mare dropped like a puppet with cut strings, Boss dived over a fence and ran for the nearest building, kicking the door open and slaughtering the couple sleeping together inside, diving behind the kitchen counter. He reloaded, waiting for other ponies to come bursting in. Sure enough, five other ponies quickly entered the house, one of them sporting a vicious looking double-barrelled shotgun which he gripped in his teeth. Despite having a massive chunk of metal in between his teeth, the pony with the shotgun spoke clear as day.
“The bastard’s in here somewhere. Spread out, find him and then kill him. We gotta get revenge for Funk and Glass!”
“It looks like we’re also gonna have to get revenge for the lovebirds.” A pony indicated at the innocent couple that Boss had perforated with bullets. The lead pony closed his eyes in frustration.
“Celestia dammit! Not the lovebirds. Now that raider fucker’s going to suffer. Alright, you know what we gotta do. So let’s do it, eh?” The other four ponies barked out affirmatives and yeses, and began searching through the house. Boss began to slowly move out of the kitchen using the counter as cover. Slow movement was the key here. If he was spotted the leading pony would perforate him with the shotgun. And that wouldn’t be good.
"Come on! Surely you’re not such pussies that you can’t run a piddling half a mile? Vamoose!” Lines barked encouragement to the raiders running by her sides. In front of them, the doomed village of New Canterborough loomed, dots of light piercing through the night, betraying their presence.
Boss pulled the knife out of the fourth pony that had come looking for him. The unicorn mare gurgled and retched blood all over his grey hoof, but he still kept it pressed tight against her mouth to prevent so much as a single squeak of noise escaping her mouth. As the victim grew still, Boss gently lowered her body to the floor. He had managed to silently kill all the other ponies, and now it was just him and the shotgunner left. He pulled out the SMG again. In front of him, the shotgunner stood. He seemed angry at his lack of contact, and muttered to himself darkly.
“Fuck it! They should’ve found him ages ago! Where is he?! Did he leave? Yes, he must have left the building. So, the only question is: where do we look now?” The shotgunner suddenly inhaled sharply as the cool barrel of a gun pressed against his skull. Boss smirked confidently.
“Try looking right behind you.”
Lines’s squad charged up the main road, mowing down all that stood before them in a hail of laser blasts and bullets. Around the village, other squads were performing the same attacks on other parts of New Canterborough, effectively closing the village in a net. None of the settlers had a chance. The lucky ones died. The unlucky ones were taken alive. It was a scene of pure and utter chaos and evil, and it was beautiful to behold, thought Boss as he stepped out of the house he was just in. In front of him, Specs’s team was busy looting the Salt Lake, executing the patrons and bartenders and abducting those they desired. Specs was about to put a round through a whimpering stallion when he saw Boss walking in their direction. The lab-coated raider quickly trotted up to his leader.
“Lines and Morphine’s teams have finished and are pulling out as we speak. There’s only this place left.”
“So the town’s empty of Boys, then?”
“Yes, it would seem so.” Specs unconsciously fired his plasma defender at the stallion, reducing his head to a fizzing green goop. Boss ignored the sight and continued the conversation.
“Very good. That means there’s only one thing left to do. Get me a flamer, Specs. Pronto.” A chunky flamethrower was quickly handed over to him, and he levitated the monstrous weapon to his right. Boss pressed the pilot flame switch and pointed the nozzle at the house he had just left, smiling his jagged shark smile.
"Say hello to Mister Yellow."
Boss pressed the gas ejection trigger.
“Morphine, status report.” Boss and his lieutenants walked through the charred remains of New Canterborough, the buildings smouldering after Boss unleashed the fury of his flamethrower on the wooden buildings of the town.
“We managed to loot a fair bit in caps, weapons, slaves and ammo. Luckily,the Boys also made it through as well. Only two casualties, and a few injuries here and there.” Boss nodded in approval. He spoke to his friends.
“Our business here is done. We’ve exacted our revenge on New Canterborough, and we shall leave this place.”
“Yes, of course, but where do we go now?”
Boss pointed a hoof at the map he levitated in front of him. The faded scrawl underneath his hoof read out a name of an abandoned military site. A very, very well defended military site.
“Thanks to our new found arsenal, we can now afford to make plans to head over there. The one place that no raider has successfully cracked open to date.” He swallowed some spit that had pooled in his gullet.
“We’re heading to Area 15." Lines's eyes widened in shock.
