Fallout: Equestria - Of Taint and Colts

Chapter Six - "The Slip"

“Littlepip?” I asked. “Why should I care about some pony from some extinct land?”

Tourniquet swept a hoof across the sky as we walked. “The sunlight? The weather we’re experiencing? The crazy organization it has? They’re all her doing. No one knows where she comes from – some say a Stable somewhere near Ponyville Ruins, wherever that is, others say she was a reformed Raider who got sick of her murderous life, and still others speculate she’s a demon spawn from Tartarus – but, regardless, she’s the one who controls the weather from a tower somewhere in Equestria.”

“So, you’ve never seen her yourself?” I ask.

My companion blushes. “Um, no… I’ve only heard rumours… Gearshift and I were both born to descendants of P.O.W.s, so we’ve never known Equestria except what news merchants, travellers, and the occasional slaver or not-too-far-gone raider bring.”

“You seem to have a fascination with the land, though,” I muse.

“A distracting curiosity,” she admits. “Helps me forget what I’ve been through for a time. I wouldn’t mind walking in the great SteelHooves’ shoes for a while… he was one of Littlepip’s companions five years ago on her journey.”

“Okay, so Littlepip’s a pony who runs the weather,” I summarized. “Yawn.”

Tourniquet’s next sentence is interrupted by a small Earth pony colt with the body of an orange and the mane of a bright red cherry. It almost hurt my eyes to look at him in the sunlight.

“Y’ain’t heard o’Littlepip!? Only the most badass pony who ever lived?” he shrieks. “Y’been livin’ under a bloody rock’r somethin’?”

“I was kicked out of my Stable three days ago,” I inform. “I don’t know anything. Really.”

The colt slaps his forehead with a tiny hoof. He turns to Tourniquet. “Gearshift?”

She nods. “His last.”

The colt freezes. “Aw dammit… now he can’t teach me how t’shoot…” Just as he began to sob, he bit his lip hard. “Can’t cry… ain’t cryin’… Gearshift won’t want me to ‘til I got home.”

Tourniquet pats the colt on the back. “It’s alright, kid. He died doing what he loved.”

“He died because of me…” I spit. “I won’t have that again.”

Tourniquet snorts. “A fine job you did out there, then, leaving me to the wolves.”

“I know I screwed up,” I mutter. “Seems like everything I do just pushes me from bad to worse. I’m a newbie out here, and already the Wasteland seems hell-bent on wiping me off the face of the planet! What gives?”

Tourniquet snaps, “Stop feeling sorry for yourself, Candy!” I reel at the sudden reply. She continues. “Yes, you’ve had it hard since you’ve been out here! Yes, you’ve lost more than you’ve gained! Yes, you haven’t been able to enjoy your routine like you have! But dammit, girl, look at the rest of us! We’ve spent our whole lives forcing even the smallest drip of a living out of this Celestia-forsaken trash heap of a continent. Gearshift, me, even little Slip Kid here… we all fight this war every damn day in the hope that there will be something better tomorrow.”

“Hang it,” I shriek. “I want my goddess-damned Stable back.”

Just as we’re ready to knock teeth, a tiny voice interrupts our argument.

“Miss Candy?”

I look down at the colt Tourniquet called Slip Kid. His teal eyes meet my own.

“If y’really wanna be safe out here, stop lookin’ at y’flank,” he said. “Gearshift weren’t a pony to dwell on th’past. Knew thinkin’ like that would kill him.”

I look away from the colt. I didn’t need to be lectured by someone younger than me! He doesn’t take the hint and soon has stopped me in the middle of this procession. I look past him and see we are only meters away from the walls of Einamir. Come on, kid, do you have to do this now!?

“Hey!” he says, leaping up in front of me, grabbing firmly onto my mane and yanking my head down to his level. “Listen! Fuck where y’came from. It’s gone. Dead. Done. Y’out here, and y’aff t’survive…” he gulps “…however y’can.”

I raise an eyebrow. The way he said that last phrase brings to mind a number of questions. How has this kid survived? What has he done to live? Where’s he from? A quick glance at his cutie mark reveals everything in one manifest, blasphemous, disgusting picture.

As if the Wasteland could be any crueler…

“Stop looking,” he chokes. My eyes leap back to his. I see him shed a tear. “I got that cutie mark when I was a raider, or, at least, the child of a raider clan. Don’t ask me how, please… it involves my mom ‘n my sister ‘n a lot o’ daddy’s juice ‘n it hurts to think about.”

“It’s okay,” I say. “I won’t ask about it.”

“How about we talk about yours instead?” he asks, making my apology vanish into thin air. “It’s a weird cutie mark, even for a Stable pony.”

I pause for a second, taking a breath to collect my thoughts. “Well, my cutie mark says that I’m a repair pony for the Crusader computer mainframes. When I lived in Stable Eighty-Five, I helped our Overmare by–”

“Crusader? Overmare? What?” the colt asks.

