Fallout: New Pegasus

by PhantomJavelin

Rating: mature
Tags: Crossover, Dark, Alternate Universe, Adventure
Length: 752

A simple delivery job is apparently more complicated that first expected. [2nd person]

THIS STORY IS NOT IN THE SAME UNIVERSE AS FALLOUT: EQUESTRIA
[2nd person]
Equestria as we know it is no more, gone beneath the flames of arcane destruction hundreds of years ago.
You, a package courier for the San Palomino Delivery Service, are hired to deliver an item to the New Pegasus strip.
Things go wrong extremely quickly.

Published 1970-01-01 00:00:00 UTC
Last updated 2013-09-01 05:53:58 UTC

Intro

War. War never changes.

When arcane fire razed Equestria, those who survived did so in great, underground bunkers.

When they opened, their inhabitants set out across the charred remains of the old world to build new societies, establishing villages; forming tribes.

As decades past, what had been the Equestrian Southwest united beneath the banner of the Brotherhood of Californeigh, dedicated to old world values of democracy, and the rule of law.

As the Brotherhood grew, so did its needs.

Scouts spread North, seeking land and riches, in the dry and merciless expanse of the San Palomino desert. They returned with tales of a city untouched by the magic that had scorched the rest of the world and a great wall spanning the Coltorado river.

The Brotherhood mobilized its army and sent it north to occupy Hoofer Dam and restore it to working condition.

Across the Coltorado, another faction had arisen under a standard of different colors; a vast army of slaves forged from the conquest of seventy-three tribes: The Phalanx.

Four years have passed since the Brotherhood held the Dam, just barely, against the Phalanx’s onslaught.

The Phalanx did not retreat. Across the river, it regains strength. Bonfires burn, training drums beat.

Through it all, the New Pegasus Strip has remained open for business under the control of its enigmatic overseer: Ms. Belle, and her army of rehabilitated tribals and police automatons.

You are a courier hired by the San Palomino Express to deliver a package to the New Vegas Strip.

What seemed like a simple delivery job has taken a turn… for the worse.

---☢---

Slowly, you open your eyes. You feel something wrapped around your hooves, and it isn’t just the rags you put there to muffle your steps. The feeling may not be familiar, but you recognize the feel of the material: it’s rope.

After a few moments, you hear someone talking in a deep, gruff, and irritated voice.

“You got what you were after, now pay up.”

If you weren’t hog-tied and laying on the ground, you probably would have jumped up in fright. You sure made a hell of an attempt to.

A second, smoother voice responds. “Your crime in the rein, pally.”

They seem not to notice that you are up. Not that you can check. You then wriggle your front legs, struggling against the bindings in an attempt to slip out. Unsurprisingly, your efforts bear no fruit.

“Heh. Guess who’s waking up over here.”

Shit!

You hear hoofsteps as one of the figures walks in front of you. Judging by how the steps multiplied, two more followed suit. If you try hard enough, you can look up just enough to see that the unicorn in the middle is dressed like one of those rich ponies from the Strip. His checkered suit is in much better condition than any clothing you’ve ever seen. You wondered what kinds of fortunes it cost him to buy it. The figures on either side of him were strange creatures that were considerably larger than any normal pony, and were clad in what, to your horror, looked like leather!

The one in the center spits out his cigarette, declaring for all to hear, “Time to cash out.”

His companion to the right seemed unimpressed. “Will you get it over with? We didn’t accept payment to listen to your damned speeches.”

Raising his hoof to silence him, the prick in the suit responds with “Maybe Chiefs kill folks without lookin’ ‘em in the face, but I ain’t a fink, dig?”

Liar. You are careful not to say what you are thinking, but the glare on your face should send the message clear enough.

Not-a-fink’s horn glows, and an oversized poker chip briefly floats out of his jacket for you to see, before returning beneath the folds. “You’ve made your last delivery, kid.”

Wait. No…

“Sorry you got stuck in this mess.”

Another item floats out of his coat. It’s not the chip. The metal of the 9-millimeter pistol gleams in the light of the campfire.

“From where you’re laying it must seem like an 18-karat run of bad luck.”

No. This can’t be happening.

“Truth is…”

You stare cross-eyed down the the sides of the handgun as it nearly touches your forehead, right below your horn. You can feel the blood in your veins run cold.

“The game was rigged from the start.”

Time slows down as you see the flash, hear the gunshot.

Then there is nothing but black.