"Sweetie, that's insane. There's no way that we'd be able to breach the wall!"
"Exactly. Which is why we're going to take a little detour."
Level Up!
Monkey Wrench: Surprise!:- Your disguise abilities are flawless, so much so that your first three attacks as Monkey Wrench are always Sneak Attack Criticals, even if standing directly in front of your opponent.
Fcuk sleep i hope this is spacing-GG
Fallout Equestria: Little Boxes
The Steel Rangers trudged through the thick mud that had formed overnight, their eyes looking around in case a savage raider or a brutal slaver decided to take a chance with the heavily armoured soldiers and start shooting at them. Nearly all of them packed a heavy energy weapon, one of them even carrying a rare Laser Minigun. They were all bedecked in extremely heavy MES armour. They looked like they meant business. And they did. After all, a group of 15 or so Steel Rangers prepped for war walking around the Wasteland weren’t there to hand out pamphlets for a party. They were there to assassinate somepony. Brutally.
Paladin Post Code followed the tracks of the raider filth that had left the peaceful settlement of New Canterborough in flames and ruin. The augmented vision his suit provided him allowed him to see the tracks the raiders had left in the viscous dirt path leading up into the hills. He could see the campfire smoke coming from the raider fireplaces up on the summit, and he could smell the unnatural scent of burning meat. He grimaced in disgust.
“Sir, the raiders appear to be residing up on the ridge there. Permission to wipe them out?”
Post Code looked at the Knight that had just contacted him.
“No. Not yet. Wait until we are closer to our target. We’re here to perform an assassination, not an extermination. Carry on walking.”
Marksmare looked though Lightbulb’s scope for the fifth time, just to double check that she wasn’t tripping out on something bad. Again, the insanely armed and armoured forms of a Steel Ranger kill team marched towards them, MES suits gleaming in the cloud-covered sunlight. After she realised that they weren’t hallucinations, she swore. Boss walked up to her, grinning.
“What’s going on?”
“Take a look through Lightbulb here.” Boss looked through the rifle’s scope, and was rewarded with the sight of the Steel Rangers slowly making their way up the hill. His stomach dropped.
“Are those...?”
“Yup.”
“Oh, shit. Get the Boys ready. All of them!”
Post Code’s squadron walked up the hill’s slope, guns at the ready. They were nervous; you could easily see it written all over them. Post Code didn’t like it. He contacted the Knight that had PM’d him earlier.
“Knight, you now have permission to open fire on the raider camp.” Even though they were silent, the Paladin could see the wrathful joy in her stance.
“Will do, sir. Getting a target now.” She levitated her rocket launcher and aimed it at the nearest tent. She suddenly stopped. In front of them, a pony was twirling around, as if he was dancing, slowly moving towards them. As he got closer, Post Code realised who the pony was.
“Over there! It’s Boss! You, Knight! Change your target to that piece of filth ahead!”
“Yes sir! And the name’s Blossom, Ok?!” She yelled and pointed the massive rocket launcher directly at him.
"Have a nice day, you fu-aag !” A bullet suddenly ripped through her eyepiece, and she fell, her cranial fluids leaking out of the rupture in her head. Post Code yelled something, but it was lost on the massive shout given by the raider leader.
“OPEN FIRE!”
As one, the Boys that had secretly surrounded the Steel Rangers began firing all their guns at the Steel Rangers, smothering them in a blanket of metal rounds and laser bolts. They kept this up for at least a good ten seconds, before they realised one small detail. Their guns weren’t doing anything. The Steel Rangers began to walk head first into the hail of bullets and laser fire pattering off their Magically Enhanced Steel Armour like rain, firing back in return with heavy weapons and plasma bolts, scything through the Boys as a farmer would cut down wheat. Boss ducked behind a rock as a stray plasma bolt ripped through an unlucky boy, cooking him from the inside out. Marksmare crawled up to him, cradling Lightbulb in her hands. She yelled something intelligible over the hail of fire, but Boss could easily read what her mouth said.
“I kill. You cover. In ten,” She began motioning with her hoof, counting down in seconds. Eight. Boss set his rifle to auto, and looked around, noticing two Boys cradling a HMG to one side, both of them hiding behind a rock. Six. Boss flapped around and caught their eyes, and preformed a motion that both of the Boys instantly understood. Four. Lines flicked her safety off and began edging to one side of the burned out chariot the couple were hiding behind. The two Boys and Boss finished loading AP rounds into their respective guns and tensed up, ready to spring into action. Two. Boss winked at his marefriend.