Right… uneducated wasteland Raider boy… I think. Wouldn’t know anything about Stables.

“Basically, I repair types of machines that can act and think for themselves,” I say. “These machines are called Crusader maneframes. The leader of Stable Eighty-Five is hooked up to one of these machines because of a disability. It was my job to keep that machine going.”

“So you repair computers?” Slip asks. “Could you repair a terminal?”

The question blindsides me. I stop and ponder for a second. “I… could, yes, i-if I had the right tools.”

“Good,” he says. “I know someone in Einamir who c’n use a computer geek. Might keep y’out o’ trouble.”

Tourniquet catches the colt by the foreleg. “Easy, hotshot. Remember, we civilized ponies don’t just order each other around unless we’re on a mission…”

“…on a mission…” Slip echoes exasperatedly before falling back in line. “Dammit, Tournie, I know, I know… I’m sorry, Candy.”

“No, no, it’s okay,” I say. “It might be better for my sanity to work on something monotonous for a while, something mundane.”

We pass through the archway between two giant slabs of gray stone under two large, iron doors, through a magical ward of green plaid, over a large moat six feet across and who-knows-how-many-feet deep on a wooden bridge designed to fold up, and finally through a second thicker wall and another thatched iron door with spines. Hustle and bustle and other assorted commotion greets us as we pass through the gate. Easily tens of thousands of ponies, lush, thick grass, cobblestone pathways, and several rows of clean, beautiful small-town cottages line these streets. Many vendors are selling their wares at the base of their homes. Occasionally a Steel Ranger, like Tourniquet, or a local foot soldier, identified by a red beret with a silver diamond, would pass us by. In defiance of all I was taught, zebras and ponies show no hatred towards each other in this town. Posters of the mare of the Ministry of Peace… Flushy, I think her name was… line every wall and lamp post. I glance back at the wall. Ponies are patrolling the perimeter of the fortification. Some are stationed high in watchtowers. Most are on routes. All of them are actively watching the Wasteland for predators or victims.

Tourniquet catches my eye with a step, then redirects my attention to the road ahead with a flick of her muzzle. “Einamir – the Shining Light of the North. Welcome to the only bastion of civilization for three hundred miles, save, of course, for Shattered Hoof.”

“I love this town!” Slip muses excitedly, hopping up and down.

I had no idea pony life could be like this. It’s so colourful, so pristine, so orderly! There is hope here! I sing in my heart, a glorious smile upon my face. Babs was right! Oh, praise the Overmare, Babs was right! The Wasteland does have decent ponies! I can find a spot in this hell for the Secret!

No, no, don’t get ahead of yourself yet, Candy. You have to figure out if there is anyone trustworthy enough to speak of the Secret with. Come to think of it, Babs had said that there were a couple of ponies she could trust that Canyon had dropped into the Wasteland without her permission before me. I had always just assumed it was idle banter as I was repairing her. After all, being the naïve little bitch that I am, I simply tossed some of those conversations away as rumour and spit. Foolish filly…

What were their names again?

I ponder the names of the trustworthy ones she had mentioned, but I can’t come up with any right now. I put it aside for later. Conveniently, my wandering mind is hidden by my awe for the town, and neither Tourniquet nor Slip notice.

With Slip leading, we stop at a cute little house on the corner. It’s a stout thing, about twice as many hooves wide as tall, with a valance of blue hanging off the veranda and a series of potted plants flanking the door to either side on the railing. The siding is a nice pale yellow, not too striking, yet not too faded, and the borders are a cute robin’s-egg blue. The windows are sandwiched between two matching blue shutters with little hearts cut out. The portcullis is plain white, with a trio of small, round porthole windows embedded at different heights.

Slip approaches this door and knocks. “Slinky!”

Slinky…? I wince a little. Why would the foal have that as a name?

A brief pause occurs before the colt becomes impatient. He repeats the knocks, but faster and firmer. “Slinky! It’s Slip Kid! Open up!”

There is only the buzz of conversation to greet us.

Slip groans. “Crud. He’s out.”

“I guess we find somewhere else to go?” I suggest.

Slip shakes his head. “No. I have a key.”

I shoot a confused glance at Tourniquet who just nods. My attention turns back to Slip, whose mane is lit up in a silver hue. A key removes itself from that red rat’s nest atop his head and deposits itself in the door.

I thought he was an Earth pony… I muse.

A quick flick and a push and we are inside. Slip waits for us to get in, then shuts the door behind.

I scan the room. It is Spartan in nature, with just three recliners, a small terminal, a table set, and some sleeping blankets scattered throughout. A set of stairs leads to the upper floor. The walls smell of some kind of meat, not quite jerky but still animal. Their decorations of crayon and marker immediately identify all the residents as youths about Slip’s age.

“Where are your adults?” I blurt.