One.
Zero. Go go go!
Boss and the support team popped over their cover and spat out a hail of concentrated fire at the Ranger kill team, forcing them to dodge for a moment as the storm of Armour Piercing 7.62mm rounds proved too much for their ablative layers of MES to handle. As one Ranger yelled as a bullet punctured his shoulder, Marksmare dodged around the other side and rested Lightbulb through a burnt out window, putting a .308 AP round straight through the eye-visor of a Paladin carrying a cumbersome Laser Minigun, spattering his companions with pieces of metal, blood, and brains. To their credit, they only flinched slightly. Marksmare ducked back behind cover as the Rangers turned their attention to her, filling the chariot with holes. However, without the massive Gatling Laser, the suppressive fire rate was greatly diminished. Without the storm of laser bolts to keep them down, the machine gun team rose up again and hosed the Rangers down with another round of bullets, killing another unlucky Ranger carrying a plasma pistol. Suddenly, a laser round went through the head of the gunner, and she jerked backwards, sprawling over. The loader ignored his comrade’s death, and took the gun for himself, springing up to fire. Another laser round punched through his eyeball, pooping the sack of jelly and frying the brain tissue behind it. Boss saw them both die in less than a minute. Marksmare fired another round, it ripping through the shoulder of another Steel Ranger. Boss saw his chance and dived for the machine gun, only attracting a few shots. He clicked the ammo belt in securely and leaned out the side of the rock, pressing the trigger as he did so. He didn’t hold back this time. He exhausted the clip of ammo in one go, screaming like a stallion possessed. Marksmare took the opportunity to place more precise shots into the squad of Rangers, blowing their brains out in a fine haze.
Eventually, the machine gun ran out of bullets. Boss ducked behind cover again, and counted to five. When no shots came his way, he peeked out. Nearly all the Steel Rangers were dead. Only a few remained alive, and they were badly injured. One of them started pleading with Boss.
“Please! We surrender!”
“Oh good,” said Boss, and drew out a pistol, firing three quick shots in succession. He killed the first two Rangers easily, but the last one’s MES reflected the bullet easily. Boss was about to put another bullet through his skull, but then Post Code spoke.
“You fucking bastard! They gave up and you butchered them!”
“Do shut up.” Boss fired another bullet at Post Code’s leg. This time the round entered his armoured knee, and Post Code yelled in pain.
“I said shut up!” Boss pistol whipped the Paladin, sending him sprawling. He then pooped the sealant ring arounf Post Code’s helmet and yanked it off him. Paladin Post Code knelt in the sodden mud and dust of the Wasteland, staring at Boss with utter disgust.
“You are a stain upon the soil of Equestria, raider. You deserve to burn. In fact, that would count as light punishment for somepony such as you with such a black soul! You deserve and will be thrown into the deepest, most fearsome pits of Hell!”
Boss cackled and leaned in close to the senior Paladin’s face, his grin stretched impossibly wide.
“Don’t you think I know that already, fucker? I’ve done so many, many bad things over the course of my stint as a gang leader, enough to guarantee me a little spot in Hell marked ‘reserved.’ However, I choose to face my eventual fate with a spring in my step and a smile in my face for I know that nothing that I can do can change it!” His nose touched Post Code’s face.
“I swore my soul to darkness and chaos a long, long time ago. And now I exist to propagate it by any means necessary! I gladly burn down villages and rape little fillies, knowing that each time I do so drives the world one step closer to the state that I’m currently in.” Boss pointed the gun at his temple and made a swivelling motion.
“Insanity. In a society such as ours, that is the only thing that can keep you alive. Oh, and mercilessness, I suppose. And a big gun.” Boss put away the gun and drew out a switchblade.
“But first. Please do enlighten me as to which Chapter sent you.” Post Code spat in Boss’s face. Boss didn’t even bother to wipe it off as he sliced a massive chunk of cheek muscle off the Paladin.
“I said, which Chapter sent you?” Post Code couldn’t answer, as the pain was unbearable. Boss grabbed the raw muscle and drew Post Code closer to him.
“Didn’t you hear me? Which.Chapter.Sent. You?” Post Code attempted to speak, forcing the words out in a barely audible gurgle.
“...Fillydel...ter...” Boss smiled.
“There we go. It would do well if you answered my questions as soon as I asked them. Not that I need to ask any more questions.” He quickly drew the sharp blade across the Paladin’s throat, severing the stallion’s jugular veins. The look of shock on Post Code’s face was almost laughable, as he gurgled and coughed. Eventually, he stopped struggling and lay still. Boss regarded the corpse of the once-noble Ranger with contempt. He turned and left the impromptu interrogation area.
Back at the command post, Turmoil pored over a map of the region. His lieutenants surrounded him confidently.
“Right. as I said before, The Fascists control One-Five and the area surrounding it with an iron hoof. there is no way we can launch a successful assault on the site without being wiped out. We don't have the numbers, the equipment or the stupidity required to win." Turmoil looked up from the map he was staring at.
"We need allies. Everypony and anypony we can get." He looked at Specs.
"You think you can get some of your Twilight Society contacts with you?" Specs rubbed the back of his mane.
"I dunno, boss...it's been a long, long time since I spoke with 'em. Me being a raider doesn't exactly help our argument."
"Well, you can try. Also, please paint the armour sets we just looted to our colours. Let's inspire a little fear into our enemies, eh?" He turned to Morphine.
"You still in contact with the Reapers?" Morphine shook her head."Well, reopen contact. Talk to Zodiac, see if you can get him over." He turned to Bluebell.
"Blue, start training the bucks and mares in anti-PMP tactics. I know without a shadow of a doubt that they'll be using that particular technomagic again." Bluebell saluted in response. Morphine spoke, her voice muffled by the rubber surgeon's mask tied around her muzzle.
"And you? what will you do?" Turmoil looked apprehensive for a moment. He replied, uneasy.
"I...I'm going to contact the Anarchists. I have to, they have the materials and soldiers. Besides," he paused for a second, taking a deep breath.
"I promised my father I'd visit."
Level Up!
Turmoil:- Distraction: This is classified as an Order. Turmoil can use this command on his raiders. When used, a raider will lay down a field of suppressive fire, drawing the attention of hostile targets to them. As long as hostiles are Distracted, you and your raiders’ attacks count as Sneak Attack Criticals. Distracted enemies are no longer Distracted when they stop firing at the raider/s acting as Distractions, the raider/s acting as Distractions are killed, or you or a raider makes a successful kill with a Sneak Attack Critical.
I fucking hate procrastination.
Fallout Equestria: Little Boxes
Chapter 5: Hearts and Minds
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.
Fallout Equestria: Little Boxes
Theme Music- Dungeon 4 Low by Inn Zur and Mark Morgan
During the period of time before the Great War the was waged between the countries of Equestria and Zebrica, both nations’ respective leaders felt the need to build up their military to an acceptable level, as neither side had seen war in millennia, in fact, not since the alicorn known as Luna was transmogrified into the hideous demon known as Nightmare Moon. Both sides poured vast amounts of money, research and personnel into creating the latest weapons, discovering previously unknown sciences and technologies, writing new and deadly spells and alchemical formulae designed to inflict harm and support their brand new armies. Both sides also poured resources into building vast military base and bunkers, designed to hold out the worst that the enemy could throw at them. Vast imposing edifices of concrete were constructed into the sides of hollowed out mountains that contained winding bunker complexes designed to house countless ponies or zebras. In some of the larger ones, these contained the megaspell missiles that would go on to wreak devastation on the fertile world, turning it into a dusty shell of itself. Others housed laboratories where the best and brightest worked on top secret projects, projects that could supposedly alter the course of battle itself. Regardless, they were all fearsome castles of the Pre-War age. Each one has a story to tell, a history soaked in the blood of innocent and guilty alike. This tale is about one such castle of yore. Area One-Five, supposedly the greatest fortress ever built by the sovereign state of Equestria. It was supposedly a bastion of imposing might, a bastion of concrete and steel that nothing in the world could crack open. It supposedly housed tens of thousands of soldiers. It supposedly contained the secrets of Equestria, every single one of them. It supposedly played host to dozens of megaspells, all waiting to be launched at the heathen Zebricans. Of course, I say supposedly, because nopony has ever found One-Five. It was hidden in the remotest location known to Celestia’s generals, and it was said that not even the Sun Goddess herself knew where it was. It is doomed to remain desolate and empty with the corpses of all those soldiers that dead during the War. Its riches, secrets, warheads, all the things Equestria locked up in that fortress-city and destined to collect dust for eternity.