Slip, who has disappeared into another room, laughs. “I’m more ‘sponsible than any of the adults I’ve run into, ‘cept Shift and Tournie, o’course. Ain’t the mess I’m worried about – a full fridge an’ belly an’ a clean poop bucket, that’s what matters. If’n y’wanna clean it up while y’here, Candy, ‘n git ‘r done.”

Another, more rancid smell passes my nose as Slip suddenly shouts, “Aww Cloud Kicker… why y’gots ta leave yer shit in here that long?”

Cloud Kicker?! She lives here, too? I thought she was a military brat.

“I think I will, Slip.”

With no reply, I get to work. I begin sifting through the piles of refuse in the abode, organizing them into little piles. Used Rad-Away bottles, Sparkle-Cola cans, a few bottle caps, and several used tissues are the first articles I find. An old, yellowed magazine featuring provocative pictures gets thrown into the trash pile. Several plastic bags, some coated with a fine white powder, others with a material that makes them sticky, and still more with small pills of various kinds, join the bags and magazine. I note that there isn’t a single refuse can in the immediate vicinity, so I decide to find a box to make one out of. A little bit more rummaging reveals a large cardboard box about two feet tall and a square foot across. It will have to do. Slowly I move all the discarded material I gathered into the box.

It takes a couple hours, but I finally have this floor of the hoarder’s paradise clear of most of the garbage. I have a neat little pile of things to organize, one of Slip's friends on the couch, and a Steel Ranger coming down the stairs with two more boxes of trash and at least two bags of bottle caps.

Why aren’t they in with the garbage?

I ask the question and she shoots me a confused look.

“Don’t you know?” she asks. “They’re money.”

…bottle caps… currency…

I throw up my hooves, dumping all the trash I’ve just accumulated. “I give up. This whole place is backwards.”

Tourniquet chuckles. “You’ll get used to it, Stable girl.”

“I don’t want to.”

Slip walks in with a can of beer [!] and takes a sip. “Y’already experienced death, something you’ll see a lot. Maybe y’just need t’let go’n’see things without Stable-coloured glasses.”

I growl at the smug kid and his beer.

“Maybe you’ll witness ra-”

NONONONONONONONONO

“Slip!” Tourniquet shrieks. “I don’t even like to think of that, and I’ve been out here for my whole life! Cut it out!”

The colt shrugs. Shrugs! He shrugs at the one thing few mares actually enjoy! What a conceited… wait, smirk? Mischievous eye glance? Chuckle!?

…Dammit, Slip, if you weren’t a colt, I’d smack you upside the head.

“Slip, you do that again, and I WILL smack you,” Tourniquet warns.

That only earns her a lascivious flank-wave and some moans too disturbingly well-trained for an amateur. “I been so bad, Mommy! Spank me!”

The only sound in that house was Slip’s laughter.

Five minutes later Tourniquet sighs and goes off into the next room. “Ex-raider colts…”

As I continue cleaning, furious and disgusted with a colt that has zero sense of tact or humour, Slip is killing himself laughing. He doesn’t appear in the least bit concerned that both of the ponies traveling with him are mares, and that rape is a horrible, horrible crime to us. I want to lay into him, to make him suffer for insulting mares that way. He should know better!

That’s the thing, my diplomatic side states. He doesn’t. He thinks it’s all a joke. It must be Raider humour.

Well, why didn’t his parents teach him any better?

They were raiders. Remember what you were taught about Raiders in the Stable?

Mindless buffoons, the lot of them, according to the damn propaganda. I still think they’re just idiots who chose criminal stupidity. Still ponies. I refuse to believe they can’t be changed.

Raiders are ponies so damaged they’re irrecoverable, victims of a scourged wasteland who have had to give up every facet of morality they had just to breathe the scent of food.

Tell that to this kid. I indicate Slip absentmindedly with a hoof and make a passing note that he’s staring a little too intently at a magazine no foal should be privy to.

You just pointed at him, y’know.

I gasp.

“What’s up, Candy?” the colt asks.

I swallow. “G-urm, nothing…” I cough. “Keep… knxxxx… stroganoff, er… something…”

“Strokin’ off… You’re fine with me masturbating!?” Slip exclaims. “Cool!”

Faster than I ever thought possible, I turn beet-red and fly out of the room, screaming. I find the bathroom and begin washing my mouth, ears, face, and the rest of me with whatever rough sandpaper I can find. I did NOT need this! I did NOT need this! I did NOT need this! No no no no no!

The scrubbing begins hurting, but I can’t get the filth off. I can’t get the image out of my head. I-no. No no no no no…

“Candy?”

I-I didn’t need this, no… I don’t want you… how can you just… Slip, you amoral bastard…

“Candy.”

Gotta wash my brain out with nitroglycerine and a match… maybe that’ll…

“Candy! Stop!”

My world spins too fast on an axis I didn’t want to turn. I come face-to-face with Tourniquet, who stops me from pouring… actual nitroglycerine down my throat…

Whoo…

I think I need a nap.

Heeeeee…

THUD