Or it was. Until Turmoil and his personal army found One-Five and in doing so changed the face of the Wasteland forever.
“You do know what you’re going up against, right?” A stallion with a whip-thin moustache regarded the insane mare in front of him with worry and amusement.
“As I recall, Mr. Mayor, you just told me.”
“I know I did. And it’s insane to even think that you can take them on alone.”
“I can do this, Mr. Mayor. I know how to fight.”
“Do you? You most certainly don’t know how to fight against those raider fucks. They aren’t like other raiders. For sure they aren’t.”
“Have a little faith, Mr. Mayor. I won’t attempt to kill them all, that’s insanity. No, I’ll attempt an assassination. Most raider parties I’ve encountered tend to fly apart at the seams once you cut off the head.” The Mayor of New Canterborough whinnied.
“Alright. You can go. Here,” He handed over a map to the mare, who began looking it over. “Is where the gang is currently staying. It’s in Old Canterborough, a few miles south of here. Full of ruins. Your payment will be-”
“I don’t need payment. I’m doing this because it’ll make the Wasteland a safer place.” The mare suddenly spoke.
“...Right. I wish you luck, kid.” Mr.Mayor watched the mare pull a salute, then she walked out of his office and down the stairs leading to the exit. He sighed, rubbing his hoof against his forehead in an attempt to relieve his sudden headache.
"Poor bastard. She's got no idea what she's going up against."
The lone earth pony walked through the cracked streets of a ruined town caught up in the devastation of the Great War, ironshod hooves click-clacking on the broken tarmac. She was holding a simple looking 10mm pistol in her teeth, safety off. On her left foreleg rested a Pip-Buck 3000, waiting for a chance to slip into S.A.T.S. She looked around, wary as if at any moment a raider would pop up and begin firing wildly at her. She blinked. Again. And again. Each time, a raider would pop up and gun her down. Each time when she opened her eyes, she was greeted with burnt out buildings. This quiet was beginning to fray on her nerves. As she blinked again and another imaginary raider rose out of a window and proceeded to turn her into chunky soup, a voice rang out.
"Well hello there, filly!"
Her eyelids shrank into her sockets and she pointed her gun at the unarmed elderly raider who was backing awa- wait, unarmed. She closed her eyes and let out a breath that she realised she had been holding, and she flipped the safety on. The rust-red old colt with a mane of dirt brown returned her steely gaze, standing in front of a shack with a campfire burning merrily in front of it. A pot hung over the fire, something edible bubbling away inside the dented cast iron. The geriatric opened his mouth and spoke.
"Bless my soul; you're shaking like a leaf in a gale! What's eating at you?"
She hesitated, wondered if this sweet old soul could be trusted with her information.
"Well...I don't know if I can trust you."
"Dear, I'm an old pony. I'm not going anywhere with these hooves! Sit yourself down. Tell old Monkey Wrench here about it."
She gingerly lowered herself onto a bench and sat still. Monkey Wrench sat next to the fire and dipped a spoon inside the pot, stirring the stew inside. Every now and then, he brought the spoon to his lips and slurped, before frowning and adding some other ingredients he pulled out of a knapsack leaning on a fallen log the old stallion was using as a seat. As he was cooking his stew, he spoke.
"So now, dear. Why are you here in Old Canterborough?"
"A nearby settlement told me they were having problems with raiders. A nasty bunch of bastards calling themselves the Insurrectionists."
The old stallion's face crinkled in disgust.
"the Insurrectionists, eh? I've seen them here. Always hide in my shack when they come knocking around for drugs. They're tough sons-of-bitches, make no mistake about that."
"Really? You know where they are?"
The stallion paused for a second while he sipped his stew. He took out some leaves and tossed them in, stirring again.
"I don't know where exactly they happen to be. All I know is that the bastards seem to come from the direction of the old Ministry of Peace administrative building over there." He gestured with his wrinkled hoof at a large tower, directly south of them.
"Really? Thanks!" The mare was happy that this conversation had gone somewhere. The stallion smiled.
"Don't mention it. Anything an old stallion can do to help."
They were silent for a while, the stallion eating his stew now that it had reached perfection. He suddenly stopped.
"Oh dear now, where are my manners? Would you like some, dear?"
"Thanks, but no thanks. I ate along the way." It was true, she had eaten an old tin of Soy'N'Beans as she walked, the preserved food nourishing her. As tempting as the stallion's stew looked, she simply wasn't hungry.
"Alright. Whatever floats your boat." Again, the duo was silent. She slowly rose to her feet, and checked her Pip-Buck. She had been sitting there for a good hour or so.
"Well, I've gotta go kill some raiders now. Wish me luck." the stallion laughed, good-naturedly. Worry sank in his eyes.
"Alright, kid. But I'm not going to stress this enough. Be. Careful. Boss didn't get his name for nothing. And his Boys are mean sons-of-bitches. If you need anything, you come back here as soon as you can, and I'll help you as best I can."
"I don't want to risk your life, old-timer."
"Don't worry about me, kid. I can handle myself easily enough. But I know that it's very, very dangerous to face these bastards alone without some kind of support. Here," He fumbled around in his knapsack for a brief moment and drew out two syringes, both filled to the brim with painkillers. He handed them over to the mare, who took them carefully in her teeth.
"Take these. They're all I can spare. They'll help you if you get into a prolonged fight, but you'll need to see medical care afterwards."
The mare was touched. She looked up at him, thankful.
"I...I don't know how to repay you."
"Ahh, don't worry about it! Killing those bastard raiders will be more than enough! Now go! Go make a name for yourself!"
Emboldened by the old-timer's words, the mare started galloping towards the municipal building, justice in her mouth and triumph in her eyes. She was going to bring justice to this group of sadistic psychopaths. She would become a heroine.
As soon as the mare was out of earshot, Turmoil's smile gave way to an evil smirk. Slowly, the magical field surrounding him dissipated, and pretty soon Monkey Wrench the elderly Earth Pony was no more. In the rust-red old-timer's place stood a twenty something stallion, with a coat as grey as the cracked road beneath his hooves, and a strawberry blonde mane, spiked in the traditional raider fashion, along with the traditional sharpened teeth. He, unlike Monkey Wrench, was a unicorn, although years spent practising and refining his disguise techniques meant that he used mouth-based weapons instead of the traditional unicorn telekinesis weapons that his kind so freely used. He reached into his knapsack and pulled out a Pre-War military headphone set, which he adjusted on his head. He had found them in an abandoned Stable Armoury his boys had ransacked for him. The several devices which Turmoil had distributed freely amongst his boys worked like a ham radio set, using short-wave radio frequencies tuned to such an extent that only those with the sets could access and talk down them. They had proven invaluable, allowing the raiders to co-ordinate raids with extreme precision for a bunch of criminals and drug addicts. Activating the radio, he spoke down the microphone.
"Boss to Specs. Boss to Specs, over." There was silence, and then:
"Copy you Boss. What's the call for? Over." His lieutenant’s voice chattered down the line.
"Tasty-looking mare thinking she's a regular Littlepip heading your way. Show her what we do to heroes, over." Specs cackled nastily.
"Oh, with pleasure Boss. With pleasure. Over and ou-” Boss interrupted Specs before he could finish.
"Watch out. The bitch's got herself a Pip-Buck. You know what that means. Be careful, over."
"Copy that Boss. Give me the Pip-Buck once you’re done playing with her. I’ll see if I can’t utilize it for our benefit. Over and out." The communique ceased. Turmoil slowly put the radio back in his knapsack, then began slurping his stew. He frowned for a moment.
"Hmm. Needs salt." He rummaged around again, drew out a shaker. He shook some in and replace the salt container int the knapsack. The stew bubbled as he stirred.
Level up!
Turmoil: It's Good to be Bad:- As the head of a vicious ragtag ban of rapists, murderers and drug addicts, you are Vilified by all the factions with Good Karma, half of the factions with Neutral Karma, and a quarter of the factions with Bad Karma.
Alter Ego:- You're a regular chameleon, you! By concentrating, you can disguise yourself as Monkey Wrench, an old-timer with a heart of gold. Although you cannot use magic nor interact with your raiders, you can now access Monkey Wrench's perks and abilities.
Monkey Wrench: Old-Timer:- You've seen it all and done it all. As well as having standard faction relationships (e.g Neutral with a Good faction),you have +1 Intelligence and +1 Charisma, to represent your 'experiences' as a retired mechanic and wanderer, but you also have -1 Strength and -1 Agility. You're just too damn old !
Hello! GaryGibbon here! I’m busy rewriting all my original chapters, so I won’t start work on anything new until they’ve all been redone to an acceptable standard. Fallout Equestria is property of Kkat. My little Pony and all related characters are the sole property of Hasbro.
